I stared at the message. Word traveled fast, apparently. Brittany must have been running her mouth to everyone we knew.
Me: Already got something figured out. Thanks though.
The reply came fast.
Mark: Cool. Let me know if you need anything. We should grab a beer soon.
Sure we should. Mark said that every few weeks, and it never happened. But I typed back a thumbs-up emoji anyway and shoved the phone back in my pocket. For a moment I paused,thinking maybe I should take him up on his offer this time. But I’d promised myself I’d cut back on the drinking. That was another thing Brittany had thrown in my face during our last fight.You drink too much, Kent. You use it to avoid dealing with anything real.
“Fuck,” I muttered, putting the truck in gear.
My lunch break was over, and I still had my entire fucking life to sort out.
Chapter 4
James
“It’s… not what we were hoping for.”
I stared at my laptop screen for a long moment, the two executives from the brewing company waiting for my response. I’d finished the design early and delivered it, but when they asked for a meeting ten minutes later, I knew they weren’t happy. My design followed their instructions to the letter. And yet, somehow, I’d missed the mark.
“Can you give me an idea of what parts you don’t like?” I asked, carefully choosing my words. “Is it the colors or the image itself? Something else?”
The woman on the left—Sarah, I think her name was—exchanged a glance with her colleague before turning back to the camera. “It’s not that we don’t like parts of it. It’s just... it feels safe. We were hoping for something with more edge. More personality.”
Safe. The word landed like a punch to the gut. Safe was the worst criticism a designer could receive. It meant boring. Forgettable. The kind of work that clients settled for when they couldn’t find anyone better.
“I can definitely revise it,” I said, keeping my voice steady even as my mind raced. “If you could point me toward someexamples of what you’re looking for, or maybe describe the feeling you want to evoke?—”
“We were actually thinking,” the man interrupted—Brad, the marketing director— “that maybe we should explore some other options. We appreciate the work you’ve done, but we’re on a tight timeline and we need to see more variety.”
My chest tightened. “Other options” meant other designers. It meant they were already looking elsewhere, and this meeting was just a courtesy before they cut me loose entirely.
“I understand deadlines,” I said, trying not to sound desperate. “I can have three new concepts to you by tomorrow morning. Different directions, more aggressive approaches?—”
Behind me the front door suddenly burst open, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I spun in the chair so fast I nearly threw myself onto the floor. And there, standing in the doorway like he owned the place, was Kent. He was dirty, disheveled, and he pissed off for some reason, a black trash bag held in each hand.
“Why’d you lock the fucking door?” he barked. “You know I don’t have a key.”
I turned back to the computer. “Just one moment please,” I said before hitting the mute button. “Kent, I’m on a really important call with a client. Can you keep it down, please?”
He just scoffed. “Whatever.”
I forced myself to take a deep breath before turning back to my computer. Behind me Kent tossed his bags down, clearly not caring how much noise he made. He kicked off his boots and stomped across the living room, throwing himself on the couch in a huff, right where he was clearly visible in the background of my meeting.
“My apologies,” I said, unmuting myself at last. “Like I said, I can have more designs to you by tomorrow. I just need an idea of what you’re looking for?—”
“James.” Sarah’s voice was gentle as she interrupted me, which somehow made it worse. “We really do appreciate your time. We’ll be in touch if we decide to move forward.”
We’ll be in touch. The death knell of client relationships.
The meeting ended two minutes later with hollow pleasantries and promises no one intended to keep. I closed my laptop and sat there in the dim light of my apartment, the silence pressing in around me.
I’d lost the job. Not officially, not yet, but I knew how these things went. They’d ghost me for a week, maybe two, then send a brief email thanking me for my time and wishing me well. And there went fifteen hundred dollars I’d been counting on for rent.
“You done yet?” Kent grumbled from the couch. “I’m missing the game.”
I turned slowly in my chair, something hot and acidic rising in my throat. “Missing the game,” I repeated, my voice flat.
