“Does that mean I can order anything I want?”
“Obviously.”
I walk toward the office, soaking in the sunshine, absorbing the sounds of the city, drinking in all that Manhattan has to offer. As my shoes click-clack on the sidewalk, I think of my mother’s advice in all its myriad forms.
Her sassy little sayings, like If looks could kill, women wouldn’t need frying pans. The more straightforward ones, like Go big or go home. The adages delivered at a roadside diner, like Don’t let anyone stand in the way of your dreams, your dream jobs, or your sweet dreams.
There were others as well—anthemic ones about not needing a man.
She was right there too. As I walk through the city on my way to work—to a job I earned, a job I love—I realize something powerful.
Something true.
I don’t need a man.
I absolutely don’t.
But I want one.
I want one man.
And I want to be under that man at night, in the kitchen or in his bedroom.
But I don’t want to be a woman who works under that man.
That’s not because of him. And it’s not because I’m worried that others will see me as less powerful, or that my identity is tied up in what my team thinks of me.
This choice is mine. It’s about what I want.
I don’t want to work under any man, or any woman, or anyone.
I don’t want to do that anymore.
When I see Teagan waiting in the coffee shop with two lattes, I march up to her, grin, and say, “I have this crazy idea that I need to run past my best friend in the whole world.”
“All ideas must receive the friendship stamp of approval. So lay it on me.”
As I drink the latte, I tell her, and she practically shakes pom-poms and does cartwheels.
Then, I go into the office and straight to see Isaac, giving him my two weeks’ notice.
33BRYN
Isaac sighs heavily but smiles. “We’re going to miss you.”
“I’ll miss you.”
He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers together. “I knew it was only a matter of time. You were never ours to keep.”
I laugh softly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“And I know you are going to do big things.”
“Thank you.” I clear my throat, draw a breath, then tell him one more thing. The hard thing. “Also, since I don’t want you to hear this from anyone else, I’m dating Mr. Clarke.”
“Oh.” He sounds shocked.
But it’s not as difficult a thing to say after all—because it’s true, and because everything about this moment feels right. All of this. “It started before he bought the company. Before either of us knew who the other one was. And that’s what our meeting with you today was going to be about. To let you know. But I guess we don’t have to worry about those details now.”
“No, seems you don’t.” As his eyes narrow, his papa bear comes out with a growl. “Did he pressure you to leave though? I have to ask.”
I scoff, waving a hand. “Absolutely not. I think this has been brewing in me for a long time. I want to do my own thing. Be a consultant. Run my own business and advise others on content partnerships. It has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with me.”
He nods and smiles. “Good to know.”
I thank him, leave, and head to meet my team for the editorial meeting. But I stop inside the conference room door.
That’s odd.
Logan is here, holding a Calvin and Hobbes lunch box.
Next I register the frozen tableau of Matthew, Rosario, James, and Quentin. “Everything okay? What’s going on?”
Practically in unison, they gesture to Logan. “He’s Mr. Lunch Box?” Rosario blurts, and I wince.
“Mr. Smolder,” Matthew adds, like I might have forgotten who Mr. Lunch Box is.
I heave a sigh, frustrated that today isn’t going to plan.
