A Not So Meet Cute

“Hey, girl.”

Hmm, I don’t like the cheeriness in her voice.

The smirk on her lips.

The overuse of her toxic, throat-choking perfume.

“Hey, Angela,” I answer with wary trepidation as I take a seat at the table in her office.

With a flip of her bright blonde hair over her shoulder, she clasps her hands together, her body language conveying interest as she leans forward and asks, “How are you?”

I smooth my hands over my bright red pencil skirt and answer, “Doing fine. Thank you.”

“That’s so wonderful to hear.” She leans back and smiles at me, but doesn’t say another word.

Ohh-kay, what the hell is going on?

I glance behind me to the row of suited men, sitting upright in chairs, folders on their laps, staring at our interaction. I’ve known Angela since middle school. We’ve had one of those on-again, off-again friendships, me being the victim of the intermittent camaraderie. I was her main squeeze one day, the next it was Blair—who works in finance, or Lauren—who works over in sales, and then the friendship would come back to me. We’re constantly interchangeable. Who’s the bestie this week? I’d always wonder, and in some sick, demented way, I’d have a hiccup of excitement when the bestie card landed on me.

Why stick around in such a toxic friendship, you ask?

The answer is threefold.

One—when I first met Angela, I was young. I had no idea what the hell to do during such a vibrant roller coaster ride. I just gripped the handles and held on for dear life, because frankly, hanging with Angela was exciting. Different. Bold, at times.

Two—when she was nice to me, when we were deep into our friendship, I had some of the best times of my life. Growing up in Beverly Hills as the poor girl didn’t lend its hand to many adventures, but with the rich friend who looked past your empty wallet and welcomed you into her world—yeah, it was fun. Call me shallow, but I had fun in high school, despite the ups and downs.

Three—I’m weak. I’m confrontation’s bitch and avoid it at all costs, therefore—raises hand—here I am, doormat, at your service.

“Angela?” I whisper.

“Hmm?” She smiles at me.

“Can I ask why you called me in here and why the FBI seems to be lined up behind me?”

Angela tilts her head back and lets out a hearty laugh as her hand lands on mine. “Oh, Lottie. God, I’m going to miss your humor.”

“Miss?” I ask, my spine stiffening. “What do you mean, miss? Are you going on vacation?”

Please let that be the case. Please let that be the case. I can’t afford to lose this job.

“I am.”

Oh, thank God.

“Ken and I are headed to Bora Bora. I have a spray tan scheduled in about ten minutes so we need to get on with this.”

Wait, what?

“Get on with what?” I ask.

Her jovial face morphs into something serious, the type of serious I don’t see very often from Angela. Because, yes, she might be the head of her lifestyle blog, but she’s not the one who does the work—everyone else does. So, she never has to be serious.

She sits taller, her jaw grows tight, and through her thick, fake eyelashes, she says, “Lottie, you’re a true pioneer for Angeloop. Your mastery behind the keyboard has been positively unmatched by anyone in this company, and the humor you bring to this thriving, money-dripping lifestyle blog has made this trip to Bora Bora a reality.”

Did I hear that right? Because of me, she’s able to go on her vacation?

“But, unfortunately, we’re going to have to let you go.”

Hold up . . . what?

Let me go?

As in, no more job for me?

Like a bolt of lightning, three of the men come up behind me, two on either side, flanking me like security. With their heavy-set shoulders blocking me in, one of them drops a folder on the table in front of me and flips it open, revealing a piece of paper. My eyes are too unfocused to even consider reading what it says, but taking a simple guess, I’m thinking it’s a termination paper.

“Sign here.” The man holds a pen out to me.

“Wait, what?” I move the man’s hand away, only for it to bounce back right where it was. “You’re firing me?”

Angela winces. “Lottie, please don’t make this a thing. You must know how difficult this has been for me.” She snaps her fingers and an assistant magically pops up. Angela rubs her throat and says, “This conversation has truly taken it out of me. Water, please. Room temperature. Lemon and lime, but take them out before you give it to me.” And like that, the assistant is gone. When Angela turns back around, she sees me and clutches her chest. “Oh, you’re still here.”

Uhhh . . .

Yeah.

Blinking a few times, I ask, “Angela, what is going on? You just said I make you a ton of money—”

“Did I? I don’t recall making such a statement. Boys, did I say anything like that?”

They all shake their head.

“See? I didn’t say that.”

I think . . . yup, mmm-hmm, do you smell that? That’s my brain smoking, working overtime, trying to not LOSE IT!

Calmly, and I mean . . . calmly, I ask, “Angela, can you please explain to me why you’re letting me go?”

“Oh.” She laughs. “You’ve always been such a nosey little thing.” The assistant brings Angela her water and then rushes away. Sucking from an unnecessary straw, Angela takes a long sip and then says, “Your one-year anniversary is on Friday.”

“Yes. That’s correct.”

“Well, per your contract, it says that after a year, you’re no longer under restricted pay, but instead receive your actual salary.” She shrugs. “Why pay you more when I can find someone to do your job for less? Simple bottom-line thinking. You understand.”

“No, I don’t.” My voice rises and two large hands land on my shoulder in warning.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Angela, this is my life, this isn’t some game you get to play. You told me when you begged me to work for you that this job was going to be life-changing.”

“And hasn’t it been?” She holds her arms out. “Angeloop is life-changing for everyone.” She glances at her watch. “Oh, I have to get naked in five. Spray tans don’t wait.” She twirls her finger at the guys beside me. “Wrap it up, boys.”

Two sets of hands grip me and help me up from my chair.

“You can’t be serious,” I say, still not quite grasping what’s going on. “You’re having security drag me out of your office?”

“Not by my choice,” Angela says, the picture of innocence. “Your hostile attitude is making me use security.”

“Hostile?” I ask. “I’m hostile because you’re firing me for no reason.”

“Oh, honey, I can’t believe you see it that way,” she says in that condescending voice of hers. “This is nothing personal. You know I love you and still plan on your monthly invitation to brunch. This is just business.” She blows me a kiss. “Still my bestie.”

She’s lost her goddamn mind.

I’m pulled toward the door but I dig in my two-seasons-ago Jimmy Choo heels. “Angela, seriously. You can’t be firing me.”

She looks up at me, tilts her head to the side, and then presses her hand to her heart. “Ahh, look at you, fighting for your job. God, you’ve always been scrappy.” She blows me another kiss, waves, and calls out, “I’ll call you. You can tell me about your horrible boss later. Oh . . . and don’t forget to RSVP to our high school reunion. Two months away. We need a head count.”

And just like that, defeat whips through me, my heels let up in total shock, my body goes limp, and I’m dragged by my underarms through the offices of Angeloop, the most idiotic and absurd lifestyle blog on the Internet, a place where I didn’t want to work in the first place.

Peers watch me.

Security doesn’t skip a beat as they drag me all the way through the tall, glass front door.

And before I can take my next breath, I’m staring at the obscenely large Angeloop sign outside of the office, box of my office things in hand.

How the hell did this all happen?