Right now, it definitely seems like he's making her more unhappy than happy. And I can’t for the life of me figure out why Hailey would keep him around if that's the case.
I huff in frustration and finish the last few bites of my omelet. I can't help my sister until she wants to be helped so in the meantime, I've got my own problems to deal with.
I think about the meetings I have scheduled today while I get dressed. As much as I would love to be the kind of writer that works from home wearing leggings and the messiest of messy buns, somewhere along my career I've become the kind of writer that exists in Corporate America. I open my closet, looking through my clothes for something that says, 'professional and beautiful but not looking for attention or like I'm trying to sleep my way to the top.'
I never thought there would be such a fine line.
In the end I settle on a black pencil skirt that reaches my knees and a dusty pink patterned blouse that I tuck into the skirt. I twirl my hair into a low bun at the nape of my neck, laughing to myself when I think about how Jax calls it my 'bitch bun.' I briefly debate pulling on heels, but when I remember that my first meeting is with Paul ‘the Ass Man,’ I grab my flats instead.
I complete the look with mascara and a swipe of lip gloss and then I'm grabbing the tote bag with my laptop and walking out the door.
Two hours later and with my second cup of coffee, I'm thanking all the deities in the world for my sensible shoe choice.
For one, Paul only paid attention to half of our meeting, spending the other half acting like I didn't see his constant glances at my legs. If I had worn heels, it's likely the whole meeting would've been a waste instead of just half of it. Even still, I'll be working late tonight trying to write the datasheet that Paul should've drafted before our meeting. But for another, sore feet are the last thing I need on this already-shit-at-10am workday.
I wince as I rub my temples. I have four more Subject Matter Expert engineers to meet with today and it's rare that these particular meetings are ever enjoyable. Where my job is to simplify and clearly market our company's software, the engineers that I meet with can't understand how anyone could possibly not understand what they're talking about. They're so wrapped up in their world that they're subconsciously assuming everyone has their engineer brain and can comprehend the level at which they're speaking. And in my effort to simplify their content and put it into layman's terms for a datasheet that will be used for marketing, they always end up looking at me like I'm an idiot.
I growl into my coffee, remembering Paul's shocked, 'what do you mean you want me to say it another way? I just explained it very clearly, I can't possibly simplify it any more.' Knowing he's the easiest of the engineers I'm meeting with today does nothing for my shit mood.
With impeccable timing, Cassandra appears next to my cubicle. I can tell without her even saying a word that she's in a hurry and wants to get this over with as quickly as possible. I groan inwardly, knowing that will make this even worse.
"Hey, Remy, want to grab a conference room? I have a hard stop at 11:00 so we might need to speed this up a little."
Consciously ordering my brain not to roll my eyes, I nod stiffly. "I booked Montgomery for us. Let's meet in there." Without a word, she spins and walks toward the conference room.
I gulp down the last few swallows of coffee, hoping some extra caffeine will save me from the disaster I'm about to experience.
"I have a thousand important things to do today so let's get this over with," she starts without hesitation. "I wrote up the datasheet for you. It should be in your inbox."
As I open her document on my laptop, I yet again marvel at the ridiculous expectation that 22-year-old Remy started this job with: the assumption that in Corporate America, everyone is a professional, responsible adult that can be pleasant while also having their shit together in order to get their work done.
Apparently, Cassandra didn't get the pleasant memo.
And looking down at her "document"—which can barely be classified as a rough outline—I realize she didn't receive the "get your shit done" memo either.
"Okay, this is a great start," I fumble awkwardly, trying to keep a cordial tone.It's barely a start. "I do have a few questions, though."
"About what?" she practically sneers. "It's all right there. What else could you possibly need? Just use your pretty words and make it sound marketable. Isn't that your job?"
I swallow roughly as I try to remind myself that responding in the same snappy tone will only make this situation worse. "It is, but I need a little more information than what you have here. This probably seems clear for an engineer, but I'm not a technical person so—"
"You don't need to be technical to understand what I wrote," she snaps, cutting me off. "It should be perfectly clear what the new software does. Anyone with half a brain could figure it out and write a few measly sentences about it."
I stare at her in disbelief, not knowing which of her sentences to argue with first: the fact that what little she wrote isnotclear, that a six-page requirement is hardly "a few measly sentences," or that she just flat out insulted my intelligence.
Deciding to ignore the blow to my intellect, I try one last, self-deprecating tactic, in the hopes that I can appeal to her pity. "I'm sure this seems simple to you, and I apologize for making you feel like I'm wasting your time, but if we could just spend a little bit of time reviewing the technical points, I'd feel more comfortable writing the document. I'd rather have you go into too much detail than not enough and risk me writing something incorrect—"
"That's your problem, not mine," she interrupts again. "I don't have time to train you on the technology. You should have knowledge about the company's software, otherwise how else could you write this stuff?"
"Technically, I'm not supposed to be writing anything," I finally snap. "My title says I should be proofreading your work, not writing it. You can call this a document all you want but you and I both know this is barely a bullet point list of fractured phrases."
Her eyes widen in shock. I don't even care that I've just shot myself in the foot in the hopes of Cassandra ever being helpful again. I refuse to sit here and be shit on just because some alpha bitch wants to take out all the sexism she's dealt with on another woman.
"I think we're done here," she hisses, standing up. Without another word, she tucks her laptop against her inappropriately exposed cleavage and angrily strides out of the conference room.
I walk back to my desk—stopping to grab a third cup of coffee—and begrudgingly settle into my research on the product Cassandra was supposed to write about. Instead of an hour edit of what was supposed to be a finished document, this has now become a four-hour job of research, writing, and then proofreading.
I wince, rubbing my temples again. Today just got a whole lot longer.