Page 3 of You'll Love it Here

Officially, the firm believes work-life balance is very important. But to make it in my world, you need to go the extra mile. The old-timers often flex their long hours and ability to repress their humanity because there’s a certain gravitas that comes with devoting your life to this job. PTO exists on paper, but until you’ve put in your time and made it past associate level, you should probably only use it for lifesaving surgery (so long as you keep your phone on and stick with local anesthesia so you can answer emails while on the table). Because who else is going to wake at four a.m.to set up an influencer event? When is one supposed to make a gorgeous, curated slideshow before a last-minute pitch meeting? Our clients expect more than just creative ideas—they pay for us to be there whenever they need us. To make their lives feel easier. And you don’t climb the ladder by sleeping through your weekends.

But I recognized what I was being offered—and what it was protecting me from. At that moment, all I could think about was not being fired, so I agreed to take the leave and to pair it with some of my overly accumulated vacation time that nobody with any real career goals is meant to use. Since I had offended a big client, I needed to show I was taking her recommendation seriously. Carolyne said I could finish out the day, and she’d handle the rest with HR.

Afterward, I decided to still show up for drinks with my usual crew at the usual time. They say to surround yourself with people who inspire you, who are going places you want to be. And I didn’t really want to go back to my shitty apartment and face the reality that I wouldn’t have anywhere else to be for a long while. So when Corbin (manager), Lisa (manager), Olivia (associate on her way to being manager), and me (manager days away from director until four hours ago) finished our cocktails, I kept it going and ordered another round.

As we had our next drinks, I realized I’d eventually need to provide some excuse why I wouldn’t be at work tomorrow. These were my friends, and we got together weekly to commiserate about our work woes, but they were also my competition. There was only one director-level position opening up, and if they realized my much-anticipated promotion was suddenly on unsteady ground, it wouldn’t be long before they swooped in to take on my clients, friends or not. After all, I’d do the same for them.

Another round of overpriced drinks in, I finally mustered the courage to tell them I’d be taking some time off. As soon as the words left my lips, their gazes instantly found each other. Their expressions communicated what they’d never say aloud: One didn’tjust take several weeks of R&R in our field. We’d all seen the signs in former colleagues who hadn’t made it. First it was a vacation day, then it was quitting to be a wellness coach. You either lived the grind, or you burned out and failed.

The pay at the firm is decent, but like most creative industries, you don’t start making real money until you hit the higher levels. After years of scraping by on an assistant’s salary, I only started to feel some financial breathing room when I made manager. Unlike my friends who didn’t have student loans and could afford to live blocks from the office, I carried not just my own debt but my parents’ too. For years, a chunk of my paychecks had gone to help my mother out of her many binds. Which means that even though I turned thirty-one last September, the only nest egg I have worth bragging about are the three phone chargers I’ve accumulated through the years. Still, I was so close to breaking through—close to affording an apartment free of water stains, to replacing my contact lenses as frequently as recommended instead of waiting until they felt like sandpaper. Yet, despite all of it, here I was: a freshly minted dud.

“It’s just to help my mom,” I lied. “But I’ll still be checking in. Keeping things moving, you know...”

“Wow, that’s so selfless of you,” Olivia said.

Selfless. After all my hard work—all the sacrifices, the moments I’d missed, in service to my career... My throat was thick as I knocked back the remnants of my third-slash-maybe-fourth drink and excused myself to get another.

At some point after that, I’d clearly managed to go somewhere to buy Cheetos. And I found a mysterious broken vase to put on my nightstand. As I rack my brain to fill in the many voids, it feels like something is... wrong—like something really bad happened last night. I push that thought away. It must be some lingering shame from the hangover. I’m not used to it.

“Everyone make your way to the nearest exit!” a voice yells,bringing me back to the present—to my apartment building hallway that I’ve been tentatively making my way through. My slippers sink into the squishy carpet that’s overly patterned to hide the years of dirt particles we tenants have trampled into it. I reach the stairwell door and make eye contact with my reflection in the finger-scuffed glass. My hair is in a giant nest of a bun on top of my head, mascara is smudged under my eyes, and this worn-out housecoat should never see daylight. But I brace myself and push onward.

The noise from the alarm is even louder in the stairwell. As I descend the creaking stairs toward the lobby, clutching the railing and trying not to puke with every step, a burning plasticky tinge infuses the air. Notable, since the lobby normally rotates between three odors: cabbage; weed; and fake-cinnamon cleaning product.

Someone else comes pounding down the stairs behind me and pushes around me, thrusting open the door to the lobby.

It’s funny how our guts can sense danger before our brains even realize. That odd, unsettled feeling I’ve had steps into overdrive.

Before I even see it, I know, somewhere deep in my soul. The lobby is completely disheveled. The dark wood end table is knocked over, the massive old lamp that usually sits on it now shattered on the floor. Wilted flowers are scattered everywhere; the vase they came from has mysteriously vanished. There’s an ancient armchair of unknown origin (a chair that somebody likely has, or may soon, jerk off in, given its age). Flyers and stacks of books pour out of the cabinet that one might call our building’s little library. The remnants of those papers and books are now littered across the room like a small tornado swept them up and ripped them into shreds. What kind of monster would do such a thing?

I catch the neighbor (Divorced Dad in 4B) who’d so hurriedly pushed past me moments ago now paused, surveying the wreckage. A flash of memory sweeps into my head: myself last night, stumbling into the lobby and bumping over the end table, causing the lamp to fall and break.

But all this other mess... No, that’s not possible. Someone else must’ve come in after me and made it worse. That’s not me, I would never...

My breath halts in my chest. I know exactly who I sound like, and my throat threatens to close before I force myself to swallow those thoughts down. Of course it was me; I need at least to face the truth. This is why I never get drunk—I know very well it’s not something I can handle.

The broken vase I woke up to came from the table, and that’s why all the flowers were scattered. It was next to the lamp. I remember being upset with this place, upset I’d be stuck here for the foreseeable future, even though I deserved to be in a better apartment by now. I can’t believe I took my grief out like this.

Then I see what the neighbor’s eyes are caught on: the whiteboard attached to the wall, which the landlady occasionally posts notices on about routine pest control visits and reminders toplease sort recyclable materials correctly or the building will be fined. Now I see a new phrase has been scribbled across it, and the few words I catch on it are:vagina in the kitchen sink...

No! I hugely fucked up last night. And there’s a whole building of people who’ve just witnessed it.

In the upper corner of the room, a red light blinks steadily. The lobby camera. Fuck. Not only have I tanked my career, now I’ve made myself a prime candidate for eviction.

Or worse. Vandalism could be classified as criminal. Arrest isn’t off the table.

A cold wave of panic floods through me, locking up my limbs. I have to get to that camera before Irene, the landlady, notices. Does it record footage somewhere? Is it live-streamed? I veer toward the camera, desperate for answers, but a firefighter with an impressively classic mustache charges toward me and blocks the space in front of me. “Everyone needs to get out immediately.”

“I forgot something important,” I whine. I try for a pleading expression, but he just heaves out a sigh like he’s used to this specific challenge. I need to think fast. “It’s... I have a pet I forgot!”

“We can get someone on it once you’re outside.” He doesn’t move.

“I really would rather help her to safety myself. She only trusts me.” I lock eyes with him, hoping to channel my desperation into something convincing, but I can tell there’s not going to be any budging. You don’t grow a mustache that serious just for shits.

The stairwell door behind us opens again, and another one of my neighbors (the one I creatively call Weird Girl Beside Me in 4D) emerges holding a struggling cat. Yet another firefighter with a loud radio crackling on his belt is standing behind her, hustling her out. Man, they really go hard getting people out of alarmed buildings.

“Ma’am?” The mustache is looking at me expectantly: “What type of pet and what unit?”

“Right.” I smile. “She’s black. Pretty small.” The firefighter ticks his jaw expectantly. I practically choke the words out. “Her name is Alice. She’s a Black Moor, and I’d really rather save her myself.”