Lilly
I gaze up at the office building, a mix of wonder and unease churning in my stomach. Midtown Manhattan isn’t a place I frequent. Almost never, really. A cab honks loudly, a cyclist curses, and I flinch, edging closer to the towering structure. This isn’t my world. I prefer the familiarity of the outer boroughs. Lately, there’s been little reason for me to venture into Manhattan. Mallory and I have been searching fruitlessly for a new apartment further out, and I’ve been picking up shifts at the coffee shop between photography gigs.
But it’s Kate’s sloppy bookkeeping and unreliable behavior that have brought me here. I can’t believe the mess she left behind in our records. Damn it, Kate. She left weeks ago for what she called a world tour, but it seems more like a permanent departure now. The business is mine to salvage, provided I don’t run it into the ground first—something Kate has already made a good attempt at. I fiddle with my necklace nervously while I rehearse what I’m going to say. Honestly, I’m psyching myself out, dreading stepping into this ominous-looking building. I’m here to plead my case to some wealthy client’s assistant. George demanded this meeting, presumably to pressure me for a refund. We don’t do refunds, but George was insistent. Without any records of who George is or which shoot this relates to, I’m at a loss. George hasn’t been forthcoming, and the address I found for this sleek glass-and-steel skyscraper hasn’t provided any additional clues.
I check our business bank account again. Still $107.87. Same as yesterday. And the credit card balance sits stubbornly at $1533. Kate left me with a real mess when she disappeared from New York. She took her share of the earnings from our last shoot—a mere $1000—but that money could have paid off the new lens we bought. If I ever cross paths with her again, I’m going to struggle not to unleash a torrent of anger. I press a fist against my stomach, feeling queasy. If I had the money to issue a refund, I would do it in a heartbeat, just to avoid the inevitable confrontation looming ahead.
My email chimes, and I can tell from the subject line that it’s another client cancellation. Another one bites the dust. We had three shoots scheduled this month, and two have already fallen through. Yesterday’s shoot was a family session—modest and straightforward. Enough to cover rent, but not nearly enough to chip away at the mounting credit card bill or contribute to the deposit we need for our next apartment. Assuming we find one at all.
The thought of leaving my cozy apartment makes my chest pinch. The stability and peace of our little home are everything to me after years of having nowhere to call my own. After my parents died, Levi and I lived on campus and never went home for holidays, until Michael found out and practically kidnapped us that first Thanksgiving, so we’d have no choice but to attend. My throat tightens at the thought of those holidays. Michael’s mom, Louise, his smiling Dad, his lovely aunt Grace. I miss them. They welcomed us like we were their own kids. Michaelwelcomed Levi like he was a brother. I shake the thought away. I have other things to worry about.
Panic swirls in my stomach. I’m not a businesswoman like Kate. I’m deliberate and dreamy, not sharp and sharky. She brought the clients in, I just took the photos. My palms start to sweat, and I wipe one hand down my loose jeans. Why did I wear jeans? I look like a college art student, not a professional. Maybe they’ll believe me when I say I don’t have the money. A hysterical laugh bubbles up behind my lips.
If I can’t change things, and fast, I’ll be out of business and back at the coffee shop full-time. My whole body rebels at the thought of those sweaty, thankless days. They sap my creativity like nothing else, and the minimum wage I make isn’t enough to ever make a dent in my student loans. Student loans I’m still paying at age 30. I have to figure this out. And the first step is refusing this refund, no matter how much this client intimidates me. And I know they will, just based on this building and the tone of the emails from George.
I straighten my spine and walk into the building. My sneakers squeak on the marble floor. I imagine all the polished women who must stride through this lobby every day, their heels clicking purposefully as they head for elevators.
The security guard looks askance at me but directs me to the fiftieth floor, where I’ll be greeted by someone from the unnamed client. The elevator punches upward with a force that makes my stomach dip, and I lean weakly against the wall. Just one minute to get myself together. Speaking to clients isn’t something I enjoy, particularly when they’re angry. Kate always handled that aspect.
When I exit the elevator, it’s to a sun-filled lobby and a person waiting not-so-patiently for me, judging by the wrinkle in their brow.
“Ms. Woods? I’m George.” They extend a green-manicured hand, and we shake. I get slight hints of a spicy cologne before they turn on their heel.
“Follow me.”
"Sure," I manage to say, struggling to maintain a polite tone. I dislike being treated like a subordinate, and I'm already tense from the insistent emails and the demand to appear at this towering glass structure, as if I'm summoned to meet Satan himself.
George turns and raises a black brow. "My apologies for dragging you here. My boss insisted," they say, amusement lacing their voice, clearly unapologetic. They stride ahead, pleated pants swishing above platform loafers, and I can't help rolling my eyes at their back. The office affords impressive views of Manhattan; I half expect to see clouds drifting past at our lofty height. The surrounding skyscrapers gleam in the afternoon sun.
We halt at a corner office, its frosted glass door concealing the occupant. George peeks inside and exchanges murmurs with someone. A low, familiar voice responds, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I know that voice. I recognize that slight rasp. Instinctively, I take a step back, unable to control my reaction. Maybe I'm mistaken. Maybe it's not Michael.
But fate rarely offers reprieve. I've anticipated this moment ever since the engagement shoot. I've awaited that dark-haired figure turning the corner, those piercing grey eyes meeting mine, expecting a cutting remark like the one he flung at me that day. I shudder at the memory of his steely expression and the palpable anger in his clenched jaw.
"Go on in," George smirks, seemingly privy to the impending drama and finding amusement in it.
"Thank you," I murmur, steeling myself. You can do this. Confidence.
I step into the sleek office of glass and chrome. Clear grey eyes lock onto mine. They widen. He inhales sharply, as if struck by a blow. Or perhaps that's me.
"Hi, Michael."
