“I only said I’d look into it—”
“You don’t have the authority to look into anything. Do you understand me, Georgina? You’re a programmer. Not a decision maker. A programmer who follows instructions.”
My hands start shaking. “Understood.”
“Do you? Because your behavior suggests otherwise. Which brings me to my next point.” He pauses, letting me sweat. “What’s this about dinner with Patrick?”
The subject change makes my head spin. “He invited me. I couldn’t exactly say no to the CEO.”
“I’m the point of contact with senior management. Not you.”
“But he asked—”
“Patrick made it very clear this morning he wants to deal with me. Only me. He doesn’t want to be bothered by every programmer who thinks they’re special. You’re making my job harder. Stay in your lane.”
Even through the anger, I can hear his smugness. He’s back in control, perched neatly on top of the hierarchy.
“I was just—”
“I don’t want to hear it. Stick to the script, demo the approved features, and stop trying to cozy up to the CEO. It’s embarrassing for everyone.”
The line goes dead.
I stand frozen in my back office, phone still pressed to my ear.
Patrick doesn’t want to be bothered by me.
It makes sense. He’s drawing a line. Our relationship tipped into something inappropriate, and now he’s fixing it. He’s putting the IT girl back in her box where she belongs.
The glow from the demo evaporates, replaced with a hollow, sinking feeling.
The worst part is the prototype sitting on my laptop. I’ve been working on it for days—a solution to the waste management problem Patrick mentioned at dinner.
I’ve been pouring passion into code that I thought could make a real difference. I thought I could solve something that mattered to him.
What a fucking joke.
“Fuck you, Craig,” I say to the empty office. “And an even bigger fuck you, Patrick McLaren.”
You made me feel like I mattered. Just long enough for it to hurt when you took it back.
TWENTY
Rubber sausage
Georgie
“Is it weird thatI’m this nervous?” I ask Fee as we shuffle through the sand at Talisker Bay. Every God-forsaken jiggly bit I own is on high-definition display, shrink-wrapped in neoprene. This is my first time in a wetsuit. It might also be my last. If I need to poo, it’s game over.
“Not at all,” Fee says cheerfully. “Everyone’s nervous their first time. I faceplanted the entire lesson. You’ll be fine.”
Today is my first surfing lesson. Another brave tick onThe List.
This morning I read fourteen articles about surfing technique. I may not be sporty, but Iamaggressively Type A. I know the theory behind “pop-ups” and “duck dives” and proper foot placement.
Theory, unfortunately, isn’t the same as coordination.
Fee and I join the group near the surf shack—mostly twenty and thirty-somethings.
