“Grant Bowman,” I mutter. Ugh, even his name has founding families vibes. I can’t help but picture a fifth-generationIvy Leaguer and CrossFit addict with a wife named Binky and two-point-five children. The kind of guy who thinks of cutting employee benefits as a perfectly viable way to improve the bottom line.
Dorothy insists that he’s coming in to help smooth out processes. Could she be any more vague? Will positions be cut or not? The company Slack’s become a hotbed of conjecture. As human resources manager, I should, of course, put a stop to that. But I mean, who texts the new office address to their HR manager over the weekend like that? I literally only found out where we’d be working last night and then had to make sure it got out to the full team so they’d actually show up this morning.
I’m half a block from my destination when my phone rings. It’s Samantha.
“Hey.”
“You’re not gonna believe this place,” she hisses.
“Crap, am I late?”
“You’re always late. Listen. Old warehouse. Just converted. Gorge.”
“Okay.”
“It’s ancient. Red brick and everything. We’ve got the top floor. The renovation is…” She makes a smooching sound. “Modern industrial. You’re gonna die over all the cast-iron fixtures. And the furniture…” She lowers her voice to a whisper, the sound muffled like she’s pressing her mouth to the phone, sharing a massive secret. “Herman Miller chairs, Rae. We’ve got Herman Miller chairs!”
“Samantha, is the new guy in—?”
“Tasteful too, you know? None of the tacky shit Dorothy bought for the Glen Allen office. Probably got that crap off a truck or something. Someone definitely paid her to take it off their h—”
“Samantha, has Grant Bow—”
“Anyway, we’re upstairs from a club. Can you believe it? Wonder if they have an open-mic—”
“Samantha Martinez. Has the new guy arrived?” I pause and look up. This street is familiar. I feel like I was just here.
“Ugh. Yes. Yes! And he’s…” Her voice goes quiet again. “H… A… W… T…”
I let out a long, annoyed sigh, nearly colliding with a guy in bike shorts in line at the Coffee Hut. Seriously, did I just double back or something? Because I feel like I passed the Coffee Hut just the other…
I glance down at the map on my phone and go absolutely still.
… night. Friday night, to be exact.
My skin prickles. “What was that about a club?”
“Get this. Right downstairs. A literal comedy club. Hilarious, right? Hey. Are you far? Staff meeting’s about to start, and everyone’s asking about the cookies.”
I look up at the street name and over at the cross street. With a burst of speed, I turn the corner. There, half a block up, is the building I spent Friday evening getting… Dommed in, for want of a better term.
“But the office is 2222 Uptown. I’m right around the corner—”
“That’s the rear entrance. Parking’s back there. Well, for Work Dad and Dorothy. We minions get to fight for a street spot.”
Work Dad?
“But the other address? For the front of the building?”
“24026 Cary Street. Geesh, Rae, I know it’s Monday morning, but come on. Didn’t you look it up?”
Everything inside me tries to sink to my toes.
No, I didn’t look it up. I was too busy getting cookies bakedand supplies packed up, pumping gas, and then driving a jerry can over to Hannah’s because Schaffer forgot to fill up the car over the weekend, leaving his entire family stranded. I still haven’t called to bitch him out.
Get it together, Rae. It’s just a weird coincidence.
Somehow, I get my mouth to spit out words that make sense. “Okay. Okay. Be right up.”
