Not sorry enough, apparently.
I sign the paperwork and walk out in a daze. As per instruction, I return my laptop and pack up my desk and get walked out of the building.
So, that’s it. Eight years of my life… over.
As soon as I’m home, I throw myself face-first on my bed. I can’t shake the feeling I should be in the office. That I’m slacking off. I didn’t even have a chance to reply to Tanisha with the supplier template or cancel my meetings or set an out-of-office.
I roll over, stare up at the ceiling, and pull my phone out.
Me: busy?
Emma: Unfortunately.
Emma: I miss you, though! Hutchinson is on slide 67 of 108… Swap places with me?
Me: ughhhhhh ever since he discovered podcasts, he’s become insufferable. I love you, but I’d rather gargle salt water.
Emma: So would I.
Emma: Wait
Emma: You’re offline. Is everything okay?
Emma: Give me two minutes. I’ll fake food poisoning and call you.
Me: no no no! I had to leave early. Will fill you in after work. Go get back to upstaging that airhead.
Emma: ILY. You’re a shining glimmer of a person.
My phone lands with a thud beside me. Okay, so now what?
I could clean. Wash my sheets—which I almost never have the time to do—or tidy up. There’s makeup scattered across my dresser from this morning and dishes in the sink from breakfast.
Really, I should be looking for another job. It’s barely noon. I haven’t updated my résumé in years, and there’s about to be a flood of competition in the job market.
The thought of it makes me want to crawl under the covers. And actually, why not? I don’t have anywhere to be.
I kick my shoes off, not caring where they land, and slip under the sheets while a wash of white noise settles in my ears. Reality lodged itself in my throat during that phone call, and now it’s slowly sinking into my gut.
Shit. I’m unemployed.
I’m going to have to take back all the whining I did when Mom guilted me into putting money into savings. Without it, I’d be…
A chill crawls down my spine.
Yeah, let’s not think about how bad it could have been. Heading up shit creek with one paddle is better than nothing.
I roll onto my side, listening to the way my eyelashes brush against the pillow with each blink. If Mom was here, she’d tell me not to get complacent. Get the ball rolling. Start applying now. The longer I wait, the more conspicuous the gap will look.
God… Eight years… Wrapped up in less time than an intermission.
Now I’m three years away from thirty— thirty!— and what do I have to show for it except a trauma response to spreadsheets?
At least I don’t have to worry about rent. Since the new landlord arrived, the entire building has rolled back to prewar prices. Any cheaper, and it’d be free. No one in the building knows why, but it’s been two years since the cuts, so we’re gatekeeping our good luck lest some jack-in-office bill us for the rest.
But it’s weird, right?
Who the hell buys a building and then lowers the rent for everybody?
