As she walked through the hallway of the publishing company (which was silent and empty, although brightly lit and warm), bared glass windows lined the way, allowing a peek into the occupied offices, and the soft taps of the sole of her shoes against the tiles and the rapid beats of her heart joined together in a cacophony of nerves. She was nervous, and the realization that she was still in her ill-matched t-shirt and track shorts added an extra layer of anxiety to the abruptness of her summon.
But once she neared the closed door of Mrs. Johnson’s office, the woman’s name painted onto the dark wood in a golden font, Joanne willed herself to calm down. Taking a second to breathe deeply through her nose and force a smile, she knocked and asked for entrance.
A few moments of silence passed without a response, and a confused frown worked its way onto her lips. She knocked once more and called out:
“Hello.” A beat of hesitation, then, “Mrs. Johnson?”
There was no response, and she did not hear any footsteps from behind the door. A glance at the office windows showed that trying to peek through was futile; the interior was blocked by the blinds, and there were no flickers of shadows from between its slats or any sort of movement she could detect.
She turned and looked back down the hall. There was nothing to suggest that the woman had left the building, and on the other hand, nothing to suggest the woman had come to work today. After all, her agent had given her an open-ended instruction with no specific timeframe.
“I am going to feel stupid if the woman is not in,” she grumbled, hands moving to remove her backpack and retrieve her phone.
Seconds were spent digging through its pocket, which contained several smaller items alongside her phone. When she located her target, in the course of removing it, she accidentally knocked her good-luck charm out of her backpack and onto the floor.
Stooping, she had just picked it up and placed it back in the pocket when a voice was heard from within the office.
“Come in.”
The phrase registered in her brain, and even as relief flushed her system, her nerves immediately returned. Still, she did her best to squash the feelings down and gently swung the door open, revealing to her a large, clean, and organized room with a beautiful view of the city to boot. She idly wondered, as her gaze roved around, why offices needed floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Was it a must-have for higher-ups?
Her roving gaze flitted past the desk (which was surprisingly unkempt; scattered papers and pens, overturned folders, and a laptop folded underneath them were the most notable of the mess — who was in a hurry and why?) to settle on Mrs. Johnson, who stood beside a man she had never seen. Though, to be fair, she was not in the right headspace to recognize anyone but the publishing manager at the moment.
Stolen story; please report.
As the door closed behind her, the woman turned to face her. “Oh, hello.” There was no smile on her strict features. “Have a seat, I’ll be with you shortly.”
She ignored the familiar exasperation building up inside her and tried to maintain a calm facade as she did as instructed, sitting with both hands on her lap and her back straight as a ramrod.
Be professional, she chided herself internally; she may not be dressed accordingly, but that did not mean she should behave otherwise.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Joanne turned to face the speaker as their conversation was loud enough, just in time to notice the side-eye glance sent her way. “I do not want a repeat of this mess.”
“Yes, ma,” the man replied.
“Good.” Mrs. Johnson nodded. “Let's get this meeting done quickly. We have work to do.”
The woman walked to sit behind the desk, hands folded on its surface, while the man did the same to stand beside her seated form. Out of the corner of her eye, Joanne was able to make out his face (soft, pale, and unassuming), the well-worn Ivy University sweater, and moderately battered jeans.
He looked about as unprofessional as they came, and she had to wonder what his role here was.
“Um… Hi,” he said hesitantly, a hand held out, and she slowly snapped back to her senses, realizing she had been staring at him for much longer than intended. “I’m Dennis. Dennis Wright.”
She was quiet, though it was not by choice as she was still within her mind.
“I look forward to working with you,” he added, and as the silence continued, she couldn't miss the flash of something that briefly crossed her features. He slowly withdrew his hand.
Finally finding it in herself to answer, but still somewhat distracted by her thoughts (especially at his curious words), she offered only a nod. Thankfully, before the silence could lapse for much longer and become awkward, Mrs. Johnson interjected herself into the conversation with all the care of a military warhead.
“Jonne,” the woman began, steepling her fingers in front of her face as a heavy stillness hung between the both of them; as if the normal breeze had taken a leave of absence in the face of the impending conversation. It was foreboding. “You have always been at the top of your game: hardworking, passionate, detail-oriented, organized… Professional”—Joanne tried not to preen under the praise—“But recently, you have been lacking.”
She flinched, her expression immediately darkening, and bowed slightly, running sweaty palms across her exposed thighs.
Mrs. Johnson continued, either unaware of the effects her words had or uncaring. “At first, we were willing to overlook it, and for many words we did.” A pause and Joanne raised her head, eyes gradually widening in realization. “However, we can no longer afford to do so…”
“Wait, what?” She almost hit her body against the desk in her haste to lean forward, hands gripping its edge in increasing fervor. The fact there was a third party witnessing the unfolding situation was lost to her. “Are you firing—”
“Let me finish.” Another flinch accompanying it this time was the retreat to her seat, mouth open, and breath coming out in barely audible pants. “...but, at the same time, we can't afford to fire you.”
The fear took a backseat in her mind and confusion occupied its place, evidenced by the shift in her countenance. “I do not understand, ma.”
“I was made to understand why you had ended the call with your agent, but if you hadn't, all this would have been explained.”
Guilt now battled with the confusion for dominion and she glanced away, lips firmly nestled between her teeth. “Please, extend my apology to her. I was not in the right…mood that day.”
The woman’s gaze softened. “She said as much.” Then, in the next second — as if it had not even occurred — she pursed her lips, lines deepening around her mouth in whisker-like patterns. “Be that as it may, you will no longer be given a month to figure yourself out, but until this month-end. Until you do so, Mr. Wright will take over your position as a lead writer”—Joanne’s breath hitched—“and failure, regardless of your value to this company, will lead to immediate termination.”