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Terminated

“Dolly”

Monday morning. Basement parking. By the time I register my fellow elevator passenger it’s too late.

“Haha, Dolly!”

“Good morning,” I say stiffly.

“Not a good morning without a smile from you.”

I imagine baring my teeth in a grin, my lips curling back to reveal several rows of fangs, my jaw dislocating to swallow him whole. I’d spit out his brittle, partially digested skeleton a few hours later. If Jake were here, connecting eyes with me across the elevator…but he’s not. I left him in a Las Vegas airport, and I don’t know when I’ll see him again. He never gave me a timeline for his illness.

Doug grows uncomfortable under my wordless stare and laughs stupidly one last time before shaking out his free city rag.

HO-HO-HO-MICIDE

Xmas Prank ‘Murder’ of Dismembered Sex Doll Under Investigation

My insides slip down onto the ground. “I need that,” I blurt out.

“What?”

I pinch the top of the paper and yank just as the doors roll open on Ground. I shoulder out before the incoming crowd pens me in and duck into the other elevator, paper held tight against my chest to contain that headline and my pounding heart.

Jake had the right idea. He skipped town. Visions of police officers banging down my door swim in front of my eyes. Cat, roused from sleep, watching me being led away in handcuffs in the middle of the night. Oh yes, Las Vegas bravado has left the house. I’m very much afraid of losing everything.

What the ever-loving fuck. It was just littering .

The doors slide open at my floor, and I march with brisk purpose to the annex, avoiding eye contact, far too busy and important to stop for anyone, panicking, panicking, panicking , and I’m almost on top of him before I notice him.

Jake.

My ankle rolls and my bag swings off my shoulder and into the crook of my elbow. I stare at him. He’s supposed to be dipping his feet in the ocean somewhere, rereading his favorite book, writing letters.

“What are you doing here?”

His eyes flick up briefly from his monitor to take me in. “Data entry for Doug.”

I could smack him. “Why?”

“It’s my job.”

His time’s ticking out, and he’s sitting here under humming fluorescents, straight-jacketed in institutional corporate attire, anesthetizing his brain on spreadsheets.

He notices the paper in my hands. “There’s a new sicko on the loose.”

His voice is smooth, relaxed, and I feel my shoulders drop. I glance down at the headline. Five minutes ago I thought this was an unmitigated disaster, but with Jake here it seems almost funny.

“I haven’t read the article yet,” I say.

“You know what I think?” he says, leaning forward conspiratorially.

He wants to go back to our serial killer games. He wants to press the reset button and go right back to where we were. I want to take him by the shoulders. No.

“Yes?”

He looks to his right, then to his left, an exaggerated act in this deserted room.

“I think it’s two people working together.”

I don’t think he has any idea how sad it is that he’s willing to settle for this, this pathetic game, these pathetic distractions.

“That’s an interesting theory. I suppose two heads are better than one.”

He leans back, crossing his arms. “Oh, no, not even one head. The head’s still missing. What I’m dying to know is, do you think it’s a one-off, or…will they keep working together?”

I realize what he’s doing here in the office today, dinking around with spreadsheets instead of catching a plane to Thailand. He’s trying to spend the rest of his life with me.

“I have no idea what these lunatics are thinking,” I whisper.

“What do you think, though? I know you’d have to really stretch your imagination to put yourself into the mindset of the unhinged psychopaths who did this—”

My chest aches for him, and I can’t tell if I’m being generous or selfish for entertaining this. If this is what he truly wants—it is small enough that I can give it to him—

We each have a finger on the reset button, bearing down, about to click, when Doug comes panting into the annex like a little dog. He’s never tracked me down to my lair like this. He eyes my stolen newspaper and I clutch it tighter.

“Heyyyy, Jack! Dolly,” he says with a vacuous chuckle. His face is already pink and shiny, like he’s been running laps up and down the halls to escape irate HR people. Jake and I stare at him.

“So, Cynthia’s on a bit of a rampage, haha.”

My guess was on the nose.

“Oh?” Jake’s face is a mask of carefully curated concern.

“Yeah, something about your work trip,” he says, and dread pools in the pit of my stomach. The headline pressed against my chest isn’t funny anymore. None of this is funny.

Doug stares at us like a nervous child. Jake folds his arms and leans back in his chair again, projecting the entirety of his concerned focus onto Doug. Doug melts right into it with relief.

“What did she say, exactly?” Jake probes.

Doug lets out a big breath. “Something about unprofessionalism and optics and employee fraternization.”

Jake connects eyes with me, briefly. Doug should definitely not be talking to us right now.

I knew that my job at Spencer Cynthia, drawn to my annex like a harassment-seeking missile; all the random S&S minions peering at me with a frown after the awkward new temp points me out across the break room or down the hall. My voice shakes slightly with my anger. “All of this has been a game to you, but I have worked so hard to rebuild my life. For her sake.”

Jake moves his eyes to a point beyond my shoulder and breaks into a jarring smile. I turn to look, and jump out of my skin when I spot Cynthia stalking down the aisle between deserted cubicles.

“Whatever happens…” Jake mutters through his smile, and I turn to look at him. His grin is wide and contagious, but his eyes are serious. “Whatever happens, just throw me under the bus.”

Cynthia arrives and raps perfunctorily on my doorjamb. “Both of you, come with me.”

She frog-marches us to the elevators and up to the floor that houses the HR department, leading us through the warren-like aisles, this way and that, to a private office at the back that says Marie Simon on the door, and below it, on a piece of paper, Temporary Office of Cynthia Cutts, Consultant. Inside we find Doug cowering in a chair, looking nervous and sick. Nothing good ever happened in an HR office, as far as Doug’s concerned. Sitting against one wall is a small, beaky woman with a sheaf of papers in her lap. She jumps to her feet and hovers awkwardly while Cynthia directs us to take the seats across from the desk.

My stomach flutters and my heart races. I examine my surroundings. A mounted inspirational poster— PERSISTENCE is the art of turning a “no” into a “yes!”—Robert Spencer, Co-Founder of Spencer & Sterns —rests on the floor, replaced above by a framed puzzle of a duckling in a watering can. A bag of lumpy, hairy gray yarn spills out on a shelf to one side, knitting needles sticking out at angles, and a row of origami critters made from Post-its lines the edge of her desk.

“Marie?” Cynthia intones.

Marie clears her throat. “Employees on a work trip paid for with company money are ambassadors of the company. Optics are everything. Sharing a room is unprofessional and completely against employee fraternization policies.”

For an entire second I let myself think this might be nothing more than a quick HR scolding. Cynthia isn’t even watching me. Her eyes are trained on Jake, who is wearing an infuriating smile.

“Of course, the real issue here is even more serious,” Cynthia says, and my heart sinks. “Company money was spent on a work trip for a temp who does print room jobs and basic data entry, and”—she gestures at me—“another employee, whose role within the company is obscure to me. What was the purpose of this trip?”

Doug stares at her like a scared little bunny whose instincts tell him that if he doesn’t move, he’ll be left alone.

Jake answers for him. “To take a lightweight, custom- tailored, and solution-driven course to equip us with the practical strategies and problem-solving mindset to confidently implement transformational change in our organization within a holistic framework.”

Cynthia stares at him. We all do. She turns to Doug.

“Doug, what is Dolores dela Cruz’s role—”

Jake raises his voice and talks over her. “By the way, why wouldn’t we share a room? We’re in a relationship,” he says, placing a hand on my knee. I stiffen and reflexively swipe it off. I could smack him.

Cynthia watches this with grim interest. She plucks a piece of paper out of her print tray and writes Jake’s name on it. A couple clicks of her mouse, and she reads off the name of Jake’s temp agency. “That yours?”

“Yes,” Jake says, smiling charmingly, and she writes that down too.

“And your address is 556—”

I realize what Jake is doing. She can’t penalize us for workplace fraternization if we’re married . Jake’s nodding along, but I interrupt with my address, and she writes it down. If she checks my contact information later, our lie will add up.

But next to me Jake clears his throat, and when I look at his profile, he gives a tiny shake of his head.

I stop. I’ve become a passenger, and Jake has taken the wheel.

He slouches rakishly in his chair and squeezes my knee again. Relationship or no, he doesn’t get to paw me in a work meeting. I shove his hand off my knee again. Now Marie is eyeing us uncomfortably.

“Relationship disclosures,” Marie murmurs to Cynthia.

“Show me where to sign.” Jake laughs an excessively charismatic laugh and crosses his legs, and it’s so not like Jake it’s embarrassing…

And now he’s humming quietly to himself like a jackass. “Flight of the Bumblebee”?

“Doug,” Cynthia says levelly, “it doesn’t appear that you are able to describe Dolores’s official role, despite being her supervisor, and it seems you were either unaware of a workplace relationship, or declined to alert HR about the need for a relationship disclosure, for whatever reason.”

Doug fidgets and sweats, but next to him Jake fires up a big fake psycho smile. Employee of the year.

“I want to go on record saying Doug is the best supervisor I’ve ever had, and I’ve worked a lot of office jobs.”

Doug glances gratefully at Jake, and Jake smiles supportively, and it seems to stoke a fire in Doug. He leans forward, hands on his knees, and starts in on a garbled speech inspired by Jake’s pep talk earlier. “I’ve been working here at SS for fifteen years. My underlings are like SS foot soldiers, and I’m like an SS general—”

Cynthia jumps in like a rabid dog. “It’s ‘S&S.’ You can’t say ‘SS.’?”

“?‘SS’ is quicker to say,” he says.

“It is quicker to say.” Jake nods thoughtfully.

“You can’t say ‘SS.’ Don’t you know what ‘SS’ stands for?”

“Spencer and Sterns.”

Cynthia jabs her index finger into the surface of her desk. “You can’t say you’re an SS general!”

Something comes loose in Doug. “I take my job seriously. ‘Work will set you free.’ That’s my motto.”

Marie squeaks.

“Who have you said that to?” Cynthia hisses, and Doug startles, but Jake gives him a supportive nod. He’s still humming. Not “Flight of the Bumblebee”…“Flight of the Valkyries.” Foot bouncing gently, fingers tapping restlessly— and all at once I realize whose identity Jake has assumed: criminal criminal lawyer, gentleman sex doll connoisseur, tragic romantic—Grant Velazquez, esquire.

“Are you—are you policing what I’m saying now?” Doug says. “Are you censoring my freedom of speech?”

Cynthia grips the edge of her desk. “This isn’t a question of freedom of speech. Every time you open your mouth, you have to be mindful of the power imbalance. You are a manager . You are white . You are older . You are male —”

“I didn’t ask to be born with a penis!” A fleck of spittle sticks to Doug’s lip. “You people are always like this. You’re jealous of someone else having a good thing.”

I don’t have time to suss out if Doug’s “good thing” is his position of power or his penis, because he’s on a roll. It’s one steaming hot shit falling out of his mouth after another.

“You know what you are? You’re a bunch of—a bunch of feminazis!”

Marie’s mouth is a perfect O, and a muscle twitches in Cynthia’s jaw. Jake’s wheedling humming is the only sound in the room for a moment. Not “Flight of the Valkyries” anymore. The tune Jake is humming now is childishly idiotic and painfully familiar. I’ve heard my daughter sing this song approximately eleventy million times.

The wheels on the bus go round and round…

I look at him, and he looks at me, and I suddenly understand what he’s been doing this whole time. He lifts his hands from the steering wheel, opens the door, rolls out. I’m at the wheel now, my daughter safely buckled in the back seat, and it’s time to throw him under. He nods encouragingly. He places his hand on my knee one more time, and this time I smack it off.

I turn to face Cynthia. “Do you see what I’ve been dealing with?” My voice is strident and powerful. “I’m not safe here. This company has failed to protect me from workplace harassment and bullying. He speaks Spanish at me and calls me Dolly and tells me to smile, and he—”

I glance at Jake. He saves my ass.

“—he plants decapitated Barbies in my office and pretends we’re in a romantic relationship. He’s been fixated on me from the start.”

Next to me Jake laughs. “Dolly. Seriously?” He turns to Marie. “This is what I get for cultivating good old Spencer & Sterns persistence , right?” He points to the mounted poster resting on the floor. “I’m going to turn her no into yes.”

Marie stares at her poster in horror.

This is an HR shitstorm for them to clean up. All scrutiny apportioned for me has been redirected at Doug and Jake. There will be nothing but placation and false support for me until they can be sure I’ve been safely talked down from escalating this and engaging a lawyer. Jake has bought me the time I need.

And because I’m an idiot riding my wave of relief, I keep going. “All I’ve done is try to keep my head down and do my work—”

And Cynthia, dog with a bone, impervious to shit raining from the sky, says, “And what exactly is that work?”

I snap my mouth shut.

“Her little spreadsheet?” Jake chuckles dismissively. Cynthia and I both turn to look at him. “She had me doing data entry for her.”

“What spreadsheet?” Cynthia asks.

Jake raises his eyebrows and glances back and forth with a look of mischief. He pulls out his phone and a moment later Cynthia’s desktop computer pings. She clicks around for a moment and then her face slackens in surprise.

“This list…” Cynthia says, and I realize Jake has sent her his mysterious list. “Is this what I think it is?”

Jake nods almost imperceptibly.

“Yes,” I say. “Obviously.”

Marie cranes to look at the monitor, but Cynthia abruptly minimizes the window.

“And…” I say, taking a leap and praying for a soft landing, “taking that course in Las Vegas…was all part of it. Transformational change ,” I say, and the idiotic words strangle me.

Cynthia creaks back in her chair and considers me with eyes as cold and hard as concrete. The clock on the wall ticks, Doug mouth-breathes, Jake twirls and bounces his foot like a lawyer who bills nine hundred an hour so he can put it right up his nose, and Cynthia weighs my fate.

“You were working on this on your own. A self-directed project. He”—she tips her head to Doug—“wasn’t involved, was he?”

I shake my head, and Cynthia makes an expression that could be heartburn or, possibly, a smile.

Next to me Jake pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Cynthia says sharply.

He lights a cigarette.

“Are you smoking? In my office ?”

Jake shrugs apologetically. “I really should quit,” he says around the butt. He stands, shoves the pack back in his pocket, and leaves.

“Did he just quit?” Marie asks hopefully.

I don’t linger. I get up and run after him, but he’s vanished. I race back to the annex and I catch him just in time, putting on his coat and slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Jake!”

He turns to look at me, but I don’t know what happens next, and neither does he, so we just stand there staring at each other. The circles under his eyes are so dark, and he’s clammy and pale. I don’t know when that started. I want to reach up and rest my hand against his forehead.

He takes an experimental puff of his cigarette.

“Why the—” He hacks. “These things are disgusting.”

“Jake.”

He coughs and stubs the cigarette out on his desk. We look at each other and say things without opening our mouths.

I’m sorry .

Thank you.

I do love—

I already have the mug.

He turns on his heel and goes.