Arianne T‘GLACH TECH BOASTS ANOTHER EYE-POPPING RECORD QUARTER’ T he photo of the man smiling above the caption, ‘CEO EXTRAORDINAIRE’, makes me want to poke my eyes out with a fork. More like CEO douchebag. As I ke ep scrolling through the article, I can’t help but shake my head. There are thousands of other business articles I could be reading right now as I wait for my turn at the coffee shop, but no, I decide to mark my return to California by pouring salt on the wound that apparently hasn’t quite healed. Don’t do it. You’re stronger than that. Don’t do it. I will myself not to scroll down the article, but the masochistic part of me wins. The evil grin of a woman wearing inch-thick makeup, hanging off Glach Tech’s CEO’s arm in another photo makes me want to smash my newly acquired i Phone to pieces. I hate you, bitch. You’re nothing more than a stupid tart. I scroll down further. More photos of the happy couple—my scumbag cheater ex and my backstabbing cousin. I want to vomit. The urge to run away sparks. I’m this close from turning on my heel, return to the sublet I’m renting, pack my suitcases and hop on a plane far away from LA—never mind if I arrived two days ago. It’s futile because the internet knows no borders. Breathe. Don’t let them get to you. I swallow the sour taste of my bitterness. And this is why I stay away from men. God knows I’d love to rewind the movie of my life, but I can’t. My heart doesn’t cry anymore, but the humiliation... time doesn’t seem to dampen the crushing feeling. Focus on the now, Arianne. With a sigh, I type the name of the company I’m about to meet into the browser to see if anything new surfaced since I last checked. Nothing. Good. Sinking my teeth into a new challenging project will erase Glach Tech —its CEO and his girlfriend—from my memory bank. “Next!” A barista’s loud voice yanks me back to the present. The guy in front of me st eps up to the counter. I tuck my phone back into my handbag and do a mental check to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. Nope. I got this. I smooth down my hair pulled back in a tight chignon. I do the same to the fabric of my three-piece light summer wool suit, congratulating myself on my selection. It screams business. My expensive high heels are the only touch of rebel on an otherwise conservative outfit. I’m going for the supremely buttoned-up version of Grace Kelly, since Mom always says I could easily pass for one of Princess Grace’s heirs.
Dressing the part is half the battle. “Next!” I st ep up to the counter. The barista offers a tight smile. “What can I get ya?” I order an extra tall, extra hot, one percent milk latte with two shots of espresso and three packets of sugar. The barista asks for my name and then punches in my order. I pay and wait, already starting the mental countdown. As she pr epares my coffee, a child starts yelling. I turn around. A mother wrestles with a little girl. “We don’t want to disturb the nice people,” the mother says. Ignoring her mother, the child starts running around in circles, grabbing random items from shelves before throwing them to the floor. Her mother tries harder to calm her down. The child’s tantrum escalates. I move my attention away from the drama. “Here you go,” the barista says, placing my coffee on the counter. “Thanks.” I’m about to grab the cup when a mass hits my legs full force before little arms wrap around them, rooting me in place. Shit. I jerk forward, tipping the cup over and dark liquid splashes all over the place. No, no, no. I let out an exasperated sigh as I lower my eyes to a pair of big brown ones. There’s nothing innocent about the face looking up at me. The child flashes me an almost evil grin. “Buy me coffee, lady,” she says. My gaze lifts to her mother’s. “Is this your child?” Irritation coats every word. “Don’t talk about my sweet angel like that.” Sweet angel? “Your words are negatively tainting her aura, possibly scarring her for life.” This woman is off her tree. I give her my best resting bitch face in response. “Come on, angel. The mean lady doesn’t like children.” No, I don’t like your child. Her daughter doesn’t let go, but with some forceful coaxing, she does. Thank God. “It’ll be a few minutes for me to make you another coffee,” the barista says, snapping my attention back to her. Great. My luck sucks this morning. I’m starting to regret my decision to stick around until I got a fresh cup. The other three baristas were hogging everything in sight because each of their customers were on a multi-coffee run of complicated concoctions that could rival the most decadent desserts, which resulted in backlogging my straightforward order. Lovely. So now, I’m hustling. Conscious of the time, I make my way to my meeting—with a fresh extra-large latte in hand—as fast as I can in my high heels, careful not to break my ankles in my haste. The Cedrics, aka Cedric de Seignard shoes, were a good idea this morning, but now, I curse them. On the plus side, I didn’t get a spot of coffee on my suit or on my designer shoes. Thank God for small favors. Although, I’m certain the sweltering heat will cause sweat stains to form under my armpits. I weave through the mob of people heading to work, dropping I’m sorry along the way. The construction crew, heavy machinery, trucks, and Jersey barriers redirecting traffic are a nuisance. Yeah, the morning commute is a bitch. Dammit. I don’t let that deter me. I pick up the pace a little. When I arrive at my destination, I let out a long breath. I’m cutting it close, but at least I’m not late.
Now isn’t the time to rest on your laurels, Arianne. Ignoring my achy feet—pounding heart, sweat drizzling down the middle of my back, and the puddle forming inside my bra—I hurry forward and thank my lucky stars when the electronic doors open. Both hands are full. I’m gripping the cup in one and I’m firmly gripping my bag and laptop case in the other. When I arrive at the lobby, I panic. There must be a thousand people waiting to use the elevators. I can’t be late for this meeting. There are bodies to my left and bodies to my right, forcing me to move at the same snail’s pace as the crowd. Shit. I do a quick mental calculation. Crap. The coffee is going to be a liability if I hope to squeeze inside a packed elevator. Staining my suit or my crisp white shirt would be the kiss of death. “Excuse me,” I say. No one budges. “Excuse me,” I say louder. “If I could get through.” A few kind souls get out of the way. I rush towards the sign that says ‘garbage’. What I’m about to do is sacrilege, but what other choice do I have? Bye-bye, dark goodness. You’ll be missed. Resigned, I dump the cup and rush back to the elevators. After what seems like an eternity, the group of people in front of me moves forward. Thank you, God. A few more elevator cars descend to the lobby, and I’m able to inch close enough to st ep into one of them. I let out a relieved breath when I do. The car is packed, and I’m the last one in. Great. I hold my breath to make it easier to squeeze right in front of the dashboard. As testament to a frantic morning, I hit the jackpot. A dozen lights shine back at me. This cannot be happening. I’m tempted to jump out of the car and into another one, but I brush away the idea. I’m cutting it close as it is. Tardiness isn’t my trademark. The ride up to the nineteenth floor is a slow punishment. People don’t seem to be in a rush to get off, which only delays the door closing again. After the third floor, I can’t take it anymore. I press the buttons on the dashboard with urgency as a wave of people st ep off the elevator. Come on. Close. A few people grumble behind me, but I ignore them. I check my watch. Fuck. I’m ten minutes late. Not good. When we hit the eighteenth floor, I’m almost giddy with joy. My turn next. Two people exit together, taking their sweet old time, chatting like they’re sitting at a coffee shop, catching up. Really? Impatient, I press the button like a maniac to force the doors to close. “It doesn’t make much of a difference if you ke ep doing that,” a de ep voice says from behind me. “I’m severely late,” I say, jabbing the button some more. “The elevator is on a timer.” The man’s retort is swift. “It’s pr eprogrammed.” “This makes a difference.” “It doesn’t.” “Well, thank you for your expert opinion, Mr. Elevator Mechanic, but you’re not the boss of me.” “If I were, you’d be in trouble.” Why does that sound like a tempting promise? I don’t grant him a glance, but I dart my eyes to the right to confirm it’s just the two of us.
Tough luck, buddy. I jab the button with a vengeance. The doors close. Take that, Mr. Know It All. I’m in the end zone, close to scoring a touchdown. I even do a stadium wave in my head, with the obligatory sportscaster’s voice echoing loud, ‘Go Buchanan!’ My triumph is short-lived. The elevator jerks hard. I lose my balance and stumble back. Shit. I reach out to hold on to something. Anything. “I got you.” The man’s voice is amused. A large hand settles in the middle of my back, preventing me from landing on my ass. The warmth of Mr. Know It All’s touch travels through my body. Whoa. I’m about to turn around to thank the guy, but the elevator jerks again. I shriek. Everything comes to an abrupt stop and darkness settles around us. Oh no.