Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
But an assistant? My mom can barely stay on top of the details of her own life, much less someone else’s.
“So, Debbie swears by it,” she continues on, referring to her longtime best friend. “Says she’s making four times what she did at the salon. Anyway, look into it later, I don’t want to hustle you when we should be catching up. Sit!” She pats the cushion beside her. “I want to know what’s up with Mac.”
I flop down and let out a tired sigh. “Nothing good.”
“Uhhhhhh oh. Boy trouble?”
I smile a little, because Mom always thinks it’s boy trouble.
I hesitate. “Work’s kind of been a mess lately.”
She picks up a lock of my hair and makes a sympathetic noise. “I don’t know how you keep suffering through it. That whole corporate crap isn’t us, baby girl.”
I eat the rest of my string cheese in two large bites to keep from pointing out that without me “suffering” through the corporate crap, she’d have no one to pay her VA course, or for her latest round of Botox, or the hairstylist’s conference that was going to help her “level up” her career . . .
It was hard not to notice that the hair conference I paid for took place in Vegas, and I saw a lot of pictures of her in a bikini by the pool and not a whole lot of her learning the latest balayage techniques.
“I don’t love the office part of it,” I admit, staring down at my wine glass. “But I do truly like my work.”
“So what about it’s been messy?”
I spin the stem of the glass. “The new boss.”
“Right! The jerk.”
“Not really. He’s more . . .” How to explain? “I always just feel so inadequate around him. Like he thinks everything I do is wrong, and everything he does is perfect. And he does all of it without saying a word.”
“Ohhhhhhhh yes,” she says in her mother-knows-all voice. “I know those men. Very well.”
I lean my head back on the cushion and look at her. “What do you do about it?”
“Leave them in my dust,” she says with a small smile. “Life’s too short to spend it doing things that don’t make us feel good, or with people that don’t make us feel good.”
A part of me agrees with her. A big part, but this other part . . .
“But isn’t getting uncomfortable every now and then a good thing? You know, like . . . personal growth? Or something?” Though, the second the words are out, I know I’m barking up the wrong tree. Mom’s idea of personal growth is extensions.
“Are you remembering to meditate?” she asks, tapping my shoulder with her nail. “I promise, it’ll fix all this ickiness. Or come with me to yoga. It’s all about opening yourself up, and letting it all go.”
I take a big sip of wine, because it’s easier to try and explain to my mom that what’s bothering me isn’t a need to let things go.
It’s more the unpleasant sensation that I don’t have anything to let go of that actually matters.
CHAPTER NINE
Monday, September 26
The following week, I open the front door to the coworking space, and it’s every bit as perfect as I knew it would be from the photo Christina showed Thomas and me.
The key fob may be electronic, not unlike the keycard that gets me into my usual workplace, but that’s where the similarities to the regular Elodie offices end.
There’s no imposing desk with its duo of security guards carefully monitoring the keycard-controlled turnstiles.
There is a desk, but the guy sitting behind it has a ponytail and a smile. “Hey there! You must be Mac.”
“Must be.” I smile back. “But you have the advantage.”
“Brian,” he says. “I’m one of the two receptionists here. During regular work hours, you can find either me or Kaylee here, signing for packages, troubleshooting Wi-Fi, stocking the coffee. You know. The essentials.”
Immediately, I like him. “Coffee, you say?”
Brian grins wider. “Come. I’ll give you the tour.”
First up is the kitchen behind the reception desk, which is cramped but well-stocked with a pod coffee machine and a fancy assortment of teas.
Brian opens a drawer, shows me a Sharpie and labels. “For if you want to bring your lunch, or threaten death upon anyone who touches your amaretto coffee creamer.” He opens another drawer. “A few healthy snacks: pro-tip, avoid the birthday cake protein bar that is full of lies.”
“Does anyone ever actually eat there?” I ask, at a small table leaning sharply to one side, with a chair that looks like it’s made of toothpicks.
He glances over. “No. Never. Any mingling happens strictly over coffee refills, though honestly, even that’s rare. Most everyone comes in with Starbucks.”
“How many people is everyone?” I ask, following him up the stairs.
“There are eight rented offices, three on the second floor, three on the third, and two big offices on the top floor. All but one is rented, so that’s . . . maybe twenty people? But hardly ever is everyone in the building, so it stays fairly quiet.”