The Invitation by Adriana Locke

Georgia

“No, but I see what you mean,” I say. April my new coworker stands on the other side of my desk, showing me a draft for a promotional packet we’ve been working on this week. “I don’t like it either. It doesn’t grab attention or evoke any kind of emotion.” I look up at her. “I think we can reject it and have the art team try again.”

“I agree.” She sighs, smiling at me. “I love having you here. My gosh, it’s so nice being able to collaborate with someone this easily. They usually hire men who think they know it all, and then I’m left doing all the work—and then redoing it the way it should’ve been done in the first place if they would’ve listened to me.”

I fold my hands on my desk. “I’m really loving it here, too. Everyone is so nice and welcoming.”

“You’re a perfect fit.” She taps the paper against her hand. “I’m going to officially reject this design and then grab lunch from the sandwich shop on the corner. Want anything?”

“No, thank you, though. I brought my lunch.”

“Suit yourself. See you in a bit.”

“Hey, will you close my door on your way out?” I ask.

She nods and pulls it shut behind her.

I put my desk phone on Do Not Disturb and grab the applesauce I brought for lunch. It’s all I’ve been able to keep down all week.

I’m stuck. I’m stuck and I don’t know how to get myself unstuck. I can’t force myself to reach out to my mother, which is completely childish and immature. But if I call her first, she’ll come to the conversation with a victim mentality, believing she was in the right all along. If that happens, I might really snap on her.

No one needs that.

But I’m not sure if she’ll ever come to me first. It’s never happened before. She’s never apologized to me for anything. I don’t even think she’s ever acknowledged that she was wrong. I don’t need a big production made of it, but I do need her to accept some responsibility—both for herself, and for our relationship.

I simply can’t, and won’t, do it anymore.

I peel open the applesauce and find my plastic spoon in my bag. As soon as it’s in sight, my chest squeezes and tears fog up my eyes. Ripley and his Dora backpack.

A solitary tear streaks down my face, rolling over my cheek, lips, and off my chin.

My God, I miss him.

Ignoring the spoon, I take out my cell phone instead and find his name.

Me: I miss you.

Ripley: You have no fucking idea how much I miss you.

Another tear drips down my cheek.

Ripley: What do you need?

“You,” I whisper.

Me: Nothing you can help me with. I need to figure out how to talk to my mother without killing her. I’m so angry with her, Ripley. SO MAD. I can’t get beyond it. And it’s doing to me what holding on to my anger at you for all of those years did—it’s delaying my happiness. But I just can’t apologize to her. I can’t lose her, either. I don’t know what to do.

I start to put my phone away, not expecting an answer. But just before I drop it into my bag, it dings.

Ripley: That’s all you had to say.

“What does that even mean?” I ask, before typing a cookie emoji back to him and then turning off my phone.

I swing back to my applesauce and notice a file sitting on the corner of my desk. What’s that? I slide it over and open it to see where to return it.

The first line catches my attention and causes my jaw to drop.

“What do the Downings have to do with the Brewer family?” I ask aloud, scanning the document.

I go line by line, feeling dirty for reading something that isn’t mine. But the fact that it involves Ripley’s family, naming Gannon intentionally, makes it feel like my business.

It’s an old document, dated a year ago, discussing a lawsuit between the two families. By the looks of it, my employer lost.

Notes behind the first few pages detail their case, and why they thought they were owed the money—because Reid Brewer promised but they never received a kickback for a deal that I can’t make sense of but looks illegal based on the attorney’s language.

My brain scrambles as I process this information.

If I’m understanding this correctly, the Downings are unscrupulous.

The Downings tried to embezzle the Brewers?

Fuck.

What the hell do I do with this?

My heart races as I weigh my options. I love this job, and everyone here has been very fair and generous. And, quite frankly, I need the money.

But what would it say to Ripley if I stayed?

You were out of work for months, Georgia. It took so long to find a job that fit. God.

I bite my lip and glance into my bag at my phone.

“Then why didn’t you just let him talk shit?” A softness drifts across Ripley’s face. “Because it was about you.”

I shove away from my desk and grab the folder, then make my way into the hallway. My heart picks up its pace with every step I take, and my palms sweat against the papers in my hand.

Mr. Downing sits behind his desk with the door open and looks up just as I arrive.

“Ah, hello, Georgia,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “What can I do for you?”

I march into his office and lay his folder next to his pen. “You left this in my office.”

“Thank you.” His brows pull together as if he’s concerned. “I would’ve been looking for that this afternoon.”

“I also need to let you know that I’m leaving, and I won’t be returning. Thank you for the opportunity, but I quit.”

Confusion riddles his face. “I’m sorry. You’re quitting? Is that what you said?”

“Yes. Effective immediately.”

“Did something happen?”

“Yes, Mr. Downing, something did happen. My loyalty lies elsewhere. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t understand.”

I give him the best, most professional smile I can muster. Then I turn on my heel, grab my bag from my office, turn off the light, and leave.