Page 1 of Worth the Try (Atlanta Granite #1)

Elodie

“ Y OU’RE BEING LET go.”

Air whooshes from my lungs as my stomach clenches. The world tilts and dims, and my palms sting with how hard my nails are digging into them. Fired. I’m being fired. From the only job I’ve had my entire career.

“But—” I can’t finish. I can’t breathe. A wave of dizziness overtakes me, and I unclench my fists only to grip the sides of the chair.

Slowly, as if it’s paining him just as much to say this as it is for me to hear it, Dan from HR slides a stapled set of papers across the desk, the movement serving only to draw attention to the golden name plate glinting mere inches from his wrist. A golf club is engraved on either side of his name.

A distant thought hits, and I wonder if our company gave that to him, or if someone else did—his mom, maybe, or a partner.

Wait. Not our company. Not anymore. Because Dan just fired me. He can wrap the message up in whatever words make him feel better, but the result is the same.

My knuckles blanch. I think I might be sick.

The chair squeaks as Dan leans forward and speaks again. “We’ve, ah, we’ve put together a severance package. I think you’ll find it’s incredibly generous.”

I stare at him. Generous would be not firing me. But he looks so upset, so uncomfortable about delivering this news, that I feel bad for him.

He must see something in my expression, because his own falters. “Elodie, I’m so?—”

I snatch the papers from the desk, startling Dan with my movement. It startles me, too, if I’m being honest, because I’m nice . Disney princess level nice. It’s literally my most defining trait. Unless you count my hair, which has its own zip code most days.

Trying not to let the pages shake in my hand, I scan the words. The terms really are good. Six months’ severance with the promise of glowing reviews to potential employers, three months of them paying for insurance, and a meeting with a staffing agency to help me with next steps.

The start of a migraine begins to form around the back of my head. Or maybe that’s just the nausea. My mouth is dry.

Dan produces a pen and moves it close. “You’ve been an incredible person to work with. So nice.”

See? Nice.

Which is, apparently, not enough. Even though it should be. What happened to being rewarded for loyalty? For dedicating years of my life and more creative ideas than I could count to the most boring marketing team to ever walk the face of the planet? Not that they deserved them. Clearly.

“But Fore Gone is going in a different direction, and your role is being absorbed into a regional position.”

My eyes snap up. “Is Carolyn Ackerman getting it?” She’s been my boss on the events team for the last five years, and not once has she liked any of the event ideas I pitched. Too risky , too gaudy, too pricey , and on and on.

He winces. “Yes.”

Of course she is. And is Carolyn nice? No. No, she is not. “You get more bees with honey, Elodie.” Despite the years of silence, I can still hear my mother’s sugary drawl as she scanned me from head to toe, her lips pinched, before sending me out to walk in yet another beauty pageant.

I grab the pen and click the top, managing to suppress my mother’s voice and my own defeated sigh as I sign and date the agreement. It’s a great pen, with smooth black ink and a comfortable grip. Dan produces a second copy for my signature, then countersigns both and returns one to me.

Sliding the pages into my hands and folding them in half, I tell him, “I’m keeping the pen.” My voice is flat. A calm sort of numbness fills my chest, and I’m grateful. Better to be numb than shrieking.

“Of course,” he says. As if it’s every day that he fires people and they declare they’re keeping the pen. Maybe it is. Maybe they do.

Dan stands, and I follow. I know what’s next. At least, I can guess at it.

Sure enough, an empty box awaits me when I get back to my cubicle. A strangled laugh escapes. Eight years I’ve been here, still in a cubicle, and all I have to show for it is a severance package and a cardboard box. Eight. Years.

How is this happening?

I clear my throat. “You don’t have to stay here.”

Dan shifts on his feet and wrings his hands. “I, um.” He looks around and lowers his voice. “I have to.”

Now a laugh really does come out. “What do they think I’m going to do? Throw my laptop? Flip a table?”

Erica’s head pops over the top of the cubicle, her big brown eyes growing increasingly round as she takes in the scene unfolding right before her. “Oh, hell no!” she says, her eyebrows furrowing as she glares at Dan. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s okay, Erica.” Lies. All lies. It’s not okay. It’s not remotely okay. But what is Erica going to do about it? What am I going to do about it?

I know exactly what I’m going to do: Pack up eight years of dedication to an events team where I wasn’t appreciated, was regularly treated as an entry-level employee, and where I went absolutely nowhere. That’s what I’m going to do about it.

“Uh, no, it’s not okay,” she shoots back, echoing my thoughts as she rounds the corner. “What in the fresh hell is this, Dan?”

He looks at her helplessly. “It’s not my fault.”

Erica sucks her teeth. “Damn, Dan. I knew you were spineless, but I thought you’d at least have our backs when it came down to it.”

Dan straightens. “I do .”

“Then what’s this?” Erica gestures at me.

I ignore them, dropping my bags of Blow Pops and sour gummy worms into the box.

Next are the framed pictures: me and my parents at my college graduation.

Me and my best friend Kari on our girls’ trip to the Bahamas, both of us grinning like fools while we pose with the pigs on Big Major Cay.

A picture of Fenian, my old German Shepherd, tongue lolling as he looked out from the top of a mountain we’d hiked up in East Tennessee when I was in undergrad.

Then the other detritus of office life: a congratulatory handwritten note on hitting my five-year anniversary.

A pair of Fore Gone logo’d sunglasses from last year’s senior marketing retreat.

The little microphone statuette commemorating the time I won my team’s “Communicating in the Moment” award.

An Atlanta Granite bobblehead from when Kari got us front row seats to one of the professional rugby team’s game last year.

It doesn’t even take five minutes. Eight years, packed up in five minutes. Something warm and spiky bubbles in my chest as I grab my purse, pick up the box, and look at Erica and Dan. “I’m ready.”

Erica stops mid-rant. “Oh. Oh. ”

I smile, the gesture automatic and fake, trained into me until I could hold it for an hour straight. “I’ll be fine. Erica, you have my number. Let’s grab those margaritas we talked about next week. Dan? I suppose you have to walk me out?”

He nods stiffly, turning and leading the way.

Erica pulls me into a side hug, the smell of her vanilla perfume wafting over me. “I’ll miss you, Elodie.”

I smile back and blink away the tears that threaten. “I’ll miss you too, Erica.”

“E-squared forever!” she calls out as I turn to go. “And fuck that bitch Carolyn,” she mutters.

I snort out a laugh, and my voice is watery when I respond, “E-squared forever.”

Dan waits downstairs in the lobby, the bright Atlanta sun shining through the tinted glass and giving him a bluish hue. “Despite what Erica said back there,” he starts.

I cut him off, still holding that smile. All I’m missing is the petroleum jelly on my teeth. “It’s fine. Really.” Again, lies. All lies. It’s fine! I’m fine! Everything is fine! “It’s been great, Dan. Maybe I’ll see you around!” I chirp, then back into the door to open it.

Dan hustles to hold it for me, his hand smacking the glass pane above me with a thwack as the muggy heat settles around me.

I duck beneath him. As I straighten back to my not-insubstantial height, I catch a beat of hesitation on his face.

“Sorry,” he says, his eyes darting to my waist before returning to mine. “But I—erm, well…” he stammers. “Your card.”

I blink. “My key card? Seriously?” It’s got a really good picture of me on it, and besides, I thought I’d get to keep at least one thing from this godforsaken place.

It’s not like I kept those cheap sunglasses.

“I know. It’s just…” He sighs. “It’s procedure.”

It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes.

Tell him to fuck off, Elodie. I nearly laugh at myself.

I would never say those words out loud, let alone actually say them to someone’s face.

“Okay, Dan. Hang on.” I set the box down, unclipping the key card from my skirt as I straighten—a skirt, I even dressed nice for this place! —before handing it over.

He pockets it. “Thanks.”

I don’t bother saying anything as I bend to grab my box.

An hour later, I’m off the MARTA and unlocking the door to my tiny duplex, letting out a grateful sigh that the only roommate I have is of the four-legged kind.

My calico Cleo, short for Cleocatra, looks up from her spot on the couch and stares at me with a distinctly feline expression.

“Yeah, I know,” I sigh, letting the box fall with a thud on the parquet floor and kicking off my shoes before padding over to her.

I drop onto the cushion beside her and let myself sink, both physically and metaphorically.

“I got fired today. Me. Fired.” Cleo regards me, and just when I think she’s going to give me some pity with those lime-green eyes of hers, she throws a back leg into the air and bends down, going back to cleaning herself.

“Love you, too,” I mutter, then shoot an SOS text to Kari.

When the knock comes on my door not even half an hour later, I smile. Leave it to my bestie to drop everything and come to my rescue. I peel myself off my couch and cross the room, already talking.

“I’m thinking nachos and—Mr. Brown?”

My landlord and neighbor stands before me, his shoulders hunched, his mouth drawn into a tight, rueful smile. “Heard you over here. Early day at work?”

I fight the lump in my throat. “Something like that.” No need to tell him I was canned. I’ll have something sorted out by the time rent is due—and besides, Fore Gone promised a six-month severance.

He nods. “Well. Figured I better come and get this over with.”

I battle the sinking feeling in my chest and force yet another smile onto my face. “Would you like to come in? Where’s Mrs. Brown? I can make some tea.” I open the door wide and gesture.

The old man simply looks at me. “My daughter’s coming home.”

“Tyra? That’s amazing!” I gush, genuinely happy for him. “Gosh, how long has she been gone?”

“She needs the place.”

I blink rapidly, unwilling to accept what I’m certain he’s saying. “Do you want some help with a welcome home party? I bet she’d love that. Streamers? Balloon art? I know the perfect person?—”

“She’s going to move in here, Elodie. To your place.” His voice is kind, but firm.

No. No. This can’t actually be happening.

There is no way that I am losing my job and my home on the same day.

I have done everything right. I was an honor student.

I played flute in the band. I did pageants until I wanted to scream, because my mom wanted it.

I went away to school on a scholarship and came back home.

I got a job. I kept that job. I met a man and planned a future, and when that went to hell, I got my own place.

I have a pet. I am thirty years old. This isn’t happening.

“Here?” I squeak. I sound like a mouse.

He swallows. “Here.”

“But—but my lease?—”

“Expired last year, and you’ve been month-to-month ever since,” he interjects. “Which means I only have to give you a month’s notice.”

My mind whirls. I can’t call my parents.

I won’t face the crushing weight of condescending disappointment on my mother’s face at yet another of my perceived failures and carefully neutral expression on my father’s.

They may live within the greater Atlanta area, but I’d rather walk naked down I-20 in the boiling heat at rush hour before asking them for anything.

So. I’d like to scream now.

Right now.

Like, open my mouth and let out the most ear-piercing scream that anyone has ever scrumpt. And I don’t even care if that’s proper English. That’s how much I need to scream.

I begin to close the door in Mr. Brown’s face, my body on a mission, even if my manners are not.

“Elodie?” he asks.

“Mm?” I keep shutting it.

“You understand, right?” Only an inch of his face is visible now, his eyes narrowed in what might be concern. “You have one month.”

I flash him a smile. A nice, bright one.

Then I slam the door.

And I scream.