Page 51 of Business Casual
“Apparently.” I laugh.
My laptop pings from the table with an incoming email. I rub my palm across my forehead when it pings another two times, rapid fire.
“That sounds urgent,” Nessa calls.
I keep rubbing my forehead, ignoring the fuzzy spots at the edge of my vision. Lack of sleep and too much caffeine are pressure points for my migraines, but I took some of my medication before I left the house, and I’m chugging water like it’s my job. It should be enough to keep me functioning.
“Everything is,” I sigh. Everything is urgent. Everything is required. I’m still waiting on a couple boxes of supplies. I need to hire at least one person to manage administrative needs, and ideally, I’d like to hire another artist to take overflow clients. I need to finish doing the setup for the soft launch private party in a couple of weeks, and I need to figure out how to hang the damn sign in the back.
I crack open my laptop and hold my breath, certain I’m about to be reminded about something else I forgot. But it’s just an email from Charlie.
I click into it, ominously titledTHE PLAN.
It’s a blank email with a spreadsheet attached. Color coded, of course, with all the businesses in town. I frown at it and fish out my phone.
NOVA:Did you mean to send me this attachment?
CHARLIE:Course I did. I told you I’d help with the business visits. Selene helped me with the color coding. Isn’t it nice?
NOVA:Selene?
CHARLIE:She’s my assistant.
CHARLIE:At work. I swear I’ve mentioned her before.
He sends a string of emojis, three little yellow faces with smirking mouths.
CHARLIE:Why? Are you jealous, Nova girl?
I scoff.
NOVA:Hard to be jealous when I can still feel you every time I sit down, Charlie.
CHARLIE:Fuck.
CHARLIE:Fuck.
CHARLIE:Nova, you can’t say things like that. Your brother is going to wonder why I have a boner while he’s talking about fertilizer.
NOVA:
“You’re making that face again,” Nessa offers from her chair. I slip my phone into my back pocket and try to rearrange my face into something that isn’t…whatever it’s doing. “And I think your interview candidate is here.”
I turn to look over my shoulder. Jeremy Roughman, recent Inglewild high school graduate and probably the most irritating teenager on the planet, is standing in front of my locked door. He’s wearing a full suit, briefcase in one hand, and his usually messy blond hair is combed back with what looks like industrial grade gel. He looks like a car salesman, or a…beleaguered divorcee.
“No,” I whisper.
Vanessa snickers. “Yes. Did he catfish you?”
He definitely didn’t put his legal name on his résumé, that’s forsure. He does not look like Megan Culver, Salisbury 2012 graduate, with extensive experience in customer service. “Maybe I got the résumés mixed up.”
Jeremy knocks again. I don’t know why. He can see right through the glass door to the both of us, staring at him. He gives a little wave.
Vanessa waves back.
I sigh.
“What am I supposed to do?”
