18. Stormy Seas

I’m scrolling through apartment listings, the entire office quiet and dark. 

This is pointless, I think, scrolling past yet another apartment I can’t afford. At this rate, I’ll need at least 3 roommates to make something work. And one of them will have to sleep on a pullout. 

I sigh and slink back, my chair gently swiveling back and forth. It’s almost enough to lull me to sleep. 

But of course I can’t leave. I’m waiting for The Book, for one thing, and even if I wasn’t, I’d never leave before Miranda. 

I take a peek at the woman herself, like I’ve been doing every five minutes since we got back from that farce of a parent-teacher conference. 

When we first got back, she was a whirlwind, going over things that had already been decided, making changes, unmaking changes, slicing through meetings like a scalpel. The entire office was braced for impact.

Now, she’s sitting at her desk, dozens of papers in front of her. She doesn’t read any of them, or even glance down. Legs crossed, tapping the arm of her glasses against her knee, forehead tense in thought, and lips pursed, she staring out at nothing. 

She’s been that way for an hour. 

It’s wrong. 

Miranda never just sits. Even at her desk, she’s usually moving—flipping pages, adjusting notes, making edits so precise you’d think she was drawing blood.

But now? She just sits.

I’m itching to do something–anything–to break this awful, wrong, depressing stillness. But every time I’m about to move, I remember the last time I tried to get involved. 

“What part of your job description tells you to pry into my personal life?"

I flinch at just the memory of that night. I can’t go in there. I can’t risk another evisceration.

But I also can’t just sit here and watch her unravel.

I glance at my tablet on my desk, then back to Miranda. 

The worst that happens is she skins you alive again. 

Well, she could fire me. But I’m going to ignore that possibility. 

I get up and grab my tablet, taking steps toward Miranda’s office that are more sure than my nerves. I can feel myself start to tremble the closer I get, and I do my best to shut it down. A deer would never survive this. 

When I cross the office threshold, it’s like a silent alarm goes off, Miranda whipping her head to stare me down. 

I meet her eyes for all of two seconds. In the dim light, they conjure up images of stormy seas, waves thirty feet high, and lightning strikes snapping in the darkness. 

If I keep looking into her eyes, I’ll turn and run. I focus on my goal instead. 

I grasp the back of the chair across from Miranda’s desk as soon as I come close enough. My island in the storm. 

I know Miranda is still staring holes into me, but I don’t let myself think about that too much as I pull out the chair and carefully sit. Still not looking at her, I rearrange my tablet and get to work. 

For a few tense, electrifying seconds, I tap out notes on my tablet and pretend the hairs on the back of my neck aren’t standing up. I keep my head down and keep silently busy. Even predators know when there’s something bigger and badder nearby. 

The room is utterly silent, the tick of the clock and my tapping louder than thunder. The longer it goes on, the more I know I’ve made a horrible mistake. 

She’s gonna shred me to pieces, I think in a panic, nearly losing the battle to keep my breathing calm and even. She’s gonna throw me out. She’s gonna fire me! She’s gonna kill–

A sharp exhale comes from across the desk. Then the roll of wheels against the carpet. And finally, the shuffle of papers. 

A little shocked to still be among the living, I dare a glance up. 

Miranda isn’t looking at me. She’s going through the various papers on her desk, marking them up with notes. Decisive, sharp, and steady. 

A sigh of relief would definitely ruin everything, so I resist and go back to my tablet. 

God, her schedule next week is a nightmare. 

I get to work. I imagine myself taking a deep breath and diving into the treacherous sea. 

We sit like that, silently fighting our own battles that are really just her battles, until Antonio rushes in with The Book. 

“I’m sorry it took so lo–” he stammers, but Miranda just waves him off without a word or a look. He looks grateful to make it out unscathed.

Miranda settles back in her chair, flipping open The Book, her pen like a sword at the ready. 

“You can go, Andrea,” she says without looking up. It’s almost a whisper, her voice not its usual crispness after hours of silence. 

“Yes, Miranda,” I whisper back. I stand up, my tablet tight to my chest, and make my way to my desk to grab my bag. 

As I’m walking toward the elevator, I can’t help but glance back. 

Miranda sits alone, the New York City lights out the window make her look like the only woman in the universe, surrounded by less impressive stars. 

I turn around and keep walking, confused and heady with a sudden, quiet realization. 

I don’t want to go.