a simple favor (h.s.)

two

Almost a week has passed since I blew up at Harry, and I still haven't heard anything from him. I've never been fired before, so I'm not exactly sure what the protocol is. I haven't dared showed my face at work, so I just assumed this was the end. The one thing that's still eating away at me is that I never got to call Peter out, or at the very least report him, but I figure this was the way it was meant to happen. Not everything can end the way you want it to. Closure is a luxury that not everyone can afford.

Speaking of things I can't afford—I need to find a new job, stat. My landlord, an awful, miserable man who does everything in his power to make the lives of his tenets miserable, has raised my rent again. Living in Chicago isn't cheap, even in my rundown building that looks like something out of a drug movie.

I definitely haven't been living large these past four years, but I've never once felt insecure in my employment. There are a lot of bad things I can say about Harry—many of which I've now said to his face—but he's always paid me well above the average assistant salary. He'd also been the only person to agree to an interview with me after finding out that I don't have a college degree. He'd given me a chance when no one else had, and that chance was what kept me from quitting for four years.

"I think I made a mistake," I admit to Jen over the phone later that night. "I mean, now that I'm thinking about it, was working for Harry really that bad? You know how I can be dramatic—"

"Mills, stop," my best friend interjected. "You were not being dramatic. You did the right thing. You can't work for someone who has zero respect for you."

"He did respect me," I try to tell her, but it doesn't sound convincing, not even to my ears. I'm not sure why I'm trying to defend Harry. He did nothing but overwork me for four years, which is arguably expected for an assistant position, but the least he could have done was thank me. The least he could have done was acknowledge my existence.

I've spent more time with him than anybody else in my entire adult life, but I'm sure he knows nothing about me. Not my interests, not what I like to eat, not even where I'm from. I wasn't even sure he knew my name until the other day. It's not like I would have shared my whole life story with him, but you'd expect him to at least ask me a question over the years.

I, on the other hand, know everything about him. I know what kind of food he likes, what time he likes his meetings to be scheduled, what gifts to buy for his friends' birthdays, and where he prefers to sit for his favorite sports teams. I've met his parents every time I've accompanied him on his business trips to England, and I've seen the house he grew up in. I know his favorite color (blue), how he takes his tea (milk with two sugars), and the names of every single one of his ex-girlfriends (Elizabeth is his favorite, whereas we practically had to threaten Tiffany with a restraining order).

"You did everything for that man, and he didn't so much as thank you once," Jen says, dragging me out of my thoughts. "You don't owe him anything."

"I know that, but what am I supposed to do now? I have no degree, no real skills, and it's not as if I can ask Harry for a recommendation letter." I try not to snort at the thought of it.

"You'll figure it out," Jen promises me. "You always do."

After we hang up, I retreat to my couch to continue the job search I've been conducting for the past week. But my mind keeps circling back to the other tab I have open, the one I promised I wouldn't open until I applied to a few places.

Naturally, I break the promise within seconds.

City Colleges of Chicago. I've considered enrolling in community college pretty much every day for as long as I can remember, but my packed schedule always rendered it impossible. Now that I'm virtually unemployed, I have all the time in the world. With financial aid, I should be able to afford it, but I won't have a place to live in much longer if I can't pay my rent.