Page 72 of Saved By the CEO

There’s a silence on the other end.

“Carly,” Mom says at last, very softly.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“I don’t want you staying somewhere that makes you miserable because of me.”

“I know.”

“No,” she says, and there’s something firmer in her voice now. “I need you to hear me. I don’t want that. I never wanted that.”

My throat tightens. “I just wanted to make things easier for you.”

“I know you did, baby.” Her voice cracks a little on the last word. “And I love you for that. But you are not my retirement plan. You are my daughter.”

I press my hand over my eyes.

“I’m supposed to worry about you,” she says. “Not the other way around.”

A laugh slips out of me, thin and awful. “Bit late for that.”

“I know,” she says, and now I can hear that she’s crying too. “I know. And I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry you felt like you had to carry so much.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I’m still sorry.”

She tells me to call later, and I promise I will. Then she says she loves me, and I say it back with my throat so tight the words barely come out.

When we hang up, I stand there with the phone still in my hand, the towel damp against my skin, my hair dripping onto my shoulders.

Mom knows now. Not all of it, but enough. I thought telling her would make me feel lighter, and maybe it does, a little. Mostly, though, I just feel exposed. And even after everything she said, some stubborn part of me still doesn’t know how to stop feeling responsible for her.

I look down at my phone.

The email is still there.

I force myself to read the rest.

Although we thought you were a strong candidate, we unfortunately decided to move forward with another applicant whose experience more closely matches the needs of the role.

We wish you all the best in your future endeavors.

There it is.

The whole email.

Somehow worse than I imagined, yet exactly what I thought it would say.

The next morning,BenCo looks exactly the same.

I don’t know why, but it bothers me. Like the building should have the decency to look different after everything that’s happened. The facade should be darker, more dramatic. Maybe the windows should be cracked, and maybe the elevator should groan ominously when I step inside, and maybe there should be a choir of ghosts singing creepy kids’ songs in the lobby.

But no.

Same revolving doors. Same polished floors. Same woman at reception telling someone on the phone to have a great day in a voice so cheerful it makes me want to call the police.

I take the elevator to the top floor with two people from Accounting. They’re talking when I step in. Not loudly, and I can’t make out what they’re saying, but the way the conversation dies the moment they notice me makes me suspect I might have been on the agenda.