Absolute bollocks, and I know it.
Craig will be furious. He’s probably drafting my termination paperwork right now while I sit here curled up like a coward.
Of all the people to witness my spectacular failure: Patrick Mc-fucking-Laren. The man who thinks I’m too incompetent to operate a stapler.
Honestly, I might as well have climbed onto the conference table, dropped my knickers, and flashed him the unkempt bush I’ve been too busy and stressed to trim. It would’ve been equally mortifying and significantly quicker.
That sodding solar panel joke will haunt me until my dying breath. I’ll be ninety-three, peacefully sipping tea in a care home, and then BAM—the memory will ambush me from nowhere. I’ll probably hurl my tea at the wall and traumatize the poor care workers.
I yank my phone back out and text the only person guaranteed to distract me: my big brother.
Me:
What are you up to?
Jake normally sends his daily check-in by now. Like my lucky charm. Yes, I don’t believe in luck, but apparently today proves I should, considering I haven’t received my Jake message yet.
Almost instantly, he replies with a photo: grinning like an idiot halfway up a glacier, rope and crampons the only things between him and an icy death.
Jake:
Call you tonight x
Jake Fitzgerald. Fearless Antarctic explorer. The man who voluntarily sleeps on ice shelves.
Then there’s me: his dorky little sister, incapable of presenting her own project without accidentally broadcasting a voice memo about nervous burps.
Sometimes I wonder if I was adopted or if all the courage genes got hoovered up by Jake, leaving me with the genetic dregs: crippling anxiety, industrial-strength self-doubt, and a flair for humiliating myself in increasingly creative ways.
Eventually, I peel myself off the toilet and wobble to standing.
I unlock the stall and step out.
The mirror is merciless. A wild-eyed raccoon stares back at me—tear tracks, frizzed hair, pupils at full-moon setting. For a second, I don’t even recognize her.
My hair was nice this morning. Soft, dark waves Riri swore made me look “professionally shaggable.” Now it hangs limp around my shoulders.
I splash ice-cold water on my face, immediately soaking the neckline of my expensive dress—the one that was supposed to transform me into some sort of confident, corporate goddess.
I step out of the bathroom and head toward my department, eyes down. I just need to make it back to my desk, crawl underneath, build a fort from old keyboards, and remain there until I qualify for my pension.
That brilliant plan derails fast.
“Hey, you okay?” Ingrid, the UX lead who witnessed the presentation meltdown, walks past, blinking at me like I’m a freak show.
“Mm-hm. Just… upset tummy.”
Her expression says she’s not buying it.
I can’t return to my desk yet. Can’t endure the sympathetic smiles that translate toChrist, what was that absolute shitshow we just witnessed?
I pivot and bolt for the stairwell. The moment the door clicks shut behind me, I collapse against the cold wall and let myself breathe.
For a second, it’s blissfully quiet. No haunted voice notes of myself.
Then a door creaks somewhere above me. Male voices drift down the stairwell.
“… genuinely sorry about that unfortunate mishap, sir.”
