Head Over Feels

That’s something he could have told me from the beginning. I do it begrudgingly and then sit down. I don’t bother asking questions when I know he’s happy to tell me what displeases him.

He says, “From my understanding, you left our protocols at the door to find a lawyer who you approved versus what the state of New York deems appropriate to help a client. I don’t like people who step outside the lines. What makes you think you know better than all the people who came before you?” What the actual hell? He is such an asshole.

“I don’t think I’m smarter. I did what I had to do, which was find a better lawyer than the advisor she was assigned. That’s not going outside of my job description, but actually fulfilling it.” I stand, ready to leave this nonsense behind. Let him write me up if he so chooses. I can defend my decision to help my clients. Unlike him.

I open the door and start to leave but stop with the doorknob in my hand when he says, “I’m reassigning you to Poughkeepsie.”

My stomach drops as I try to process what he just said. I turn back with my mouth wide open. “Poughkeepsie?”

His chair squeals in protest when he relaxes back in it. Holding a pen in his hands, he says, “I believe it will be a good fit for you.”

I have no idea if he’s flipping the bird to my career or taking our personal conflicts out on me. “Isn’t it great news?” he asks, his tone so flat that I’m still trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth.

“Are you for real?” My composure is all but gone, and my emotions are shredded. I’m not sure if I should feel angry or sad.

“I’m for real, all right.” He cackles like all evil humans do and clicks the keyboard like he’s setting a pack of dogs free to attack me.

“I already approved your transfer. They’ll let us know in the next few weeks when you’ll be starting.” Like an electric shock shooting right through me, I’m astounded by his boldness.

“Why would you do that without consulting me?”

“Because I figured one job in Poughkeepsie was better than no job at all.”

Angry works. “You’re firing me?”

“No. We have budget cuts. It makes no sense to fire Peggy because she’s leaving.”

Still struggling to comprehend, I ask, “I don’t have a job in this office anymore?”

“That’s what budget cuts mean. I have spots for two, and . . .it’s easier to let you know so you have time to figure out what you’re going to do. I heard you still haven’t found a place to live.” Lowell leans forward, stabbing his elbows into the worn wood of his desk and folding his fingers together. “This is the sign you’ve been waiting for. Make the move and start fresh with a new crew.”

My temper flares, and my hands fist at my side. How dare he! He may see me as meek, but I’m stronger than he can ever imagine. I won’t walk away quietly.

“What if I don’t want to start fresh? I’ve earned my position in this office, Lowell. Not even for you. I do a good job. You’ve never received a complaint. My record is clear. It’s glowing, in fact. Tell me the real reason I’m being cut.” My heated emotions begin to subside. “Not that I want any of the others to move either. They have family in the area. Kids in the local schools . . .” And then it all begins to make sense.

32

Rad

I stared at the two invitations.

Two opposite ends of the relationship spectrum with an obligation that doesn’t allow me to turn either of them down. One celebrates two people choosing to spend their lives together. The other celebrates being single.

Both have strings attached . . .

Ashleigh taps the top of the desk. “Yes, to both, I assume?”

“Yes.” I pick them up and shove them in a side drawer of my desk. I could take time justifying each, but I’m thinking Tealey won’t see it the same way. But if she agrees to be my date, she’ll see the Big Apple Most Eligible Bachelor Awards is not a ploy to get laid.

“Thank you,” I add when Ashleigh stands to leave, turning my attention to the computer monitor.

She straightens a few files on my desk but continues to linger. I watch her go from the folders to the pens to the legal pads. Her fidgeting is distracting, so I ask, “What’s going on?”

Dropping back into the chair, she says, “I need to talk to you about something.”

I glance at the time to see how many minutes I can spare. “Now is good.” I angle my chair to face her and wait. Eight minutes isn’t a lot of time, but I’m confident we can address anything that needs immediate attention.