Baby for the Bosshole Read online

  After I’m done with a couple of meetings, Sasha comes over.

  “Hey, wanna grab some lunch? I actually have time to eat.”

  “You sure you don’t want to grab a power nap instead?” I ask. She’s sporting dark circles not even concealer can hide. There are nap rooms at the firm, and she could doze off for an hour.

  “I just had coffee to stay awake for a call. Let’s lunch. We haven’t talked in ages.”

  “In that case, sure. Let’s go!”

  We head to a sandwich shop nearby. The sandwiches are a little above average, but their coffee is to die for. Since an addiction to caffeine is an integral part of professional success in finance, the place does good business.

  I order a turkey and avocado sandwich and an iced Americano, and Sasha grabs a BLT with extra bacon and an iced latte.

  We find an empty booth and sit down. Sasha eyes her food like she’s in heaven.

  “You almost done with the work Grant dumped on you?” I ask.

  “Almost. What’s left isn’t super urgent. I’ll actually leave by midnight tonight.” She drinks her latte like an elixir.

  “Yay,” I say.

  She sighs. “Yeah, but I’d rather have a day or two off. I want to see my nephew.”

  “Nephew?” Sasha’s never mentioned having a nephew.

  “Yup. Fresh from the factory. My sister just had her first baby.”

  Oooh. She did say something about her sister being pregnant a while back.

  “Look.” Sasha pulls out her phone, taps it a few times and flips it around.

  The photo shows an adorable little baby, a pale blue cap over his head. His eyes are closed, his tiny mouth slightly open. It looks like he’s about to yawn with all his might. “He’s an angel.”

  Sasha takes the phone and places it on the table. “He is. I really want to knit something for him, but…” She sighs.

  I wince with sympathy. Nobody has time for that sort of thing at GrantEm. If you do, you aren’t working hard enough. Or worse, nobody wants to give you anything to do because you’re incompetent.

  Incompetence is a death sentence. It makes you undesirable, un-hirable, unwanted. People in our industry would rather hang out with a leper than an incompetent.

  “I wanna go see him.” Sasha sighs. “I didn’t get to see him in person or hold him. It’s not fair.”

  “Can you go this weekend? Your sister’s still in Orange County, right?”

  “Yeah, but I doubt I’ll be able to stop by. I have to work.” Sasha sighs again, this time like the world is ending. “At least she’s sending me photos and videos. I’m probably going to do a video call, but it’s not the same. At least it’s not my own child I’m not there for.”

  “Yeah.” There isn’t much I can say to cheer her up. “Don missed his kid’s birthday two years in a row. He said his daughter was inconsolable.”

  “At least Peggy doesn’t seem to have it that bad,” Sasha says. “Her husband doesn’t cry when she misses their appointments.”

  “Lucky her. Well, relatively. It’s kinda sad when you actually have to schedule meetings with your own spouse.”

  “And they just got married last year! But like she said, at least it prolongs the honeymoon phase. Hard to get sick of your husband when you almost never see him.”

  “And he’s in investment banking, so he gets it.”

  “Right. Otherwise… Boom.” Sasha snaps her fingers. “Divorce.”

  Broken marriages and relationships litter the industry. Now that I think about it, I’m a statistic, too. It’d be a job in itself to count up the number of boyfriends who left me because I work too much. “So our options are limited to people in VC, PE and IB?”

  “Even private equity is kinda iffy. I don’t think they work as much as we do.”

  “Probably not.” Right now I’m having a casual fling with Emmett, who’s in venture capital, so it’s sort of a moot point to whine about. But suddenly my future seems to have a pall cast over it. I don’t want to limit myself to dating and marrying a man I have to make an appointment to see. And I certainly don’t want to miss our kids’ birthdays and plays and all the other special occasions.

  “Or we have to quit.”

  That’s even more depressing. I need the money to pay off student loans and buy Dad his dream retirement home in Florida. Can’t do that if I quit, no matter what the reason might be.

  So stick to VC, PE and IB. It isn’t like you have a choice, since you were the one canceling on your boyfriends all the time. They had to make appointments to see you.

  “Just look at the people who haven’t burned out yet,” Sasha says. “Nobody has kids unless they have a spouse who works nine to five and does the parent stuff. Peggy said she has no plans for kids.”

  I blink. “Ever?”

  “Ever.”

  “How come? She adores children.” She has pictures of her twin nieces all over her desk.

  “Student loans. She still owes enough to buy a house. So does her husband.” Sasha thinks for a second. “Not around here, obviously. But somewhere in the Midwest or Texas? Definitely.”

  Hearing this from Sasha is crushing. It’s making me accept something I’ve been in denial about for years—that I’m not going to be able to have it all, unless I can clone myself. “It’s unfair. I thought we could do the superwoman thing if we just put our minds to it.”

  “No kidding.” Sasha swallows the last bite of her BLT. “What we have is a crap-ton of student loans and busy careers. If we want more, we need to change our plans and expectations. And then adjust accordingly. Except most of us can’t or don’t want to, so…” She sighs again, then gives me a small smile. “Sorry, I’m being so gloomy when we’re finally catching up. I just feel crummy about not seeing my nephew.”

  “Totally understandable,” I say, patting her arm. But a small voice in the back of my mind whispers it isn’t understandable or okay that the plan I’ve made—and been sticking to all along—could be totally wrong.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Amy

  The week is jinxed. That’s the only explanation.

  My laptop crashes on Tuesday, making me lose hours of work. Since I’m in charge of the deliverable, I redo the entire model—which Excel didn’t save!

  At two thirty-four a.m. the laptop decides that playing dead isn’t enough. It goes ahead and actually dies. Of course, the IT department is gone. Unlike us, they only work nine to five.

  “Argh!” I clench my hands around the edges of my husk of a laptop. It’s all I can do not hurl the thing across the empty office. Pressing my thumb against the throbbing spot between my eyebrows, I pull out my phone.

  –Me: The model you asked for this morning is going to be late. My laptop died, and I don’t know if the server backed up the new file or not.

  I send it and huff out an annoyed breath. Emmett left at seven for a business dinner, and didn’t come back. Which means he’s home now, either sleeping or working. I put the odds at fifty-fifty, given his workaholic nature.

  I should’ve waited until tomorrow morning to text him. But old habits die hard. I’m used to updating him regularly. When I was hired, Emmett told me he hates surprises. Of course, no boss likes surprises, even if they’re good ones.

  –Emmett: Go home. Have IT give you a new laptop tomorrow morning.

  His text is professional. Bossy. Like it always is. It’s comforting that he hasn’t let our fling change our work dynamics. But a part of me is weirdly sad that he hasn’t said anything personal.

  Get a grip, Amy. You’re just tired.

  Shaking myself mentally, I type up a very venture capitalist response.

  –Me: Got it. I’ll give you a new ETA once I get the replacement.

  –Emmett: As long as I can have the file by tomorrow COB, it should be fine.

  I can probably swing it by five.

  –Emmett: Sleep tight.

  That’s new. Like ice melting on a heated frying pan, the odd blue feeling from just moments ago disappears.

  –Me: You too.

  It’s too late to stop by Emmett’s, so I head home. Plus I need what little sleep I can manage before I wrestle with Excel—again—tomorrow.

  The laptop I get on Wednesday morning works okay, although it randomly produces a loud whirring noise that makes me nervous. It sounds like something’s dying underneath the hard casing, but I don’t have the time to ask for yet another unit. It takes two hours for the IT department to configure a new laptop and migrate all the data that’s been backed up to GrantEm’s cloud. I can’t lose more time on getting another replacement, especially when I’m going to be gone in less than six weeks.

  On Thursday, Webber leaves Emmett’s office looking positively ashen. Even his lips are bloodless. Within an hour, we get a short farewell email from him. He said he was resigning, but we all knew he was being “counseled out,” which is the euphemism for being canned. Guess he crossed Emmett for the last time.

  The mood in the office is subdued. Regardless of how you feel about Webber, seeing him getting fired isn’t something to celebrate openly, even if he officially resigned. It isn’t like people don’t know what really happened.

  Meanwhile, many of us groan silently. Webber’s sudden departure means whatever he’s been doing will be divvied up among those left under Emmett. Not that anybody will be dumb enough to whine out loud. Emmett wouldn’t blink before exiling them to the Land of the Canned.

  Since I also work for Emmett, a lot of crap from Webber’s plate splat-lands on mine.

  I tap my fingers on the desk, staring at the mountain of tasks to be completed. If Emmett wanted, he could reduce my workload and ask me to come over to his place…

  The second the thought pops into my head, I push it away. What the hell is wrong with me? That would be a gross abuse of power on his part, and everyone would know for sure something was up between us if Emmett started letting me leave earlier than normal. Especially if everyone else is staying late to make up for Webber’s absence.

  If Emmett wants to have a bedroom tango with me, he needs to make an appointment. Just like Peggy needs to do to see her husband. And I’ll have to do the same to see him personally. The man’s schedule is booked solid.

  The thought is somewhat depressing. Not sure why. It’s like…

  I sigh. I’m not thinking about anything logically. Not since my lunch with Sasha. My phone pings.

  –Emmett: How about a short trip to Napa this weekend?

  Great minds think alike. I was just musing about needing appointments. But… I look at my dauntingly long to-do list.

  –Me: I’ll need to work late tomorrow.

  –Emmett: We can leave on Saturday. Spend the night at a resort up there.

  I restudy my to-do list. I can probably swing it… No? I’m going to need to come into work a couple of hours earlier than usual on Monday, but if I really push myself this week…

  When I don’t respond immediately, he sends another text.

  –Emmett: It has a spa, too.

  I smile, recalling the hot stone massage he treated me to and how amazing it felt.

  –Me: You’re awfully into massages.

  –Emmett: They feel awesome. Work hard, get pampered hard.

  I bite back a laugh.

  –Emmett: If you don’t take care of yourself, who will?

  Touché. It’s not like Dad’s nearby, not that I’d ask him to take care of me. It’s now my job to take care of myself and him.

  –Me: Okay. That should be fine.

  Sasha’s working straight through the weekend, and it’s likely she won’t be coming home. Just because things eased up a little last week doesn’t mean anything. An associate is out of office after she lost her mother in a car crash Tuesday night, and Sasha needs to do two people’s work for a while. I haven’t seen her since our lunch, but I notice a small carry-on underneath her desk at work, which is a sign that she’s going DEFCON 1—shower and sleep in the office. The nap rooms at GrantEm are quite nice, with a bathroom attached to each.

  At two a.m., I shut down my laptop and gather my things. Emmett’s office door is open, lights still on. He’s not there, though. He walked out about ten minutes ago, but hasn’t returned.

  I hesitate, feeling like I should say goodbye before leaving. Odd, since I’ve never had the same urge before.

  I don’t want to text him to say bye. That’s a bit too…weird. Out of my standard routine.

  It’s the week getting to me. I’ve been working late, and Webber getting fired dampened my mood, even though I’m sure he’ll be fine. Some firm will snap him up. I force myself to resume the march toward the elevator.

  I should’ve known the day wouldn’t end on a high note. By the time I reach the lobby, it’s pouring, like somebody punched a hole in the heavens right above Los Angeles.

  “Fuck me,” I mutter. I have to run to the garage across the street to get into my car, and I, of course, don’t have an umbrella.

  Above the rain, low, angry clouds reflect the nighttime lights of the city. It doesn’t look like the downpour is going to cease anytime soon. I don’t want to stay trapped in the lobby because of rain.

  It’s just water, not poison.

  I inhale deeply and dash out, getting soaked through in less than ten steps. By the time I reach my car, I’m breathing hard, water dripping. I squeeze the rain from my hair, then lean against the driver’s-side door for a bit, waiting for my breathing to settle. I shouldn’t have bothered to run. I couldn’t be more drenched if I’d taken a nap in the downpour.

  I climb into the car and drive carefully. Half an hour or less to my place…

  Or not.

  Traffic’s a mess. People in Los Angeles can’t drive for crap in the rain. On top of that, there are two accidents on the way. So the trip takes two hours.

  How delightful. Soggy clothes add to my boundless joy.

  By the time I’m home, it’s after four and a chill has settled all the way to my bones. I take a hot shower and fall flat on bed, trying to get at least two hours of good sleep.

  I fail miserably. I’m too uncomfortable. Not sure why.

  Friday doesn’t go any better. I wake up, my head full of squishy cotton balls. I’m not feverish or anything, though. At least, I don’t think so. It’s just the lack of sleep and general stress and annoyance.

  By the time I’m in the office, I feel like I’ve already put in a full day’s work. Dad texts me hello. I text back with a smiling selfie, hoping he doesn’t notice that I’m exhausted.

  I have two meetings. Thank God I don’t have to present, because I understand very little of what’s being said. Not because the material is too technical or complicated. My brain just can’t seem to keep up with anything, even when the topic is on something as simple as projected risks and interest rates in Japan and China.

  Thankfully, Emmett’s off-site today, which means he isn’t there to ask questions to attendees. I might say something stupid and embarrass myself.

  After lunch, I stare at the model for hours. Nothing makes sense on the spreadsheet. I don’t know why. It made perfect sense just last night.

  Instead of sorting it out, I just want to place my head on the desk and close my eyes.

  And join Webber, yay!

  Just because we’re sleeping together doesn’t mean Emmett won’t fire me if I start getting lazy.

  I place my elbow in front of my laptop and prop my chin in my hand. If I stare at the numbers with more focus, they’ll start making sense. Actually, I should grab coffee and a Snickers first. Oil the gears in my head that have decided to creak and get stuck today.

  I stand up, and the floor tilts under my feet. The office spins for a moment. I blink, then the eerie sensation goes away. What was that? Low blood sugar?

  I go to the break room and grab a coffee and Snickers. Down both fast.

  They don’t resolve the matter of my suboptimal brain function. For God’s sake. My laptop died last night, and now my damned head wants to die, too.

  By six, I feel like absolute shit. Another Snickers would be a bad idea because now I’m not just foggy, but queasy. I wish I could throw up, but I know that won’t happen because unless I’m food poisoned, my stomach hangs on to every ounce of food that makes its way into it.

  Go home early and get some rest. The model isn’t due today.

  Great idea, but I can’t leave this early, especially when I’m so close to finishing. Just because something isn’t due today doesn’t mean I can wait on it—there’s always something else I could be doing.

  When it’s nine, I finally feel comfortable enough to leave. I manage the short drive home. Thank God it isn’t raining and the traffic is okay.

  The official written offer from the Blaire Group is waiting in my mailbox. Took ’em long enough. Something about the way it arrived feels wrong, but I’m too tired to figure it out. Right now, all that matters is that I have the offer in hand.

  Since I’m getting the mail anyway, I grab everything else as well. I toss it all on the dining table without bothering to sort it out, then strip and land face-first on my bed. Once horizontal, I instantly feel a hundred times better.

  My eyelids grow heavy, but I’m too cold to sleep. I pull the sheets closer and hug Okumasama.

  A loud banging at my door wakes me up. I blink, rub my bleary eyes and check the alarm clock. Noon. Shit! I can’t believe it’s this late already.

  The banging continues. I stay in bed, hoping Sasha will answer it because I really don’t want to leave my bed this weekend—

  Wait. She’s slaving away at the office.