Much Ado About You

“You’ve packed up really early,” I observed. “The job is still yours for six weeks.”

Patrick nodded distractedly. “Evie, take a seat.”

Not liking his tone, I slowly lowered onto the seat in front of his desk. “Is everything okay?”

Come to think of it, when was the last time Patrick beat me into work? I usually arrived at least fifteen minutes earlier than him every day.

“Evie . . . you know I think you’re a great assistant. And you’ll make a damn good editor one day . . . but the higher-ups have decided to hire an experienced editor. Young guy, twenty-five, certified as an editor, been working at a small press for two years. He’s coming in next Monday so I can show him the ropes.”

It was like the floor fell out from beneath my feet. “Wait . . . what?”

My boss frowned. “Gary Slater. He’s going to be your new boss.”

Was the room spinning?

Or was that just the anger building inside me so much that my body couldn’t handle it? “More experience? Certified?” I stood up on shaking legs. Not only had I been editing here for seven years, Patrick knew I was a freelance editor too. Experienced? “I’m certified. You know I am.” Although I’d come into the job with an English degree, I’d gotten into the editing program at the Graham School at the University of Chicago and worked my ass off after hours to get certified. “This guy is twenty-five. I’ve been doing this job for ten years, and they want to make this barely-out-of-college kid my boss?”

“Evie, lower your voice,” Patrick scolded.

I struggled to calm down. “Is this a joke?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“And you.” I curled my lip in utter disappointment. “Did you even fight for me on this?”

Patrick sighed. “Of course I did. I told them you had enough experience, but they want someone who’s been editing.”

“I’ve been editing. I’ve been editing work you were supposed to edit for the last seven years. But I guess that doesn’t matter because I lack the one appendage that apparently makes a person more qualified—I don’t have a dick!”

My boss blanched. “Evie.”

I didn’t care if I was losing it. There were five editors at Reel Films—none of them were women. There was only one female critic. And you only needed one guess to know what kind of movies she was asked to review.

I was done, I realized.

“I quit.”

“Evie.” Patrick pushed back his chair. “I know you’re upset, but don’t do anything hasty.”

“Hasty?” I guffawed and turned to throw open his door. “I’ve done this job for ten goddamn years and this is the thanks I get? No.”

Feeling my colleagues’ burning stares, I ignored them as I swiped all of my belongings into my big slouchy purse.

“Evie, will you stop?” Patrick sidled up to me.

I closed my bulging purse and turned to glare at him. We were eye level. “I hope this stuck-in-the-nineteen-fifties publication goes down the toilet, Patrick. As for you . . . thanks for ten years of nothing.” On that note, I stormed out of the office, not looking at anyone, focused entirely on getting the hell out of there.

As the elevator stopped on the ground floor, my legs began to tremble so badly, I thought they might just take me out. Splatter me right across the marble floor. It would be the perfect end to the grotesqueness of the last twenty-four hours.

Yet, somehow, I walked out of there.

I just kept walking.

Walking and walking.

My mind whirled as I attempted to figure out what I would do with my life. How had I ended up here—with no promising prospects for my future?

When I thought my despair couldn’t get any worse, my cell rang. I pulled it out and saw it was my stepfather calling. I loved Phil, but his call was bad timing. Considering he rarely called me when he knew (or thought) I’d be at work, however, I felt compelled to answer.

“Evie, sweetheart, I just called your office and they told me you quit.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was . . . kind of a recent decision.” I stared around, realizing I was in Millennium Park, next to the Jay Pritzker Pavilion. A woman with a six-pack ran past me in workout gear, while a guy spilled his latte down the front of his shirt and started cursing profusely.

I couldn’t even remember walking here.

I was losing it.

“. . . so I thought I better call you right away,” Phil said.

What?

“Sorry, Phil, what?”

“Your mother,” he repeated patiently. “I just got off the phone with her. I’m picking her up from rehab this Saturday and she wants me to take her to see you.”

Feeling my stomach lurch, I staggered toward the nearest bench and slumped down onto it.

I loved my mom.

But this was shitty news on top of a shitty day.