“I think you’re making a mistake,” she says.
It’s my turn to scoff. “Because you’ll be left without someone’s homework to cheat off of when I’m gone?”
“This isn’t high school, Caitlin,” she says.
“You’re right. And I’m sick of the competitive, mean girl vibes you’ve brought to the business.”
“Competitive?” she says, incredulously. “You’re the one hiding all your research and scrambling for kudos every chance you get!”
I’m about to scream back something stupid when I realize she’s not wrong. I had stopped collaborating with her somewhere along the way. One too many stings from the scorpion while trying to cross the river…
I push off the window and stand in front of the desk. I summon all the genuine kindness I can muster, and look her in the eyes.
“I’m sorry this is how we’re parting ways. I wish the best for you and Waldorf press.”
She scowls. “That’s it?”
Maybe she thought we were going to have it out, and I’d change my mind, become her junior littledoer. Or we’d have a big enough blow-up to make her feel better. I don’t know. I don’t need to know.
“That’s it,” I say, fanning my hands out in defeat.
I’m not going to apologize for taking my research off the network or not asking for her opinion on something that she’d immediately present to Vick as her awesome new idea. Maybe Patricia didn’t realize how much she did that to me—drawing conclusions from my research in progress and giving it to the bosses. You wouldn’t serve a half-baked cake at a wedding, and the same goes for data analysis with a million dollars or more impact.
She purses her lips, and for a second, I think she might yell again. Then, she clears her throat and stands, reaching her hand out to me. “I wish you the best, too.”
My body tries to revolt, but I force myself forward and shake her hand. I don’t want to burn the bridge; I just need to leave it behind.
“I need to get back to fixing this mess,” she mumbles as she pulls away.
I nod, and stride from her office.
The angry child in me is screaming for retribution, begging me to sling all the stones and arrows, but I’m glad I took the high road.
My departure is clean.
And my future awaits.
four
The Dashbern Bookshop
Oscar prey-chitters in the seat beside me as he peers through the bars of his kennel. I opted for a bigger one so that he could stand up and see out the window, thinking it would entertain him for the ride, or maybe ease some of his anxiety. Instead, it has resulted in hyper excitement, and endless chatter.
My mistake.
“Next time we’ll accept the sleepy drugs from the doctor,” I tell him.
The scenery is nice, but there are justsomany birds that Oscar is losing it. They seem to be taunting us. Is it migration season or something?
I check the map and see we’re just twenty minutes from Dashbern. I couldn’t be more excited to get out of the car forever. I’m sure Oscar would be too, if he understood that the next stop was our last.
We really pushed it on day one and made it well into Utah. Day two was a struggle, with many bathroom stops. Apparently, travel doesn’t agree with either of us very well, so we’d only just made it to Wyoming. Day three got us into South Dakota and on day four, we made it to Minneapolis.
Day five has us both feral, and ready to bedone. My belly hurts from all the garbage I’ve eaten, and I swear my ass is swollen from too much sitting. I’m ready for a hot soak and a massage—
But that’s Publicist Money Brain talking. We don’t have publicist money anymore. We have broke-ass bookshop owner money. Still, there has to be something I can do to ease the aches from being stuck in the same position for days on end.
Oscar does a potty meow, and I sigh.
