“I’m not lazy,” I promise, and I’m tempted to tell him about my research into Linda, but I don’t want to come off as a stalker, so I stay quiet.
“Great,” he rolls his eyes again, and I get the sense that he’s doing his best to make sure I don’t get any wrong ideas about him and me being friends.
So, I don’t try to make small talk with him, even as I end up spending most of the first day in his company, signing papers and filling out forms. Most of the paperwork has to do with not running my mouth about the executives—NDAs so strict and lengthy I’m almost glad I have no idea what they’re saying, or I’d probably have more reservations about signing them, one after the other, without reading anything more than the title.
“Great,” the HR assistant says, yawning and gathering everything up when I’m finished. My hand cramps from signing, and he reaches over, making a show of taking the pen from me, which he wipes carefully before tucking it back in his pocket.
He then slides a sleek white card toward me. “This is a temporary access card. In the next few days, they should have one with your name on it. This will not get you into every part of the building—we talked about that security thing earlier—but it does grant you access to the executive level, since that’s where your desk is. Becarefulwith it. You would be surprised by the number of crazies that come in here, trying to get to the three of them.”
He points casually upward, and I’m not quite sure what he means byget to them—hopefully it’s more in a “ask-for-your-autograph” way, and less in a murder-y way.
“Great, thank you,” I say, taking the card and standing, but he’s already walked through the door, disappearing without a good-bye.
I get the feeling I’m not going to see him again.
“Alright,” I whisper to myself as I push through the exit and emerge into the hallway. Somewhere down the hall, I can hear the gentle burble of a water fountain, and the smell of leather and spice still hangs in the air, like they’re pumping it through the system. “Time to go back up there.”
Maybe it’s the fact that deep down I don’t want to return to the executive floor, or maybe it’s just the sheer size and scope of the building, but I try for twenty minutes to find those black elevators. But instead, I find myself back in the hallway I started in, face hot again, sweat pooling on my back.
“Great,” I mutter, tugging at the dress once more and raking my hand through my hair, which is frizzy and ruined from the rain. “Just great.”
“Lucy? Lucy Sullivan?”
I startle and turn to face a man I’ve never seen before. Just a bit older than me, he’s wearing a tight ribbed shirt with a muted floral pattern, dark pants, and leather boots.
His outfit is a slight variation of the HR assistant’s, but still original and fashionable. He has olive skin, stark black hair, and a clean-shaven face. Everything about his look is cohesive, effortless.
I’m starting to realize this isn’t like any of the other offices I’ve worked in, and the jean skirt and cardigan combo I’d planned for a potential first day isn't going to work.
“Yeah?” I’m cautious, still thinking about the “get to them” comment from earlier, but when a grin breaks out over the guy’s face, it’s genuine, and I can’t help but relax.
He’s very handsome and reaches out to take my arm immediately, turning me in the other direction, like we’ve been friends forever. I’m too flummoxed to resist. Unlike the other employees here, he doesn’t have the same sharp, nonchalant attitude.
“I’m Julian,” he explains, and I relax—I’ve heard his name before, in passing. “I’m ahugefan of Aunt Ruby. And Pudding, of course.”
“Oh—” I let out a laugh, thinking of my aunt’s spoiled Burmese cat, “you call her Aunt Ruby, too?”
Julian is leading me through the building with ease, past a massive, glittering sculpture and through a busy concourse full of professionals, many of whom are on the phone. Art installations turn slowly, suspended from the ceiling. A huge, mauve and burgundy piece on the wall shifts with the light, little squares following us like shadows. It looks like a massive collection of sticky notes, but mechanical.
I take it all in as I listen to Julian, who continues to guide me through the lobby and into another hallway.
“Oh,duh,” he waves his hand in the air, shifting his eyes over to me like I can’t be serious. “She’s an icon. I met her when she did the collaboration with the fragrance garden, like five years ago. God, I was green to the city back then, and she just took meunder her gorgeous wing! But she takes everyone under her wing—that’s why we call her Auntie.”
“Wow. I didn’t know about that.”
Growing up, most of my information about Aunt Ruby came from my dad's stories, which meant they were all cautionary tales. What would happen to a woman if she moved away from home, stopped talking to her siblings, and gave up on her family.
But then, once I had a phone, it didn’t take me long to find her socials.
On those, through her sporadic posting, I learned more about her and how free she was. She’s been doing exactly what she wants to for a long time, which explains why the rest of the family ostracized her.
Andwhy my parents flipped when I said I’d be staying with her during my time in the city.
“It’s just to save money,” I’d rationalized to them, arguing gently, “I was able to avoid temptation all throughout college just like you taught me growing up. I don’t see how Aunt Ruby is going to change me in just a year.”
That had been the perfect blend of complimenting and pseudo-logic to convince them, though Dad kept muttering about what a bad idea it was in the weeks leading up to my flight out of Missouri.
“This way,” Julian tugs on my arm, breaking me out of my thoughts. I realize we’ve arrived in a sort of cafeteria, but that’s not quite the right word.
