Page 2 of You'll Love it Here

And Iwason track. If little-girl me had seen what I turned out to be after everything she’d gone through, I truly think she’d go through it all again—every hard moment. And that’s why dread lives in me now.

Because it’s not always roses in marketing. We don’t get to choose all our clients, and sometimes when I think too deeplyabout the products I’m promoting, I get a burning feeling in the pit of my stomach that won’t go away no matter how many Tums I pop. So much of the job is finely executed deception—plans, pitches, hypotheticals—that I’ve learned to compartmentalize certain tasks as “not real.”

Bob was in yesterday to go over his company’s new limited-edition “Moonlit Barrel” series (the name was my idea, of course) and the bold campaign we were putting together for it: glossy ads, influencer partnerships, store tastings, and a full-blown launch event this summer.

I’d sacrificed many long nights and weekends preparing for this meeting. This was the biggest campaign I’d ever organized, and if Bob approved it, I’d almost certainly be in line for a promotion. I watched my boss, Carolyne, talk through the bullets I’d written for her as if she were inventing them on the spot, and silently waited for my turn to chime in about the logistics and ad spend.

When I proffered a packet with the cost analysis to Bob, he barely glanced at the projections before muttering, “All this money just to get people talking about whiskey. I’m already paying a fortune to make themstoptalking about what it does to their bodies.”

He was referring to the quiet but aggressive lobbying his company was funding to block a nearby university’s research on the link between high alcohol consumption and neuron damage. Sometimes marketing wasn’t just about getting attention, but what you’re keeping quiet.

“It’s not the whiskey’s fault if people screw up their lives by drinking too much of it,” he added with a shrug. “Some folks just can’t handle their own mess.”

Bob’s friendly chuckle was something I was meant to join in on. Carolyne did. But I couldn’t shake the memories flooding my mind—empty bottles under the sink, broken glass on the kitchen floor, doors slamming in the middle of the night. The beep of a heart monitor.

Bob continued, “Now there’s a marketing idea for you! Free samples at AA meetings. Those would be some loyal customers.”

As his second chuckle grated through the boardroom—and through me—I saw a man going home to his family. I saw myself watching him open the door. I looked down at my own hands on the papers that were trembling like I was a child again.

When Bob tried to grab another file from my hands, I gripped it tighter and said, “Maybe if you pretended you cared about people, they wouldn’t be boycotting your brand.”

Bob’s expression shifted in a flash. He looked like a bear that was about to eat me. Carolyne forced a laugh to smooth things over. That would’ve been bad enough.

Then it happened. A giant glob of a tear fell from my eye and landed on Bob’s freaking gold pen. He saw it. Carolyne saw it. And I knew that letting my body release that drop onto that man’s pen was a form of career suicide far worse and longer lasting than any of the sexual harassment allegations thrown at Bob (in addition to great marketers, he had excellent lawyers).

I saw Bob’s jowls shake uncomfortably. Carolyne looked at me with thinly veiled distaste, and worse... pity. I knew then that I was a tad fucked.

Bob, for his part, didn’t say a word; he just puffed out his cheeks and signed the documents with cold efficiency.

I stood frozen. I was the lowest person in the room, and the walls were slowly closing in on me.

When Bob finished, he rushed out, but not before giving Carolyne a pointed look. She followed directly behind him.

On my way out after them, I caught my reflection in the hall mirror. My brond hair (at least that’s what my colorist called it) was still perfectly smooth, my makeup was maybe in need of a touch-up on the lips, but my skin had gone sickly pale. I went back to my desk and mindlessly read through emails until, expectedly, I received a summons to Carolyne’s office.

I felt numb as I walked down the hallway. When I pushed the door to her office open and she told me to close it behind me, I assumed I was about to be fired.

Carolyne took a measured breath. “That moment with Bob—wasn’t great.”

“I know,” I said, curling into myself, staring at my lap.

“He said he’s going to think about the campaign. But he doesn’t want you working on it.”

I hung my head, waiting for the inevitable next shoe.

“I was surprised, Mona. You put so much work into that campaign. I was hoping it would be a meaningful opportunity to you.”

“I know. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I noticed you didn’t take any bereavement leave after attending your father’s funeral. That was just about three months ago now, right?”

I looked up sharply, jaw tight. “I wanted to stay focused.”

“Sure,” Carolyne said. “And maybe that worked for a while. But today”—she gave a soft shrug—“felt like something slipped. And I don’t want that to become a pattern.”

I looked down at my hands, unsure of what we were doing.

Carolyne continued, her voice even. “This isn’t disciplinary, Mona. But I think it might be smart—for everyone—if you took some time off. Reset, get your footing back. It gives us all a little breathing room, so you can come back stronger.”