Mister Weston

“For what?”

“You know for what.” He shook his head. “You know exactly for what. I need you to hand over your badge, and know that, as of today, you’re no longer welcome on this property.”

I stepped back and held my hand over my laminated namesake, not willing to give it up.

“You don’t think I have a right to be pissed off about what happened?” I asked. “A right to be angry?”

“You have a right to feel however you want to feel, Gillian. You don’t have the right to react the way you did. Do you have any idea the damage you’ve caused?”

“The truth is never damage...”

“It is when the lie is more compelling.” He clenched his jaw. “And when no one asked you to insert your feelings—regardless of how you think this situation affects you.”

“It more than affects me.” My throat constricted and I tried not to cry.

Warm tears fell down my face and I begged him to reconsider. I said that I was sorry, that I didn’t mean to do what I'd done. I promised to make it up to everyone. I even offered to demote myself to the lowest of interns, but it wasn’t enough.

His mind and his boss’s boss’s mind had already been made up.

“We had to report it to other institutions,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t waste my time applying to our competitors, if I were you. At least not for the next five to ten years, okay? It takes a while for people to forget this type of thing.”

“Did you at least report the other person? The other person who’s actually at fault?” I was sniffling, trying not to cause too big of a scene.

“No, Gillian.” He gave me a short hug. “The only person in the wrong was you.” He wished me all the best, and then ordered the security guard to take my badge and escort me out of the building...

I’M CURRENTLY TYPING this post inside of a Park Avenue Starbucks—shivering and soaking wet from a sudden summer rain, and I’m trying my best to figure out where the hell I’m going from here. What I’m going to do next.

My final paycheck has been expedited and is supposed to arrive in my mailbox tomorrow. My name will be delisted from the company’s website, and everything I contributed will be washed over and repurposed.

So, just like that, at age twenty-five, my so-called dream of a life is over.

I’ll need to find some new dream to obsess over and pursue, and maybe one day I can go back to my old dreams.

The only things I know for sure are that my days of living in an apartment on Lexington Avenue are long gone, that daily espressos and lattes are now unaffordable and absurd, and that I’m going to have to find a new job (or two) ASAP if I want to stay afloat in New York City.

Write later...

Actually, no. I won’t. This is the last post I’ll write here for a very long time.

GILLIAN

GT

**TAYLOR G.**

1 COMMENT POSTED:

KayTROLL: What you did was not only hurtful, but it was also selfish, immature, and incredibly STUPID. Did you really think that you wouldn’t get fired for doing something like that? I saw what you were plotting before you deleted it Tuesday, and I thought you’d know better than to go through with it. At least you’re only 25. You have plenty of time to grow the fuck up. Grow. The. Fuck. Up!

GATE A6

GILLIAN

New York (JFK)

JAKE’S DEMANDING WORDS played in my mind for the umpteenth time as my fingers strummed my swollen clit, as I orgasmed for the third time since the night he fucked me. My nipples hardened as a cold draft of night air blew against them, so I pulled the blanket over my body and rolled over. I tightened my grip around my pillow, envisioning Jake taking me all over again, but just as I was about to replay our night all over again, my cell phone rang.

I didn’t bother looking to see who it was. I groped its frame and hit the side key to silence it.

Minutes later, it rang again and I groaned—silencing it once more. It was no use. It rang again—sounding even louder this time, and I forced myself to look at the screen. Unknown number.

“Hello?” I didn’t attempt to hide the annoyance in my voice.

“Why aren’t you at the airport, Miss Taylor?”

“What?” I sat up. “Who is this?”

“This is scheduling with Elite Air.” She hissed. “And unless I have the wrong number for Gillian Taylor, which, I’m sure I don’t, I need you to answer me. Now. Why aren’t you at the airport?”

“I’m not...” I hit my lamplight and glanced at my alarm clock. It was only five in the morning. “I’m not scheduled to fly out until Thursday. A turn to Philly and then Reagan International.”