Made With Love

Chapter 3

As soon as the elevator jolts downward, I push the glaring red hold button and slump back a step against the cool, steel wall. Two seconds. That’s all I need, and I’ll march back into the main office like the rock star that I am.

But first—

I suck in a deep breath. ‘Fuuuuuck!’

That’s better.

I push the button for the fortieth floor, and the elevator jolts back to life. The doors ping open, I step out, and Kate bolts to my side.

All eyes on me? Soak it up while you can, tossers. I’m OUT of here.

‘You okay?’ she whispers.

‘Mmmhmm.’

Just keep moving forward.

I stride over to my desk and swipe everything—picture frames, files, scraps of note paper—into the waste basket.

‘What?! No! What are you doing! Kate half whispers, half yowls at me across my desk.

‘Quitting.’ I say coolly.

You can’t quit!’

‘I can. And I’m taking this.’ I hoist the waste basket to my hip.

Tina snuffles at my shoulder.

‘This is so not like you. Jules!’

Kate latches onto my wrist and I try half-heartedly to wrench it free.

‘If I don’t go now—’ I choke on an upsurge of tears. ‘I’ve got to go. So just—let go.’

Kate loosens her grip, her eyes welling up with huge, grade school tears.

‘Call me later. Alright?’ I say, a tremor ringing through my voice.

‘Yeah, okay.’

She takes a step back to put an arm around Tina whose shoulders are heaving with silent, squint eyed sobs. I hug her neck, then Kate’s, and heft the box onto my hip.

‘If you need anything,’ Kate cries out as I turn for the elevator.

‘I’ll call you,’ I say and wave over my shoulder. The two of them watch, arms linked, as I go. I can feel their eyes on me, can feel Kate wishing for me to turn around. The box is suddenly cinder-block heavy; it’s all I can do to lift a hand and press the down button.

Please OPEN. For the love of God, PLEASE—

The door swings wide, and I haul myself and the top heavy bin inside. Good things, try to think of good things, I tell myself. At least I haven’t run into Roger. He would have stuck it to me again for sure, the little weasel. The numbers flash, thirty-five, thirty-four, and the doors open. A few bankish looking types push inside, but I only just sense them looking at me, the basket, sniggering. Right now, all I want to do is go home, take a long, hot shower, and have Brad make me hot chocolate, maybe cradle my head in his hands, and tell me everything is going to be alright.

I slip through the side entrance (the last thing I want to do is small talk with the doorman) and am met with a wall of sideways rain.

‘Perfect,’ I groan. I tuck the waste basket under my arm and make a run for it. It’s only eleven o’clock. The express won’t be running yet. An extra couple of blocks and I could catch the F train. I put my head down against the wind and splash through the intersection and up Broadway, the rumbling of the two passing trains reverberating upward through my feet. By the time I reach the station, my hair is streaming wet. My dress ekes an inky blue down one leg. A knot of hoodied teenagers crowds the stairwell.