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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2022 by Gillian Libby

  Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Stephanie Gafron/Sourcebooks

  Cover illustration by Sarah Dennis

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my parents, Jim and Debby. For all the books and always encouraging my own reinvention.

  Chapter 1

  If this is the real world, you can take it and shove it right up your ass.

  Maybe it was naive of me not to be better prepared for this outcome. And maybe I should have understood I might be the one fired if I didn’t keep my mouth shut instead of being the voice of the marketing department trying to explain to my boss at Butterfly Bridge that even if the toys his company makes are sustainable in environmental terms, the company he was running was not. But then I wouldn’t be me.

  The toys my former employer is attempting to bring to the world are made of beautiful blond wood—minimalist, sleek, and way too expensive. The kind of thing a parent will put on a shelf and photograph in a half-hearted attempt to show how chic parenting can be, but they’re not the kind of thing a kid is going to beg for or play with for more than fifteen seconds. Plus, they’re heavy, solid wood, making an excellent weapon for any toddler with a new baby sibling and something to prove. But Bob the Job had a specific idea of how he wanted to do things and wasn’t going to budge from that. I don’t think my parents are going to find any comfort in this explanation when I tell them I’ve been laid off. To them, it will be just one more reason to be worried that their daughter isn’t a capable, functioning adult. Which, in a way, is fair.

  I exhale, long and slow, a breath of disappointment as I shift the weight of the small box containing whatever was in my desk to my hip. On top of everything else today, I don’t need to spill the little terrarium of succulents I received last year in the office Secret Santa exchange. I reach to push the button for the elevator and squeeze my eyes shut as I feel them welling with tears. Now what am I going to do?

  “I got it,” a voice calls from behind me. I’m in no mood for human interaction, but when I see it’s Joss, a member of my former marketing team, reaching around me to push the button, I hand over the box for him to carry in relief. I wonder why he doesn’t have more stuff, though he only started a year ago and still works remotely most days.

  “I’ll help you get a cab,” he says. I can’t believe he’s still smiling. But he’s so young this is probably his first time being let go from a job. He’s probably thinking about cashing those unemployment checks on a beach somewhere. Honestly, there are worse plans.

  “It’s fine. I’m meeting some friends nearby,” I tell him.

  “In that?” He looks me up and down, fighting a smirk. At least I’m amusing as I hit an all-time low.

  I don’t blame young Joss for that look of amusement on his face. Not with the outfit this layoff has set on my body. I’m wearing all the clothes that have been cluttered under my desk for the last three years on top of what I wore to work today. Leg warmers (a long-forgotten Christmas gag gift), my very old Chapel Hill T-shirt (my backup gym clothes) over my button-down shirt, and a high-waisted faux-leather pencil skirt.

  “Failure is very in this season,” I grumble as my stomach seizes. I freaking hate that word. Especially when it’s accurate. I’m trying really hard not let this layoff feel inevitable just because I was on the team. I may not have believed the product I was marketing was particularly meaningful, but I always felt the value in trying to create something that would last. Not just helping to build the company, but producing a toy that would be handed down for generations. That’s what I tried to focus on, but clearly it didn’t make any difference to anyone. This job also marked the first time I ever felt I had my life and attention issues under control, and losing it is one big wallop to the self-esteem.

  The elevator reaches the ground floor, and Joss holds the door open, unnecessarily, as I pass by him. “Well, it looks good on you.”

  I stop and shoot him a sharp look. Can he just not?

  Joss bites his lip. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.” I take the box out of the former junior associate’s hands and make my way through the lobby to the street. I’m really done here.

  “Where’s your stuff, anyway?” I ask him. “Where’s that electric mug warmer you loved so much?” His mom sent it to him for his birthday, and he talked about it from September until March last year. I hate that I know this much about his relationship with hot beverages.

  “Still at my desk. Listen, before you go, I was hoping we could make a plan to see each other again. So we don’t lose touch.”

  Pass. Joss is a nice guy and everything, but it’s not like we were super close before this. He probably just wants to make sure he can use me as a reference when he’s job hunting.

  “Don’t worry, Joss. We don’t have to hang out just so you can use me for a reference.” I tug one-handed at the leg warmers that keep sliding down my legs.

  Joss tilts his head. “A reference? Oh, no. Millie, I’m not being laid off. I thoug
ht Bob would have told you.”

  Poor kid, they just haven’t gotten to him yet. “Joss, the entire marketing department is being shut down. I hate to be the one to have to fill you in.” But someone needs to prepare him. This is his first job, after all. It was mine, too, but after three long and dedicated years, I’m still his senior. Or was.

  “Right, the entire department except for me. I’m staying to run it. I’m reporting directly to Bob now.”

  I’m not a violent person, but as I stand here on the sidewalk looking at Joss’s dark-blond hair and blue eyes, imagining him and the three other guys I know from other departments that haven’t been laid off laughing with Bob the Job around the stupid office Ping-Pong table, I wonder what would happen if I kneed him between the legs.

  “But you’re the most junior person in the department.” And the only guy, which I’m starting to feel isn’t a coincidence. Seriously? Freaking start-up bros.

  “I know, and you did great work with all the blogger outreach. You shouldn’t feel bad.”

  My eyes widen at his patronizing words. I know I did great work. Or at least I was pretty sure before I was laid off and replaced by someone with less experience and none of my contacts. I straighten the terrarium I’m carrying and brush a few loose stones from the leaves. I hate that this is just the kind of thing that I would expect to happen to me.

  The only reason I moved to New York was for this job, and I’ve regretted it nearly every day since. But the big-girl job where I wore big-girl clothes (except maybe right now) made my parents think that I had all my attention issues under control. That I had outgrown my impulsive behavior. Three years ago, their opinion was really important to me. The job had a few other perks, but I never looked around and thought, “This is exactly where I want to be.” Maybe Joss did. Maybe that’s why he’s staying. Or maybe it’s because he has a dick in his pants, however micro it may be.

  “I’m meeting friends,” I tell him. “I’ll see you around.” Or not. Which would be my first choice.

  “Wait, before you go.” Joss hurries so he’s standing in front of me on the sidewalk. What hint does this guy need? “Let’s get a drink this weekend. My treat, obviously.” He smiles. “Since I’m the one still with income, right?” He laughs at his own stupid joke.

  “Are you trying to get into my leg warmers, Joss?”

  He laughs, and I immediately regret making a joke. It makes him think I’m not fighting the urge to push him in front of a cab.

  “We can start there, sure.” He wags his eyebrows while my stomach lurches. If only I could vomit on command. That might be the hint Joss needs.

  Instead, I reach into my box of dearly departed office accessories and pull out the little terrarium. As much as I enjoyed the collection of cacti, I want zero reminders of this day and was planning on giving the terrarium to Kate, my most understanding friend, when I met her and Bree at the bar. With one swift movement, I tip the contents of the little glass pot over the head of the guy who just last week was making appointments for me and watch as twenty-five dollars of dirt, pebbles, and tiny green plants tumble from his shiny blond hair to his limp shoulders.

  “Have fun going down with the ship, Joss. That cactus is better at marketing than you are, and it’s probably better in bed.”

  I sidestep around him and dump the rest of the box into the nearest trash can.

  The twenty-minute walk gives me a chance to cool off, and when I pull open the door of my favorite West Village bar, I heave a huge sigh of relief at the sight of two of my closest friends, Kate and Bree. We met in college along with my best friend and former roommate, Quincy. But Quincy moved back home after graduation, while Kate, Bree, and I all found jobs in New York. So, naturally, we moved there together. Or, in actuality, they moved together and I followed about a year later because I had a little trouble pulling the trigger.

  I wanted to move out to California with Quincy. That had always been our plan, but my parents were sure I’d become a waitressing surf bum, so when I landed the job at Butterfly Bridge, I went to New York to join Kate and Bree instead. Joke’s on my parents, though, because as of today I am a surf bum, just without the surf.

  “Oh, Millie,” Kate says, shaking her head upon seeing my odd outfit. She’s disappointed in me. Kate is like the prim mom I already have, but I still love her to death. She just wants us all to meet our hedge-fund husbands and move to the suburbs together. It’s the main reason she moved to New York. But she has a lot of great qualities too.

  “It’s a look, I guess,” Bree says, then purses her lips and rolls her dark-brown eyes up to the ceiling.

  “It was this or never see the contents of my desk again. Though most of that stuff just got dumped on Joss’s head,” I reply, then blow the air out between my lips, letting the reality of my day settle in. “How fun are start-ups?”

  “You liked it so much though,” Kate says. I shoot her a look out of the side of my eyes.

  “Back up. What about Joss’s head?” Bree asks.

  “Joss gets to keep his job, the only one from marketing sticking around. So I dumped some succulents on his head.” I shrug, trying not to show my regret at yet another impulsive choice. “That was after he tried to get into my leg warmers. Who knew this would be a look that works for douchebags.” I gesture down at my ridiculous overlayered outfit.

  Bree’s eyes widen as she raises her arm and signals to the waiter to get me a drink. Sometimes you need a Kate and sometimes you need a Bree.

  When the waiter comes over, I order a beer and then at the last minute shout at his back, “And the tater-tot poutine!” Because one, it’s amazing, and two, cheese-soaked carbs are good for sorrow and confusion. It’s a fact.

  “And yes, Kate, I liked my job when I got to talk to Quincy during business hours for work. Or when I was able to think of a creative press release that might get the company some attention. But no one wants a plain wooden police car for their kids for one hundred and fifty dollars.” I raise my eyebrows at the obscene number. “No matter how ethically or sustainably made it may be. They want the cheap plastic thing for twenty bucks that lights up and makes noise until it drives you to smash it with a hair dryer, and then when your kid cries about it, you buy another.” I shake my head. “Now that’s a business model.”

  “But all those mommy bloggers loved them,” Kate chimes in.

  “Yeah, they loved them when I sent them for free. But sometimes PR and marketing don’t translate to sales.” It’s a sad fact that I’d repeatedly told Bob the Job for the last year. I had to keep explaining to him that even though I was doing my best and getting our products plastered all over Surf Shack Dream House, one of the biggest lifestyle blogs (and the corresponding Instagram account), and many others, that didn’t mean regular people were going to buy the toys. I might have good connections with influencers, but I can’t make people spend their money.

  “What a waste,” Bree adds. “You busted your ass all through the work-from-home time and this is the thanks you get? I know you felt some loyalty or whatever after such a weird first few years with them, but come on.”

  “Was it loyalty or lack of other options?” I reply. I don’t know the answer, but I do know I want to put this all behind me as fast as possible.

  My phone dings with a text, and I flip it over to check it.

  Quincy: That sucks, Millie! So sorry!

  I look back up at my friends. I texted our ongoing group chat after I got the news from Bob the Job and may have vented a little aggressively. It’s how Kate and Bree knew I needed to meet for drinks. Our other friends are just catching up now.

  “Quincy,” I tell Kate and Bree, explaining the text message. They flip their phones over and read the message for themselves. “I don’t want her to feel bad after she helped me out so much with Alana and her blog. It’s not her fault Bob had to use wood that cost more per ounce than actual g
old.”

  “You don’t have to make jokes you know,” Bree says. “You can be pissed for real if you want to.”

  I shrug at her. It’s what I do. Make a joke, sprinkle any situation that makes me feel like a flaky loser with enough sarcasm to deflect from what’s really going on. I learned pretty young that if a teacher caught me not paying attention or doing something I wasn’t supposed to, if I made a joke, I could probably escape trouble. But I know I don’t have to do this with my friends, so I say the thing that’s been ringing around in my head since I heard the big news. “This never would have happened if I had moved out with Quincy in the first place. You know I love you guys, but New York just isn’t for me.”

  Bree gets it immediately. “Yeah, maybe you’d be a big influencer like Quincy instead of marketing useless stuff to them.”

  “Doubtful, but thanks.” There are a lot of what-ifs about California. Quincy and my long-buried dream of not working in a corporate job are two of the three biggest.

  Our friend Quincy is what we call in marketing a micro-influencer. Someone who has between ten thousand and fifty thousand followers. They make up one of the most important influencer levels because of their high follower-engagement rates. Meaning more of their followers are actual people who care about what the influencer is saying and not just someone shouting into an internet black hole of bots and hate followers.

  The funny thing about Quincy is that she doesn’t seem caught up in all of it. Which is why I love her so much. She updates her blog when she feels like it. Posts daily pictures of her cute kids and her rustic-chic beach cottage. Her ruggedly handsome surfer husband, Ari, doesn’t hurt things either. Blogging really took off for her a few years ago when she became mommy friends with Alana Tatamo, the founder of Surf Shack Dream House. But unlike Alana’s, Quincy’s blog isn’t a business; it just happened. Which I guess is pretty easy when you live somewhere as beautiful as Peacock Bay, California. Where every day has perfect waves to surf and golden hour lasts all afternoon.

  So while Quincy has made a career of just being Quincy, I’m unemployed in New York with its heat waves and lockdowns and blizzards that last until spring.