There’s no time to save my shoes, so I throw them and my socks into the sink, dry off the sticky feeling from my feet, and throw on my favorite sneakers.They’re scuffed, and the laces are frayed, but hopefully, Monica will be too distracted by how late I am to criticize my fashion choices.
It’s only when I lock my door that it hits me … I left my coffee behind.
Today really can’t get any worse.
* * *
The only thing left to do is …
get to work(go to 9)
go back(go to 2)
Yessits so heavily on my tongue that I have to swallow before I speak.“I …”
A few desks behind him, Bianca is now pretending to sort paper clips.If there’s one thing I’ve learned from working in journalism, it’s that there are ears everywhere.
“I can’t,” I say, dropping my eyes to my desk, avoiding the frustration I know must be on Sterling’s face right now.
He lingers, silent, and guilt settles across my shoulders, pressing inward.I’ve spent a year promising myself that I’d take the opportunity if it arose, and here I am, turning it down.
I miss how vast and exciting the world felt when I was in school, when the future was so full of opportunities that I was almost sick with it.
Maybe everyone is right to call me naive.
“Be certain what kind of career you want, Mia.”
Sterling’s reprimand sets my shoulders back.I know exactly what I want.How dare he!
“It won’t be gifted to you.If you’re unwilling to pursue what is difficult?—”
“I’m not unwilling.”
Nerves jump across my stomach as he pins me with his gaze, the air sizzling between us.
Prove it, that looks says.
Oh, how I want to.
Caution overrides my instinct as I dart my eyes over to Monica’s office again.It’s empty, the door left ajar.Panic seizes the reins, and I shake my head, avoiding Sterling’s eyes, certain there will be nothing but disappointment now.If there isn’t, I don’t want to know.He should be; I’m disappointed in myself.
“I can’t,” I repeat.“I’m sorry.”
There’s the quiet shuffle of Sterling’s polished shoes, a sigh that echoes through the growing frustration in my chest, and then he’s gone.
The rest of the day passes without issue.I send the article, Monica shoots back a response toensure more weight is given to the affiliate links next time, Sterling broods at his desk, and Bianca tells Andy off for cooking fish in the microwave again.
It’s a regular day.
The only difference is that every time I look over at Sterling’s desk, he’s looking right back.He’s probably masterminding my downfall; it’ll be an excellent footnote to my journalism career.
At least I’ll have a memento—the printout of my article is stashed in my bag, marked up with Sterling’s notes.
Our first collaboration.
Scratch that.Our last collaboration.
* * *
