Tumble (Dogwood Lane, #1)(78)

When I looked in the mirror this morning and put on a coat of lipstick for my meeting with Frank, I hardly recognized myself. My dress was one I’ve worn before, and the lipstick was my daily go-to just a few weeks ago. But when I look at my reflection, all I see is a person I don’t know.

When did I become the person who’s so hedonistic I just run off on a whim? I spout off all these mantras, say all this stuff about empowering others, when in reality, I’m just as focused on myself as anyone else.

At least that’s how it is here. That’s how I am here. As I push open the doors to my old company and take the elevator to the twentieth floor, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to flip a switch back to the old me. The one who’s up before dawn, champing at the bit to get here. The one who’s still here after dark, finishing projects that could wait until the next day.

This was my life for so long. It was as much a part of me as Dogwood Lane or my love of gymnastics. Why do I feel like an outsider walking up to the receptionist’s desk?

“Neely,” Georgia says, her headset perfectly in place. “It’s such a pleasure to see you today.”

“It’s good to see you too.” I rest my briefcase on the stone ledge and sign in. “How have things been around here?”

“Stressed. Everyone’s been running around like crazy. I know with this new launch, things are being leveraged and it’s doubled Frank’s load, but now that you’re here, maybe that will ease up some. For me, anyway.”

“Sounds fun.” I grab my things and head over to the row of leather chairs lining the wall. I take a seat. I fiddle with my green-and-yellow bracelet—it absolutely does not match my attire, but I couldn’t make myself take it off. It reminds me of green eyes and sunshine, and both make me smile, even if I don’t feel like it.

A few familiar faces stroll by, stopping to say hello. They tell me how much I was missed and congratulate me on coming back. I smile and thank them and wonder why in the heck it doesn’t feel like something to celebrate.

The floor-to-ceiling windows look over the street below. There are cars and buildings and people occupying every square inch of space. There’s not a green speck anywhere to be seen. I’m wondering if it’s possible for the air to be used up without any trees close by to create more when the door to Georgia’s right opens up and Frank walks out.

“Good morning, Neely,” he says, his baritone voice ringing through the reception area.

“Good morning, Frank.” Chin held high, I pick up my briefcase and follow him into his office.

Three empty coffee cups line the side of his desk. A roll of antacid tabs sits next to his nameplate. The room is stale and dank, and as I sit across from his desk, I wonder how he works like this.

But you did.

Shoving that out of my brain, I focus on Frank. He smooths out his tie as he sits, hiding a spilled coffee stain on his mustard-colored shirt.

“Thank God you’re here,” he says. “I’m about to lose my mind.”

“Rough morning?”

“Rough morning. Rough week. Rough week before. This launch is going to be the death of me.” He shuffles around a stack of papers and pulls out a haphazardly put-together grouping of files with a rubber band around the middle. He plops it in front of me, shaking the coffee cups. “This is yours.”

“That looks like a mess, Frank.”

He nods. “I told you things were a mess when I called. You’re the only person I know who can iron them out.”

His praise settles over me. It feels good to have him acknowledge my abilities. It feels good to have his respect. Good, but not great. That messes with me a little.

“I’ve called a meeting for this afternoon,” he says. “I’ll let everyone know then that you’re in charge. Whatever you want, consider it done.” He leans back in his seat, the casters rolling a bit as his body moves. “You’ve earned this, Neely.”

“Thanks.” I breathe in deeply and almost choke on the stagnant air. “I’m excited to start.”

“There aren’t many people with your work ethic,” he says. “People willing to give up their private lives to make something work. You’re impressive.”

Or stupid.

“I cleared out the office down the hall,” he says. “You can get your things situated in there as soon as we’re done here. May I suggest ordering something you can sleep on?”

His laugh fills the room, as if I’m now a part of some club that gets to give up sleep for work. I’m okay with that, really. But as his laughter settles and I realize there are no pictures of anyone in his life on his desk, I realize what else he’s had to give up.

Frank goes on, rattling about all the benefits of the job, the little perks I’ll get for being in upper-level management. All I can hear are the things I’m giving up.

“You get a tab at Gulliver’s, for lunch.”

It won’t be as good as Mom’s taco salad.

“You can get tickets to any sporting event in the city you want. We just need a little notice.”

Can you get me tickets to the Summer Show?

“You get to watch the sunset behind the building from your office window.” He laughs heartily as he moves on to the next topic.

Running my hand over my face, not even caring I’m probably smudging my foundation, I remind myself to breathe. The walls feel like they’re caving in on me. Crushing me. Pushing me out of the room.