Page 9 of This is a Kissing Book

I’m on the thirty-third floor with Wendy and Carmen, packing up my desk while they pepper me with questions. “I read the notification word for word. Checked, then double-checked that it was intended for me. Marcel messaged me personally to confirm I’m moving departments.”

Wendy tips her head from side to side. “It is unlikely that another Juliana Lindley works for the company.”

I give her a wide-eyed Ya think? look, then regret it because this is a “we all lose” rather than a “win-win” situation. The office girlies and I had a good thing going here.

“I thought the meeting on Friday was just about the new management system,” Carmen says, scrolling through the app, presumably to make sure she didn’t miss any notifications.

“Never mind staying late, Marcel told me that Andresen and the new exec, Mr. Sullivan, wanted me here early and then—” I start.

“Your new boss?”

I nod, exasperated. “He’s a no-show.”

Carmen hisses, “The pair of snakes!

Wendy bounces on her toes. “Maybe that means you’re staying here.”

“I wish. One of the women who works on the exec floor said he was in a meeting and told me to come down here to pack my stuff. It’s definite.”

I puff my cheeks. Thanks to the pointless early arrival, I missed my usual Monday morning coffee shop stop and the precious quiet before the week’s corporate bloodsport commenced. When I finally snuck out for caffeine and oxygen, a power-walking stiff in a suit nearly mowed me down trying to get in the building.

I tuck my candy bowl into a file box when my phone chimes—another Meridian notification.

Carmen and Wendy pop up like prairie dogs.

My hope dies fast—the notification is from L. Sullivan, informing me in the smuggest possible terms to return to the office “at my earliest convenience” and to “make timeliness a priority going forward.” I want to stick my tongue out at my device.

“That was him. I have to go,” I say, hefting my box.

Carmen hugs me. Wendy, knowing the dangers I face, slides some Dove chocolate in the box for extra reinforcement.

Remember when I said I hate my boss? Still true, maybe more so because I also preemptively hate my new boss. That’s double hate. Hate squared. Hate on top of hate. Hate in duplicate.

Wendy, Carmen, and I have always had a long leash—junior employees who deliver avoid micromanagement. But with this new structure, I doubt Sullivan will extend the same courtesy. I can already feel him breathing down my neck.

This reminds me of how, when I was new to driving, when a more experienced driver was in the car with me, I’d get nervous and inevitably—and accidentally—honk the horn or stop short when pulling into a parking spot. Same as when someone watches me type. When left alone, spellcheck is hardly necessary. When someone is watching over my shoulder, it’s like I’m suddenly using my toes instead of my fingers to make the words appear on the screen.

Taking a breath as deep as the Mariana Trench, I exit the elevator.

The space the girlies and I shared in the Collections Processing Department was almost cozy—three desks in a triangle, modern wall sconces, a little personality, a touch of charm. Up here, it’s marble and mahogany ego. Polish and power plays. From the upholstered leather chairs to the hand-woven rug, even the silence feels expensive. In the reception area, two desks flank a runway that leads to the main office, where I imagine Mr. Sullivan sits in a wingback chair while stroking a Persian cat.

He’ll probably demand that I feed him green M&Ms or whatever it is that goblin men consume instead of grapes like a Roman emperor.

However, a framed lithograph that looks remarkably like the Gettysburg Address draws my attention. I pad closer, but a clatter comes from the main office, and I whip around. Two women freeze in place.

When they see me, the taller one says. “Oh, I thought it was him.”

“I’m Juliana Lindley. The new⁠—”

The shorter one with a broad face narrows her eyes. “Yes, we know who you are.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, drawing on my manners and expecting them to introduce themselves.

“We’re preparing things for Mr. Sullivan.” The way the taller one says his name makes me wonder if L. Sullivan should have more gravity in my mental contacts list. So far, it hasn’t rung any bells.

The shorter woman points to one of the desks in the entry area of the office. The placard says Misha Perkins. The other reads Veronica Meller. Presumably, these belong to each of them, and they’re not keen to make room for me.

Misha orders, “Take that stack of files to Ms. Drecken’s new suite.”