The Dirty Series 1(46)

The moment I get into the car, the pressure behind my eyes starts.

Jax didn’t argue with me about coming into work. Instead, he had his stylist and the hair and makeup team come to his penthouse this morning so I could relax as long as possible this morning.

As they went to work styling my hair, the thought floated across my mind: I could get used to this.

Nope. No. I cannot get used to this. No matter what Jax has, and what he can offer, I have to keep my eyes on the prize, and the prize is still a job that can make me self-sufficient, dependent on no one else.

Not even him.

By the time Mark drops me off in front of the building, the pressure has built to a searing pain. I can hardly stand to look at the gentle morning sunlight.

Get inside, I tell myself. You’ll be all right if you can just get inside.

My motivation has deserted me.

I almost forget to order Sandra’s coffee, and Manuel brings it at the last moment, sprinting down the hallway with only a minute to spare.

“You’re the best,” I tell him, pressing a twenty into his hand as a tip.

Get through the morning.

It’s going to be small goals today. There’s no other way for me to survive. The splitting pain behind my eyes doubles, triples.

People are starting to gather in the meeting rooms, outside the doors, talking causally to one another. She’s almost here.

Sandra sweeps into the office right on time and divests herself of her purse—no coat today.

A deep breath in. A deep breath out.

I’m not quite all the way into her office when she starts speaking, and at first I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing.

“The next issue is going to be a double issue. Let all the essential parties know.”

I’ve already scribbled most of it down before it registers in my brain.

“What?”

“Was I unclear?”

“No, I—a double issue?” A million thoughts swirl in my brain. Where is Sandra going to find the content for this? Is she going to poach it from the next issue after this one? That will completely fuck up the editorial calendar. Accounting is going to have a fit. And the scheduling—

She’s already speaking, rattling off a series of about fifty changes for today’s meetings alone.

“A double issue, Sandra? Are you sure?”

Sandra presses her lips together, her jaw jutting out, and she takes one breath through her nose, then exhales. “I’m not asking for your input, Catherine. This is a necessary step for Basiqué. If you have a problem with our creative direction, you are welcome to seek employment elsewhere at any time.”

A chill goes up my spine. No. I do not want to seek employment elsewhere—not without tying everything up here in a neat little bow, with a glowing recommendation from Sandra.

“I don’t have a problem. I just wanted to—there’s no problem. I’m sorry, Sandra, go ahead.”

The adjustments to today’s schedule grows to a hundred. I sit down at my computer, the headache having spread back to my temples.

Screw up the scheduling on purpose. The thought surfaces from the back of my mind, and for a good minute, I give it careful, thoughtful consideration. Which meetings could I neglect to reschedule? Which things could I not do that would make the dominos collapse, one after the other?

When I realize that I’ve begun planning Basiqué’s downfall, a sick feeling blooms in my stomach.

Everyone was right. I’ve been an idiot all along.

The splitting headache, the fatigue that follows me everywhere, and now this—actively fantasizing about ways to do my job so poorly that the magazine closes—I have to stop ignoring the warning signs. It might not be a collapse next time. It might be a full-on nervous breakdown…or worse.

The realization that I have to leave here fills me with anxiety, and that’s when it hits me: I’ve become obsessed with my job.

It’s far beyond a reasonable level.

It’s all I’ve thought about for the past year.

It’s taken the place of most of my friends, and any possible romantic relationships.

And still…

Still, I’m not completely sure I want to leave. Ultimately, it has to happen someday, but…

I shake my head and breathe, the pain subsiding a little.

You’re tough, Schaffer, I think to myself. You can make it another six months, a year—at the very least, you can steer things through the double issue, and then she’ll have to give you an excellent recommendation when you leave.

Yes.

That’s what I’ll do.

I’ll make my exit gracefully, carefully, causing a minimum of disruption. I’ll stay in Sandra’s good graces—as tenuous as they may seem—and position myself to step directly into a better job.