“I don’t believe you,” he said. “I think you knew about it.”
She laughed. “Like I give a shit.”
“I’m still your boss, Tyler.” He stood because tall people do that when they can’t win an argument. “I’d fire you in a second if you weren’t fucking our biggest client. You’re lucky I don’t take this loss out of your commissions.”
“What commissions?” She raised her voice. “You haven’t signed Yestown to a deal yet.”
“Future commissions.” He sat back down. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
Before coming into the office, she’d phoned Cary, but it had gone straight to voicemail. She didn’t leave a message, not exactly sure what to say after she’d dismissed him without listening to his side of things.
Regret is an awful thing.
“Vegas said there was some sort of family issue,” Sebastien probed.
“I’m telling you, I don’t know where he is.”
“Tyler, I’m warning you . . .”
“Or what?” His threat almost made her day. “Go ahead, fire me. I do the work of three people around here and get paid, barely, for one. Plus you owe me a million weeks’ vacation time. Don’t get me started.”
Rory’s tags clanked in the distance and she turned her head.
“Hello?” Bob called out into the cavernous space.
She pointed in his direction. “Why don’t you ask Bob Shaw how much work I do around here? He’ll tell you.”
“Is everything okay?” Bob asked, walking into Sebastien’s office, carrying the miniature panda.
Sebastien nodded at Bob. “I was just saying we need more bands on our roster. More pucks on the net.”
“No, you weren’t.” She turned her head. “He threatened to fire me because of Cary’s canceled dates. He doesn’t think I do any work around here.”
Bob’s eyes turned icy blue. “She works harder than I do.” He smiled at Tyler, adding, “I ran the numbers on Cary’s tour. We’re still good, even with the canceled dates.”
“Get the fuck out of my office—both of you,” Sebastien huffed. “And that stupid dog, too.”
Rory says, fuck you.
Bob handed the dog to Tyler, and they silently walked down the hall. Sebastien would no doubt be listening, ear pressed against his door with a cup, trying to eavesdrop.
“Do you have a minute, Bob Shaw?” she whispered, following him into his office.
“For you?” He nodded. “Always.”
She closed the door and spilled her guts, telling him everything and then some.
The following two days weren’t much better. In fact, they were almost worse. Cary hadn’t called back and wasn’t posting on Instagram either. Had she just made the biggest mistake of her life? Or would she, years from now, look back and realize it was exactly what was meant to happen?
Having too much time to think wasn’t always good—unless you were a philosopher or something.
Everywhere she turned, there were pregnant women. Some looked too young, others too old, and a few just her age. They were impossible to ignore, like the universe was nudging her toward a truth she wasn’t ready to face—thatshe’d fucked up.
On Friday, Tyler got to the office early, which she’d been doing for years. But today would be different: it was her last day, and she would make it a good one.
She walked into SDM with a latte from Artigiano—no more shitty office coffee—and waited in Sebastien’s office with the lights off and the door closed.
