The Stand-In(8)

Although I leave early, a delay on the subway means I arrive three minutes late. Brent raises his wrist to look at his watch as I walk in to make it clear he notices. I don’t make eye contact, but the incident adds to the tight ball in my gut as I turn on my computer. The only sound in the office is the tap of typing, and of course Brent is a heavy but shitty typist, so every few seconds, I hear the backspace key. Dat-dat-dat-dat-dat. Click. Click click. Dat-dat-dat.

Garnet Brothers is an investment firm, and the marketing department, where I work as a project coordinator, keeps moderately busy trying to find ways to subtly remind people that only idiots manage their own money. It’s a boring but well-established company, which is why I took this job over a more exciting yet riskier role with a tech start-up. The first hour of every morning is spent answering emails I didn’t want to deal with on my phone, and about half are other people’s problems that have been dumped on me to solve. Most are routine but two or three are complicated enough that I’ll need to check with Todd before responding. I decide I can get away with asking about them over email instead of booking a meeting. My gift to me.

“Gracie.” Todd’s smooth voice comes over my cubicle wall. When I turn, he’s standing too close behind me and his blue eyes glint with a cold light. “Come to my office. Now.”

He leaves and assumes I’ll follow. I do, Brent’s gaze boring into my back as I fantasize about reaching behind and giving him the finger. Todd waits until I enter his office and then closes the door. I curse myself for leaving my phone at my desk.

“Bit of a frumpy look for you,” he observes. “I liked you better in the black dress with that red lipstick you used to wear. It was hot.”

“Ha, thanks.” My own response makes me sick. I’m an independent adult woman. I should tell him where to go and I can’t. I just…can’t. My need for this job is a noose around my neck, a gag in my mouth.

“You’d be quite an attractive girl if you smiled more,” he says, sitting on the edge of the desk and adjusting his belt. “I think we could have some good times.”

I think of Sam and find a bit of the courage I had last night. “I don’t think so.” My voice comes out like I’ve swallowed it.

“No?” He sounds sharp.

I shake my head.

“Too bad. Gracie, we’re terminating you as of today.”

“What?”

He slaps a printout down on the desk. “You called in sick yesterday. Does this look like a girl who’s ill?”

It’s the same paparazzi photo Fangli had shown me. I try to brazen it out because I can’t lose my job.

“That’s Wei Fangli. The photo says so.”

“Why is Wei Fangli holding the purse that’s beside your desk right now?” he asks. It’s like listening to a snake speak. “Even under that hat I can tell it’s Gracie Reed. Admit it and I’ll be easy on you.”

Then he licks his lips again, and although my gut clenches so hard I have to stop myself from doubling over, I keep my voice level and stare at a spot between his eyes. “It’s not me.”

“Human Resources agrees you are no longer an asset to this department,” he says. “This is the final nail in your coffin. Unless you want to reconsider?” His eyes shift down and my skin creeps.

I know what he’s saying. Not out loud, he’s too smart to give me any ammo, but the implication is clear. So is the fact that if I challenge him on this, I’ll be told that I should get over myself. This appalling realization crashes down on me, and whatever he sees in my face makes his harden. He shoves a paper toward me. “Your termination agreement. Sign it before the end of the week. Security will see you out.”

That’s it. He goes back behind his desk, ignoring me. I’m too shocked to react, and when the door opens and two security guards come in, I can only follow them. Luckily, most of my coworkers are out at meetings and I don’t see anyone but Brent, grinning openly at my flanking guards, and Kathy, the admin assistant, who hands me my purse and says she’ll set up a time for me to come clear my desk. She doesn’t look me in the face.

Then I’m out and jobless. My phone beeps to remind me of a meeting in fifteen minutes, and when I delete it, I look at my work task list.

I delete that, too.

Then I go home.





Four


The first day after I get fired, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.

The second day after I get fired, I brush my teeth and very carefully, without looking at it, tuck the termination letter facedown under a pile of laundry. Then I call a bomb threat in to Todd’s office.

I wish. Instead I go back to bed, pull the covers up, and watch Netflix until my eyes burn. I don’t remember which shows.

The third day after I get fired, I text my friend Anjali and ask her to come over. I don’t have a lot of friends, probably because I never manage to put in the time and effort necessary to maintain them. Anjali has always been different. I can drift in and out of her life, and each time we start talking, it’s as if we never left off. She says she’s too busy at work to deal with high-maintenance friends and I know I never have to worry about her yelling that she loves me when we say goodbye, forcing me to say it back. But I depend on her, or at least I depend on knowing she’ll be there.