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  The entire place had been ripped out, gutted, replaced. No trendy exposed red brick walls accented by bohemian light fixtures and eclectic wall art. Everything had been completely redesigned, constructed of glass and chrome. All the walls, doors. Tables and desks. Even the furniture and wall hangings were either a pale shade of gray or sterile white. New blood, new look, new brand.

  As Farrah and I reached Dad’s department, we soon found ourselves surrounded by a plethora of twenty-somethings I recognized from both the social media team and IT. Greenpoint had married Silicon Valley, and it was a very tense, semi-dysfunctional marriage. They were anxiously buzzing about, while engaged in several simultaneous conversations that somehow seemed to connect with, and yet diverge from, one another all at once. They, like Sales, looked preoccupied. I wanted to say hey, but something told me that no one was in the mood for small pleasantries.

  “What’s going on around here?” I whispered under my breath. Today was not the day to show up late. My chest fluttering full of anxiety, I nipped at the inner flesh of my left cheek—an old and familiar compulsion I often fell back on during times of uncertainty.

  As we approached Dad’s office, I realized that he, too, was probably anxiously buzzing about, elsewhere. But before I could even reach for my phone to text him, Dane, Dad’s assistant (and my pseudo office guardian angel/arch nemesis, depending on the day) shot up from his desk like a ricocheted bullet and practically lunged at us, blocking my father’s door.

  Waving a tablet frantically in his left hand, heatedly texting on a separate phone with his right, Dane was the definition of beyond flabbergasted. His dark, bugged-out eyes were only magnified by the lenses of his boxy, oversized eyeglasses. Tiny beads of sweat formed a clear, dotted line that ran vertically down the center of his neck. His face had drained several shades paler than usual.

  “You’re LATE, Sage!” Dane scolded, his voice bordering an uncomfortable pitch that bordered hysteria. “It’s 3:10. Where were you? I can’t just sit around here all day. I have grad school at 4. It’s my early day. And the whole frickin’ board of directors is here, and they are INSANE. And IT started locking email accounts. And there was almost an actual fist fight when Patrick from photography realized he was fired—people are dropping like flies. Something’s going down, and it’s really, really bad.”

  “Pat’s gone? Wait! Is there an opening?!?!”

  “Seriously, Sage? Pat’s gone. As in, a bunch of people will be gone. No one here is promoting your intern self.”

  “Oh.” But I couldn’t entirely focus my attention on what Dane was yapping about because his hair distracted me. He had done something new to it. Petrified and overly-dolloped in globs of hair gel, Dane had styled his hair into in this single, perfect dark wave of a coif that reached seven, possibly even eight inches over his head. I found myself just staring at it.

  Dane snapped his fingers just inches away from my face—once, twice—plucking me out from the haze my mind had momentarily wandered into. “Sage. SAGE! Are you even listening to me?” He then gasped and demanded incredulously, “Are you staring at my hair?”

  I blinked. “It’s just…” then I pointed as if to explain myself, “so high.”

  “Oh… my… God. Did you fall and smack your anime face out there? Is that what this is all about? Since when did you become Miss Fashion Judgmental? Your hair was highlighted blue just a week ago. Don’t get me wrong, it did look fabulous. I can still see hints of it in this lighting—but that’s neither here, nor there. For once, will you listen to me? The board is here. People are getting fired. Look around you!”

  I touched my hair defensively. Admittedly, it was the first time I’d gone natural chestnut brown in years. I wanted to write off Dane’s behavior as just another bout of typical hysteria. But I knew it wasn’t true. Not this time. I motioned towards Dad’s office.

  “Fine. I’ll listen,” I said. “What’s going on? Is Dad with the board now?”

  Dane let out, yet another, exasperated gasp. “You’re not listening! I’m not even supposed to be here now, but I can’t just get up and leave. I keep reloading my email to make sure I have access—they are so firing me, Sage, aren’t they? Do you realize how many resumes we get, every day, from people who want my job? It’s not even available! If I leave in the middle of all this and show any sign of weakness, I’m done for.”

  He then dramatically flung the end of his blue and gray plaid scarf around his neck with the very same hand that clenched his phone. Turning his attention to Farrah, Dane pretentiously added, “I’m studying public relations and communications.”

  Farrah took one step back and held her hands up defensively in front of her. Again, she didn’t have to say a single word to me because the look on her face said it all. This time it read: What kind of crazy is this?

  I needed to talk Dane down, fast. So much for Farrah’s girl, stop exaggerating comment.

  “Chill,” I attempted to reason with him. “My Dad will not let them get rid of you. You are dispensable to him.”

  Dane gasped, utterly horrified.

  “I think she meant indispensable,” Farrah chimed in.

  “Crap. Yes, indispensable! I meant indispensable! All of this probably has nothing to do with you—”

  “You don’t know that, Sage!” Dane exclaimed.

  Ping.

  Farrah’s phone again. At what seemed to be his near tipping point, Dane glowered at her; his jaw clenched so tightly it caused an unsightly trembling of the entire left side of his face. For a second, I was almost entirely certain that he would snatch the menacing culprit out of Farrah’s hand and chuck it right out the 31st story window. Oblivious, of course, to his burgeoning ire, Farrah’s attention remained solely focused on her text messages.

  Ping. Ping. Ping.

  “Oooooh,” she purred. “It’s Liam. Hold a minute; I need to answer this one.”

  “Anyway,” I continued, trying to keep Dane cool, collected, and firmly grounded on planet Earth, “you can leave now if you have somewhere to be. The big guns are at a meeting now, right? Then no one will even notice you leaving. I’ll hold down the fort. I got this. No one is getting rid of you. No worries.”

  Dane’s jaw slid wide open. Then, slamming the tablet onto his desk, he abruptly grabbed my arm and shuttled me inside Dad’s office, leaving Farrah and her phone behind.

  “No worries?” Dane hissed, as he nearly knocked me into the picture frames, featuring my half-brothers, on Dad’s desk. “Jorie is here! Jorie. She was supposed to be in Philadelphia this week. But she just showed up like a complete sociopath—P.S., don’t ever tell her I called her that. With all her people throwing their full weight around the place. Demanding an emergency meeting. Emergency? What emergency? Who does that, unannounced, at 2:45 on a Friday? It’s twisted. They pulled everyone into Conference Room South Side. They grabbed your father, Gavin, Amy, and all the major players.”

  “Jorie is here?” I asked.

  So it was serious. Marjorie “Jorie” Reagan was my dad’s boss—everyone’s boss, really. A fast-talking, hell-on-heels, brilliant disaster of a person, Jorie pretty much single-handedly transformed FEADURHEDZ into an unstoppable powerhouse—but at a hefty price for everyone else. New blood. New look. New brand. Lots of layoffs. She was the kind of person you simultaneously feared and longed to emulate.

  “Dane,” I began, using the exact same placid tone one might use to talk a crazed lunatic off a ledge, “you know how important it is in these situations to remain calm—”

  “Pause.” Dane’s hand shot out, just inches away from my face. “Seriously, Sage. Don’t have time for this.”

  I didn’t exactly care for the whole hand-in-my-face maneuver. “You better watch where you place that hand,” I warned. “You’re lucky we’re friends. Instead of wasting time bickering with me, get out of here. Just tell me what needs to get done, and I’ll do it. So what if I’m technically interning for photography. Adam has no use for me, and with Pat canne
d, it’s probably a mini war zone there right now anyway. What does Dad need you to do? I got this.”

  “Really?”

  I nodded seriously. “Really.”

  “Fine. But you better not screw this up. Get to the copier. Now. You know how Jorie wants all her docs printed in front of her, on actual paper, because she can’t read from a tablet like a civilized person? Well, there’s a document up on my desktop—I left it open. Print it, make three extra copies, and then place the three extras in a manila folder—not an envelope — a folder. Then, run to the conference room. Also, they’re going to be here all night… Oh my God—I didn’t call the caterer! They’re not going to have dinner! Oh my God. Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my—”

  “It’s okay!” I grabbed him by both shoulders and shook him just enough to hopefully knock some sense into him. “Breathe! You were completely blind-sighted. Tell me what I need to do! Who do I call?”

  “Where is my frankincense essential oil? I need my FRANKINCENSE!”

  “Dane! Don’t have time for this!”

  “Okay.” Dane inhaled then exhaled deeply. “So you need to place an order with Vincent’s. But specify gluten free. If I come to find out that there was a single breadcrumb on that eggplant parm, Sage, so help me—”

  “Not a crumb?”

  Dane threw a severe case of stink-eye in my direction, which again, I wasn’t feeling, but I knew it would be best to let it slide, given the circumstances.

  “I can’t get into Jorie’s dietary habits, this is just the way it is!” he snapped. “You’re the one who volunteered to be helpful, so be helpful! And while you’re at it, Farrah needs to hide in this room—like behind this desk. She shouldn’t be out there. Someone might see her.”

  “You’re the one who shut her out in the first place!”

  “Jorie’s going to flip if she sees an outsider! She’ll think WPG sent Farrah in to steal our intellectual property.”

  “Hmmm.” That was possible. WPG, The Wired Post Group, was our fiercest competitor and had this uncanny knack for stealing some of our best talent—including Sheila, my dad’s ex-girlfriend. WPG was especially dead set on zeroing in on the female perspective. Down with the patriarchy, indeed.

  There had to be something I could say that would pass as remotely reassuring; the problem was, I drew a complete blank. As I looked up past Dane’s shoulder and through the glass door, I let out a noticeable WHEW of relief as Dad rounded the corner and headed straight for the office—for us. I nodded and motioned toward him without saying another word. Thankfully, he joined us.

  Sensing the thickening tension permeating his office, Dad walked right up to Dane and calmly said, “It’s alright,” and patted him on the shoulder. “You can get out of here. I know the deal on Friday; today’s no different. Just another fire to put out.”

  Dane tossed one last sassy glare in my direction before practically falling all over himself to thank Dad profusely. It was somewhat annoying. Sure, I was just a lowly intern, but no one ever seemed to care that much about anything I ever had to say—and Dane was supposed to be my friend! After a few more proclamations as to affirm Dad’s insurmountable greatness, Dane flew out of the office like a hurricane, leaving the door wide open, cell phone still glued in hand.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Dad said, sensing my unease. He closed the door.

  “Heard all about it,” I said. “Jorie.”

  “Right. Jorie. And that’s just the beginning.” Dad gave me one of his signature bear hugs, lifting my feet slightly off the floor. Then, motioning toward the mini-fridge he kept parked right next to his desk, he added, “I need caffeine… and I have to drink it in here.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked. “What? Is soda outlawed here now, too? Before you say anything, Dane says I’m supposed to make copies of some document and order food.”

  Dad plopped down into his black leather swivel chair and swung open the mini fridge door. Producing three soda cans and placing them on his desk, in a row, with unwavering precision, he popped the seal on the one closest to him and guzzled down its contents in seconds.

  “You can get to the copier. It’s not that much of an emergency. And soda isn’t outlawed—just heavily frowned upon,” he said when finished with the first can. “Don’t need to hear the lecture. They’re all off sugar and have fully embraced ketosis, or what have you. Showing up to a conference with a slice of pizza could be career suicide here. Not that any of this will affect me for much longer.”

  Judgment over some pizza? In New York City, no less? I could only imagine what would

  happen if they found out Dad was an occasional smoker. Bedlam.

  Then it registered. What did Dad mean by much longer?

  “Enough talk about this place. How are you, Sage? You haven’t been texting that much. Everything going okay? All set with money?”

  I nodded. “Yep. I’m set,” I lied. Not that I didn’t want to tell Dad the truth—that I was barely keeping my head above water—but I couldn’t. Truthfully, Mom hadn’t exactly helped much to make my situation any easier. But if I shared that piece with him, it would be just enough to spark a flame and ignite yet another fight between the two of them. My parents had a very intense relationship. It was pretty much lost on me as to how they even ended up together in the first place. And although twelve whole years had passed since he technically left (right before my birthday, which was another long story), it didn’t take much to reopen the old wounds between them.

  Mom and Dad rarely saw eye to eye on anything, and their misadventures in co-parenting were often marked with discord. They were two completely different people with two completely different mindsets, despite having grown up together on the same Bronx block. They just happened to be my parents. Even when one could compromise a point to the other, it was never a clear-cut concession.

  One major dispute always seemed to revolve around Mom’s insistence that I didn’t need Dad’s financial help; a demand that most likely derived from her unwillingness to accept any form of assistance.

  No credit cards. Checks. Money orders. Wire transfers. Scratch-off lottery tickets. No coffee cans filled to the brim with spare change that he’d collected and thought I could use on a rainy day.

  Not that Dad’s parenting style was without fault, either. Although well-intentioned, Dad often made various extravagant attempts to mask his inconsistent parental presence through buying me a lot of stuff that I didn’t need. In a way, I could understand. After all, his father had drunkenly stumbled completely out of Dad’s life many, many years ago. Dad didn’t exactly have a reliable paternal model to pull parenting tips from.

  Despite his nurture, or lack thereof, Dad’s gut rarely failed him. At that moment, I could tell by the way Dad looked at me he instinctively knew I was holding back. Finally, he put it out there, “I know you’re broke, kiddo. What 22-year-old living in Queens isn’t?”

  “Well I appreciate your concern, but I’ll manage.”

  “Are you taking your medication?” he asked, before popping back the tab on his second can.

  “Dad!” I felt my forehead instantly grow hot—first with embarrassment, then anger. “Yes. I am taking my meds. As prescribed.” I hated how my parents periodically questioned me about my medication, even though it had been years since I last tossed a prescription. Sometimes I was amazed that Mom and Dad didn’t force me to video chat with them every morning, that way they could essentially watch me swallow that stupid pill.

  “You know I had to ask,” Dad said. “I trust you, Sage. It’s just that sometimes, well, this type of thing can become bigger than ourselves. More than we’d like to admit.”

  “I have no intention of stepping foot in Sherwood Pines, or any mental health facility for that matter, ever again! Never mind me. What did you mean before? What’s going on here? You made it sound like you’re not going to be working here much longer!”

  Dad shook his head, placing his hands down on his desk, almost as if trying to b
race himself. “All joking aside, Sage, get on those copies and dinner. It’s going to be a long night. I better go back to the conference room before they start looking for me. Jorie doesn’t know I let Dane leave early for school. Her philosophy is if I don’t need Dane all 24 hours a day, then I don’t need him at all. The last thing we need is for her to text him, looking for me. The kid will have a meltdown on the D train.”

  “Dad, I’m not joking. I’m dead serious. Are you leaving?”

  “You don’t have to worry about me. I have options. Let’s leave it at that for now.” He motioned toward the third can. “It’s yours if you want it.”

  With a sheepish grin, Dad rose from his seat and headed for the door. But it all didn’t seem right; he was holding back. As Dad reached the doorway, he turned around once more and added, “After you work the copier, drop everything by Conference Room South Side. I don’t know if Dane specified.”

  “He did.”

  “Sorry about all this. I feel like we barely got a chance to connect. Any plans tonight?”

  I nodded towards Farrah who remained on the other side of the glass wall.

  Back turned to us, she had made herself comfortable in Dane’s swivel chair, happily texting away.

  “Going with Farrah to a dinner thing,” I said. “There’s a new Peruvian place down on Houston. I don’t know if I want to go, but there are only so many TV shows about hopeful bachelors and crazy rich housewives that one can binge watch on a Friday night.” I was still perseverating on Dad’s hint about leaving the company, though. The thought of it wouldn’t leave my mind. “Dad, what did you mean by options?”

  “Peruvian? Azucena’s?” he asked, completely sidestepping the more pressing question.

  “I’m not completely sure, but that name sounds right. Nice try avoiding the question, though. Why are you ignoring me? I’m serious. Are you leaving this place?” I paused. “Are they going to ask me to leave, too?”