First Draft Romance

CHAPTER THREE

If there's one thing I hate, it's crying on the subway.

So I don't.

I mean, one, I hate being loud or talking or existing on the subway, so crying? And ruining my scanty, shoddily-applied makeup? Nooo thank you.

But the act of not crying on the subway hasn't done anything to eradicate the tears continuing to well (who even came up with "well" as a verb?), so my eyes are still brimming with hot, salty reminders of Gina's sighs, her squints, her words.

I hope we can still be friends.

How on earth am I supposed to take that?

I make it to Rosalind's apartment, somehow. I feel like I'm stumbling about in a semi-drunken haze, unable to figure out just which way is up.

I could always quit, y'know.

Seriously, quitting suddenly sounds quite appealing. Why doesn't everyone just give up and quit their jobs? I'm about to. I don't think anyone would fault me for that. Except for, like, Gina, probably. Not that that matters anymore.

The ride up to Rosalind's penthouse already feels degrading, somehow. And because it's a suitable (yet just as humiliating) distraction, I let myself lean into freaking out about yesterday.

Why am I here? Why is this my job? Why didn't Rosalind fire me after my disastrous performance yesterday? And why am I already so goddamn sweaty? It's only nine a.m. I should not be this sweaty.

I take a deep breath, blink away any remaining threats of tears, and wipe my beady sweatstache away with the back of my hand before typing in the code to unlock Rosalind's elevator door.

Here it goes.

What I'm greeted by is surprisingly ... surprising.

"IT'S A FUCKING CUP OF COFFEE," Rosalind shouts from the kitchen, located immediately to my left. "YOU WERE DESIGNED FOR THIS. YOU WERE MADE TO COFFEE. COFFEE FOR ME."

I stand in front of the open elevator doors, more than a little slack-jawed at the sight before me. There stands Rosalind, her hair in a half-fallen messy bun, her eyebags and acne scars on full display, in a rather paltry set of cornflower blue pajamas.

Her hands are on top of a Keurig, one which she may or may not be interrogating or shaking money off or something. I'm not too sure yet.

"Why did I fucking BUY you if you're not going to FUCKING WORK?" She—quite violently—shakes the Keurig again, one of those cute little forest green ones I like to stare longingly at at Target. The ceramic mug sitting below the little coffee spout wobbles and nearly tips over, but somehow remains upright.

Ugh, fuck. Quitting just sounds so nice.

"Um, hi, Ms. Lindbergh," I try to say. It comes out weak, breathy, and maybe slightly strangled-sounding. I'm relieved when she doesn't seem to hear it. I clear my throat and try again. "Morning, Ms. Lindbergh."

When I tell you she jumps in surprise, know that "jumps" is an understatement.

She practically catapults her way up to the ceiling, accompanied by this little ear-splitting shriek of fear. It shouldn't be cute, but it is. Her eyebrows are raised as high as they can possibly go; her mouth is agape.

"Oh my god," she says, eyes squinted and mouth scrunched up in a preemptive grimace. "You heard that?"

I almost lie and ask her what she's talking about, but I can't make myself do it. Lying—especially after yesterday—doesn't feel like the wisest idea, even if it is to spare her feelings.