Imperfect Fit

Chapter 4- Office Politics

JOANNA

I instructed Oli—for what seems like the millionth time since moving in with her—before leaving for work this morning to not give Maverick or

 Goose any table food, no matter how much they beg. She always promises she won't, but considering how much they follow her around now, I know better.

She typically goes into work around one, which gives Maverick and Goose only a few hours alone before I get home. I love how happy they are to see me when I walk in the door every day. It eases some of the pangs of guilt and sadness, with the fact that they were just as disposable to my ex as I was.

Allergies.

Scoffing at the request and the audacity Manny had—as I was rushing out of the apartment we shared together for six years, after he dump-fucked me before confessing there's someone else—replays in my mind: "Joey, uh, can you take Goose and Maverick? She's allergic to dogs."

Studying the picture of Maverick and Goose as puppies on my desk, I pick up the frame, tracing their cute faces. We're better off without him.

Setting the picture frame down I sigh, bringing my attention and focus back to the stack of files sitting on my desk waiting for me to review. Even though I've been in a bit of a funk the last few weeks, I love my job. I really do.

Numbers don't lie, they don't exaggerate and they definitely don't manipulate you—unless manually imputed to do so. They're solid. Dependable and most importantly, they don't cheat on you.

When I was a kid, I never understood the hate my classmates would have with Math. Granted, there are some teachers who were and are better at explaining and instructing than others with how to understand what we were learning. I used to make a game of what we were covering. It made better sense that way to me. Naturally, choosing a career field dealing with numbers day in and day out was the most appealing to me.

Going back and forth on which task I should dive into first, the blaring light on my phone receiver catches my attention. Check my voicemail first–wins.

January through the well-known date of April fifteenth, is the busiest time for most accountants like me. It's not unusual for me to work sixty hours a week—sometimes more, but with my new self-love goals, I'm making it a point to only put in an extra hour a day and if I need to, take work home with me if absolutely necessary. It's part of the whole setting better boundaries for myself.

Reading more is another goal—and not just the normal studying of forty hours that is required for me to do each year to keep my license current because laws are always changing. So I've recently picked up on reading novels.

And even though we've gone over meal planning with the boot camp, I'm determined to be mindful of my eating habits. I've never been good at restricting myself from specific food groups so why bother? My focus is more on portion control like eating three Oreo's instead of a whole row of them.

Moving from one message to the next, I chug on my forty eight ounce water bottle, wishing it was my usual midday Dr. Pepper instead. Especially, because I'm pretty sure the new daily headaches I've been getting the last couple of days are from caffeine withdrawals.

The other downside to drinking more water is the ridiculous amount of times I have to go to the bathroom. I've already gone three times in the last hour since being at work. Supposedly it gets easier or your body becomes accustomed to it, which is hard to believe at the moment.

A knock on my office door has me raising my head, setting the phone down on the receiver.

Mark, another accountant, smiles. "Hey, Joanna."