I smile and nod. “Yeah. I’m really excited.”
“Huh,” he grunts, sitting back. “I’m sure that’s had nothing to do with your level of distraction this week.”
I pull a face. “Definitely not. Hasn’t crossed my mind once during work hours.”
He scoffs and taps his fingers on the table. It seems like most of the anger has bled out of him, but I can feel we haven’t really resolved everything. An olive branch might do the trick.
“Maybe one day, I can host a launch party for one of Waldorf’s releases,” I say.
He bobs his head, and then a little smirk plays on his lips. “That would be nice.”
Put a little bow on it and call this interaction done.
I give him another moment to see if he’s got anything else to get off his chest about my bad behavior, but he seems to be lost in thought.
“Is that all, sir?” I finally prompt.
He looks up at me from a distant place and his eyes refocus. “I wish you wouldn’t have shown me the truth so harshly.”
“I wish there would’ve been any other way for you to see it.”
“These last two weeks have been rough,” he says with a grimace. “Do you think she can do it without you?”
I shrug. “She has the same degree and experience as me.”
“That’s not an answer, Cait,” he grumbles.
I consider back to what she was like in the early days. We’d come into the press a few months apart, and she was so eager back then. Bright-eyed and excited. Somewhere along the way, the wins became more important than the work…for both of us, maybe.
“She’s going to need to remember why she joined the team, and then yeah, I think she can.”
He blows out his cheeks and leans back in his chair. “Well, thanks, for everything. And…I’m sorry I pushed you out.”
That last part sounds more pouty than sincere, but I’ll take it.
“I’m not,” I say with a soft smile. “I’m chasing my dream.”
His eyes crinkle at the edges. “Go get it.”
“Open?” I ask as I turn to the door.
“Please.”
I don’t expect Patricia’s face to beright therewhen I open the door, but it is. Seeing her there, forehead wrinkled, lips pursed, makes me start.
“Can I talk to you,” she says—not asks—as she turns around and heads toward her new office, not waiting for me to follow.
I glance back at Vick and whisper, “HR can’t fire me on my last day, right?”
“They can,” he mumbles, then shakes his head with a scoff. “What happened to meek Cait?”
“I think she realized she wasn’t doing us any good and went to hide in a hole,” I say, and he chuckles.
It’s not true, though. The need to be small, to pipe down, is still running very strong in the background. I can sense it just beyond every decision I make, but I just have too much indignation, too much hurt, to let it reign like it has in the past five years.
“Caitlin?” Patricia snaps from her office door.
I spin around and plaster on the biggest, fakest smile for her. I take my time walking through the cubes, turning heads as I go.
