Page 1 of Under Locke & Key

Smile . The mental reminder burns through me every time I feel it slipping until my cheeks ache with the strain.

Keith accepts every pat on the back, tapping his to-go coffee cup against others in the office with their congratulations.

Inside, I’m a mess of confusion and anger, but I swallow it until it’s nothing but a sick twist in the pit of my stomach and my smile covers up what I’m fighting against.

Andrew lifts his hands to quiet the group before speaking, practically beaming.

“I’m so pleased to have Keith as our new program manager on the developer side!

He’s put in the work and I know he’ll be a great asset and awesome leader!

” Andrew urges us to clap and my hands sting at the force of my false enthusiasm for the man who just stole what I’ve been working towards for the last eight or so years—the man who’s only been here for two and does half the work I do.

Keith makes a half-hearted attempt at looking sheepish but it lasts for only a second before he’s soaking it all up. Smug asshole.

“I appreciate the opportunity and I’m really excited to keep working with my team. We’ve got a lot of strong people and hard workers. I know you’ll make me proud,” Keith says and goes back to shaking hands with our colleagues until his little parade is done and we’re at our desks.

I stare at my screen until my eyes blur, my hands clutched together on my lap, unable to move.

“Hey, Rach. You gonna sit there all day? Will you have that code for Morrison’s done by the end of day or what? I’ll be checking whatever you have before you submit it to Andrew.” Keith looks over the cubicle wall at me, arms crossed over the barrier that we’ve shared for the last two years.

Aside from the fact that we’ve never had to have our work “checked” before sending it over, I resent the way he’s immediately let this go to his head considering I was the one that mentored him when he got here. Plus, I fucking hate when people shorten my name.

“It’ll get done.” It always does. I have nothing else to say to him because if I do it’ll be bitchy, and although I have a reputation of being single-minded in my job, I’ve been careful to not be seen as an emotional and bossy “female.” God, I hate the verbiage.

I hate the delineation of “female” and “male” and the way it’s used to be “scientific” fact about my apparent lacking.

I push back my wheeled chair, locking my screen and slipping my phone into my blazer pocket before I march over to Andrew’s office. Every step pushes the rage I tried to suppress to the surface. Hand poised over the wood of his door, I tap against it three times and wait.

“Come in.” Andrew’s voice is muffled.

Stepping inside, I shut the door behind me and take a deep breath.

“Rachel,” he acknowledges but doesn’t invite me to sit. Instead, he looks like he’s bracing for something.

“Can we talk?”

Andrew sighs. Audibly sighs at me and I wish I could rage and rail. It’s long-suffering. It’s annoyed and superior, and tells me that I’m wasting my time before I’ve even started.

“If you feel it’s necessary then I’ll hear you out.”

Oh, thank you for deigning to give me your time. Asshat.

“It’s more a question than anything else. You know how much I care about performance and doing my best. I was wondering what it was that counted against me with the program manager position.” I bite through my smile.

“Honestly, Rachel, I can’t discuss that with you. There are policies in place . . .” Andrew shrugs with a big show and if he puts his wrists together to say his hands are tied I’ll throw his stupid fake bonsai tchotchke at the window.

“Andrew, I haven’t made a fuss. I’ve been here longer than you have and I haven’t taken a single complaint to HR.

I’ve worked my way around things. I’ve pushed through them.

For the last eight-ish years, I’ve done whatever I could to be successful at my job.

If there’s something I can work on, I feel like it would be unfair to deprive me of an opportunity to improve. ”

During those eight years I’ve also learned what the right thing to say is in order to get what I want.

Plump up their egos when the time calls for it.

Cut them down when they overstep too much.

Stay focused throughout it all. Whatever developer skills I’ve honed in my time here, I’ve spent just as much time studying the social play in this environment.

I thought I had it down to a science. My entire image has been centered around being capable but approachable, driven but not divisive. Networking and embodying the company values like they are a checklist—the same way I’ve approached any challenge, big or small.

Andrew grimaces and I sit so that I’m not looking down at him. He steeples his fingers on top of the desk like he’s considering his words carefully.

“Keith is the better candidate for the position, not just because of his qualifications now, but primarily because of the level we know he’ll be performing at and the work he’ll be able to provide in the future.”

There’s an underlying message here, but for the first time in a while I’m not willing to root through all the options to make it easier for Andrew.

“Why would my ability to perform in the future be a question or concern?”

Andrew sucks in a breath through his teeth and it’s like he’s toeing the line between what he wants to say and what HR would crucify him for saying.

“Rachel . . .” He gestures at me, as if my person is reason enough.

I just raise an eyebrow in response.

“We wanted a more experienced candidate.”

“But I’m only three years younger than Keith and I’ve worked my way up the ladder since I got here?” Surely my time at the company should be enough to counteract that.

Andrew looks so uncomfortable it makes me think of one of my short-lived relationships, where the guy was near disgusted when I said I was on my period and didn’t want to hook up. It was as if the mere mention of the way my body functioned made me a pariah.

Wait. No fucking way. That can’t be it, surely? I’ve heard rumors but never actually seen it in person.

“It’s not that I’m twenty-nine. It’s that I’m a woman who’s twenty-nine.”

He shakes his head. “No. No. This is not because of your sex or age.”

Cause that would be discriminatory and if he said that it would be a liability for Lakin-Cole. I keep going though, my anger at the unfairness peeking through the carefully constructed persona I’ve curated.

“The quality of my future work is in question because you believe at my rapidly deteriorating age, the incessant ticking of my ‘biological clock’ will leave me beset with a sudden urge to procreate, and that would put my dedication to the company in question. Even though if Keith were to have a kid he’d be just as much a parent as I would, it counts against me but not him. ”

Wiping his hand across his mouth, Andrew takes a beat before his own corporate mask slips onto his face to cover the discomfort.

“Keith is the preferred candidate. He’s dedicated to this company and we are confident he will provide what we expect out of a leader.

I’m sorry you’re unhappy with the outcome but that’s the reason.

He’s your superior and I suggest you accept that sooner rather than later.

We don’t have time for employees who let personal pettiness impact their work.

This is a large-scale contracting company and professionalism and teamwork are a requisite for working here. It’s your choice.”

Take it or leave it but either way I’m the loser here. If I speak up, I’ll be giving in to every stereotype I’ve been trying to avoid. If I sit back and let it happen I’ll be trampled under what I’ve been working to break through.

“I know you’re disappointed, Rachel. I hope it’s a consolation to know we think you’re indispensable where you are now. We can’t afford to lose you as a developer. No one can do it like you can and we do see the effort you put in.”

Rising from the chair, I nod at him before leaving, my thoughts a maelstrom in my head.

“Hey, Rach,” Keith calls out from the water cooler when I emerge from Andrew’s office.

I acknowledge him with a little wave.

“After work celebratory drinks at Public at six. You better be there!” Keith says to the whole office more than just me, and there’s a little cheer among our colleagues at the prospect of Thursday night drinking.

After work, drowning-out-the-rage drinks at Public Service sound great. And ángel will be there. One upside to this whole mess.

* * *

It’s gin. I fucking hate gin. It tastes like chewing a tree leaf—a pine needle stuck between my teeth and burning through my chest when I swallow.

But I take a swig and bite out a smile in the direction of my mysterious benefactor.

Turning back to ángel—the bartender and my best friend—I sit with my back to the rest of the room.

I catch a distorted glimpse of myself behind a wall of bottles and consider my options.

The gin sucks but today sucks even more.

“You don’t have to drink the rest of it.” Good ol’ ángel, kind as always, and well aware of the face I make when I find something disgusting.

“It’s free. I’m having a bad night.”

“It’s gin .”

The sigh shudders out of me. “I know. But if I turn it down he might get nasty.”

We both turn to take a quick glance at the man who sent the drink again and I get a brief look at a baby blue button up and perfectly coiffed blonde hair.

“What do you think?” I ask.