I nod. That’s been her longstanding rule. Says it ensures that work doesn’t encroach into her personal life. I adopted it too during my second year at Goldman. It helped avoid burnout while putting in hundred-hour weeks, so I’ve kept it.
“Hey, if you need help, let me know.” She pats my arm in sympathy. Unlike some who might say it as a friendly but empty gesture, she means it.
“Thanks, girl. I will.”
After wishing her a great weekend, I head to my desk. I consume the latte, and caffeine jolts through my system, pushing away the fogginess.
I unwrap the Snickers and pull my phone out of my purse to check for Rick’s directions to the cabin. Multiple texts and five missed calls. This is unusual. He’s never called me over missed or changed plans. Not that he’s done much to hide how he felt. He can whine better than a three-year-old who missed his nap. But he never tries to compete with my career for my attention. That’s the biggest reason we’re still together, despite the times my gut whispered that I needed to cut my losses. Rick and I really aren’t going anywhere. Rebounding with him seemed like a great idea six months ago, especially when my last boyfriend dumped me after I couldn’t make two consecutive dinner dates and said that he needed a girlfriend who would put him first. He didn’t understand that dinner dates won’t pay off my debt.
–Rick: I didn’t want to do this via text, but I guess you leave me no choice. This is ridiculous, Amy!
–Rick: Me or the job?
What? Where did this come from?
–Rick: Think real careful before you answer that.
–Rick: Are you listening?
–Rick: Are you ignoring me?
–Rick: Hello?
I stare incredulously at the texts. The time stamp on the “Are you listening?” is six thirty-four p.m.; “Are you ignoring me?” and “Hello?” are six thirty-five p.m. He went ballistic over me not texting back within a minute? Couldn’t he see that I hadn’t even read his messages?
Besides, I told him I’d join him after I was done. So what’s up with the ultimatum?
He doesn’t get to make threats after dumping this trip on me at the last minute! Especially when he knows the number of hours I work! I was clear about that from the beginning. Furthermore, I made it clear that I could only meet him around my work schedule.
And he said he was fine with that, no problem!
–Rick: Don’t be a bitch.
Oh, hold on. Did he just call me a bitch because I told him I have to work?
–Rick: Me or the job?!!!!
Isn’t the answer obvious? I didn’t spend nearly half a million dollars on undergraduate and master’s degrees to choose him and unemployment.
–Me: The job, BITCH!
I hit send with more force than necessary. Then I glare at the screen, fuming. Who does he think he is?
But every second I’m giving the phone a death stare is one more second I’m being unproductive. The projections won’t populate themselves into Excel on their own. And besides, Rick can’t even see my evil glare.
I put my phone away and turn back to my laptop. The calendar on my desk sits in my peripheral vision. I look at it and see the stupid 6MAT over today’s date blowing a raspberry at me for bothering to try to accommodate Rick.
Screw that.
I reach into my drawer, pull out a black Sharpie and scribble out the 6MAT to erase the evidence of my relationship idiocy. Two seconds later, the area smells faintly of permanent marker ink. I put the marker away and go back to Excel.
I can probably get this done in the next hour or two, email it to Emmett and then go home. I’m going to splurge on an excellent bottle of Merlot and take a luxurious bubble bath. And then sleep. If everything goes well, I should be able to swing at least six hours rather than my usual four. The possibility is exciting.
That’s me—living the high life!
I put together a document that lists the indicators and articles I’ve referenced. That way Emmett can’t come back and ask me for exhibits to validate my projections and pricing of commodities and labor.
I hit save and reach for the Skittles. Boosting my blood sugar will be paramount to surviving the next two hours…