“Don’t tell me you got the ax.”
I pull myself away from packing the few personal items from my cubicle at the interior design firm I’ve called home the past few years. Looking up, I meet Justine’s dark gaze, her expression awash with sympathy.
“I did.”
“Oh, Londyn…” Arms extended, she approaches, wrapping me in a hug. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I lean back, giving her a reassuring smile. “It was bound to happen when they brought in the efficiency experts.” I shrug, swallowing past the lump in my throat. It doesn’t matter how inevitable today was. It still hurts. “I’m one of the last hires. Not to mention I have the least experience out of everyone on the team.”
Justine rolls her eyes, flipping a few blonde waves over her shoulder. “Experience and talent are two different things. You can have years of experience but be a talentless hack.” She edges closer, lowering her voice. “Like half the people here.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay. Or at least I will be after I drown myself in a bottle of wine later.”
“That’s my girl.” She squeezes my bicep.
On a dejected sigh, I step away, scanning my cubicle, which is now devoid of anything personal. Except one.
Walking to the corner of my desk, I grab the small, framed photo of my parents and me from years ago. Twenty years to be exact. This was the last picture taken of us as a family before my mother was killed on this very date.
I think that’s why losing my job on today of all days has hit me so hard. Not because I’m now unemployed, but because of all the horrible memories associated with this day. Just once, I’d love to have a positive memory of June third.
“Well, I guess that’s it,” I say after placing the photo into my bag.
“It won’t be the same without you here, but I believe this is the best thing for you. You’re too talented to work here. I felt it the first time we met. You’re destined for greater things than designing kitchens and bathrooms in accordance with what our client saw on the latest HGTV show.”
I laugh. “Ain’t that the truth.”
She pulls me in for one more hug before releasing me. “Drinks soon?”
“Absolutely.” I hold her gaze another moment before turning and making my way through the cubicle-filled space for the last time.
Sympathetic smiles greet me as I pass, other designers in tears as they pack up their own cubicles. I suppose I should feel lucky I’d only been here a few years before getting fired. Some worked here for ten or fifteen years. Have families to support. College educations to pay for. I don’t. I only have myself.
Once I reach the elevator, I press the down button. A car arrives almost immediately, and I hurry inside. When the doors close, I expel a breath, thankful to be alone at last. I lean against the wall, looking up at the florescent lights in the ceiling. Maybe Justine is right. Maybe I’m destined for bigger things than regurgitating the same design over and over. I’ve always felt my creativity stunted here. Maybe this is my chance to go out on my own, start my own firm, do what I want.
My head held high and a renewed outlook filling me, I step out of the elevator and into the lobby, waving to the guard sitting at the security desk.
“You, too?” Oliver asks.
“Me, too,” I respond, my lips quirking into a half-hearted smile.
“Sorry to hear that, Lolo,” he says in his deep baritone, using the nickname he made up for me years ago.
“It’s okay. You should know by now I’m a fighter.”
“I know. I’ve seen the photos of you in boxing gloves on your Instagram. There’s no doubt in my mind you’ll get through this.”
“Thanks, Ol.”
Noticing a flicker, I glance over his shoulder to one of the half-dozen monitors spread out in front of him, most of them containing surveillance from various parts of the building. But the far one is connected to the computer, a news website showing a live broadcast from a church I know intimately.
“Do you remember that happening?” Oliver inquires, noticing my gaze drawn to the screen.
I swallow hard at the split-screen feed, one side showing the memorial currently underway, the other displaying archive footage of white-sheet-covered bodies being rolled out on stretchers.
I should have expected a few news outlets to cover the twentieth anniversary of the shooting. It was a pretty big deal back then. The first mass shooting since Columbine, this time at a church. It still catches me off guard, though. I didn’t think I’d see coverage of it here in Atlanta when it happened in Virginia. Or maybe I just hoped I wouldn’t.
“It was horrific. Some known white supremacist walked into the church during a choir rehearsal and opened fire. Killed twelve people, including the pastor’s wife. Luckily, the pastor and their daughter were elsewhere in the church and escaped. Sawyer Ross was one of the survivors, too. Do you know who that is? That television preacher and civil rights activist?”
I keep my expression even. “I’ve heard of him.”
“It was all over the news,” Oliver continues, not picking up on my unease. “Such a tragedy. A senseless act of hate. But you’re too young to probably remember.”
I nod. “Yeah.” I turn my attention from the screen, peering out the large floor-to-ceiling windows at the torrential downpour covering the streets.
“Pretty nasty weather, isn’t it?”
“Got to love Atlanta in the summer,” I muse, shifting through my bag for my umbrella, but it’s not there. Just my luck. When I don’t need it, I practically trip over the damn thing. When I do, it’s nowhere to be found.
“Take mine,” Oliver offers, grabbing the umbrella from the side of his desk.
“That’s okay. The garage isn’t far.”
“Are you sure?” He tilts his head. “I don’t mind. You can just drop it back to me tomorrow on your way into…” He trails off, realizing I won’t be back tomorrow.
“I’ll be fine. See ya around, Ol.” I continue past him, needing to get as far away from any mention of the infamous Virginia church shooting as possible.
Approaching the front doors, I hesitate when I see the rain is more like a waterfall, coming down fast and hard, the angry wind whipping around. I doubt even an umbrella will help in this weather. Maybe I should just wait for the storm to pass, sit with Oliver for a while. He wouldn’t mind. I’ve done it before.
But then I make out the familiar sound of my father’s voice coming from the coverage of the memorial. I can’t stomach watching that. Can’t face the reminder of everything I lost. Not only when that gunman opened fire in the church, but also five years ago when my own father refused to stand up for me at a time I needed him most.
“You can do this,” I murmur to myself, then open the door and step onto the sidewalk. A gusty wind blows back at me, causing me to lose my balance. I use the side of the building to steady myself, briefly reconsidering this decision, but eventually power through.
I rush down the sidewalk as fast as I can in my heels. The rain pelts me from all angles, scraping against my face, drenching my jeans and blouse. I hold my breath, as if that will make the rain not as bad, but nothing will help against the deluge coating the city.