© Dallas Smith

Natalie

It’s barely even December—not even technically winter—and it’s already fucking snowing.

I have a routine. Every morning, I wake up, do my morning YouTube yoga routine, shower, and get ready for the day. Then, once my roommate is awake, I make a breakfast smoothie for the both of us before heading off to work. It’s what prepares me to do the best I can at my job as a marketing copywriter. Starting the day off right helps keep me focused and sharp, so I can get the promotion I’ve had my eye on for the past six months.

Snow is not part of that routine.

I hate snow—city snow, at least. It’s never the picturesque thing on television or in movies with sparkling flakes that build up on the sidewalks and in the grass of Central Park. No, city snow is sludge. Cold, wet, brown—or worse, yellow depending on where it is—sludge. One would think that I would be used to it by now, since I grew up here and lived most of my life here. However, no amount of time spent living here truly prepares a person for having to dodge questionable piles of slush on their morning commute to work.

But I won’t let the gross weather sour my day before it starts. I need to keep a level head since today might just be the day the past six months of busting my ass at work finally pay off.

My team’s director, Mr. Bateman, said that upper management would decide who would be promoted to managing product marketer after Thanksgiving. When I checked my work calendar today before leaving my apartment, I saw he had scheduled a one-on-one meeting with me after the team’s weekly stand-up. Although I don’t normally ascribe to gut feelings, I have one that says that the meeting is about the position. Mr. Bateman has all but said I’m the front runner for it, and I can’t imagine any other reason he would schedule a one-on-one today instead of waiting until our usual monthly meeting.

Once I make it safely into the vestibule of my office building, I stomp my feet to get the slush off my leather boots, and shake the snow out of my shoulder-length brown hair. I frown when I realize the wet weather flattened the tousled curls I’d styled this morning. Why did I even bother? I head toward the elevator, taking it all the way to the thirtieth floor of the Manhattan high rise. When the metal doors open, I give the receptionist a small nod in greeting before heading straight to my office to shed my coat and prepare for the weekly stand-up.

My office mate, Juliet, is already in, which is a bit of a surprise since I always beat her in by at least fifteen minutes.

“Morning, Nat.”

“Hey, how long have you been in?” I ask as I hang my still snow-covered wool trench coat on the rack behind the door.

“Only about ten minutes,” she says through an enormous yawn. “Ugh, sorry, I barely slept last night. My family is still in town, and I love them, but Italian family gatherings are a lot. They’re driving me up the wall.”

I nod as though I understand, except I don’t. I’ve never had one of those big family holidays. It was just my mom and me for as long as I can remember, and she never made a big fuss about holidays. Half the time, she wasn’t even in town for the whole holiday—instead traveling across the country doing research for an article for her travel magazine.

“How was your Thanksgiving?” Juliet asks.

“It was quiet,” I reply. Quiet is vague, but it sounds better than “I ate a frozen turkey dinner from Trader Joes while watching the National Dog Show and read a motivational book on women in leadership positions.”

“I’m almost jealous,” she says with a laugh.

I laugh politely as I sit at my desk and plug my work laptop into the dock at my desk to use the double monitors and better keyboard and mouse setup. After a brief check of my email, finding nothing of importance since I last checked, I grab my notebook and stand. “I’ll see you in the conference room?”

“Yeah, I’m going to get a coffee first, though. Otherwise, I might fall asleep while Mr. Bateman drones on in a meeting that could be an email.”

She’s not wrong there. Our weekly stand-ups almost always could be an email—and often are, since Carol, Mr. Bateman’s assistant, always takes minutes and sends them out to the team after. I still like to show up early and be as attentive as possible anyway. I settle into my usual seat in the conference room, and after a few minutes, it fills with the rest of the team.

Mr. Bateman enters promptly at 9:00 a.m. and stands at the head of the conference table, giving the room a fake warm smile. “Good morning everyone. I hope you all had a nice holiday break and are ready to get back to work. I’m sure you all have a lot of emails to catch up on, so I’ll keep today brief. Chad, would you mind joining me up here, please?”

My head shoots up from looking at my notepad, where I was writing today’s date at the top. Chad? What could Mr. Bateman possibly want with him?

I glance down the table at Juliet, who gives me a small shrug as if to say “your guess is as good as mine.”

“As you all know, we’ve been without a managing product marketer for several months now since Mr. Peters relocated to Florida with his family. I want to thank you all for the extra work you’ve put in keeping this team running smoothly. However, it is my pleasure to announce that, finally, after months of deliberation and review of the team’s work, upper management has come to a decision about who will be filling the position.”

As he speaks, I feel a knot form in my stomach. No. No, no, no.

He is not about to announce Chad as the new managing product marketer. One of three other copywriters on our team besides Juliet and me, he is probably one of the most incompetent people I’ve ever worked with. He’s the epitome of “mediocre white guy with a rich dad” privilege. I’m not even kidding when I say that at least 30 percent of my job is covering for his shortcomings and mistakes. He can’t be getting this promotion over me.

But then, Mr. Bateman opens his mouth and says two words I never expected to hear without being laced in about ten layers of Juliet’s sarcasm. “Congratulations, Chad…”

I don’t hear much after that, my ears filling with white noise as I feel like the ground has disappeared beneath my feet. It takes whatever awareness I have left to keep my face neutral. What the fuck?

What the actual fuck?

This has to be some kind of sick prank. There is no way Chad is about to be someone’s boss. My boss. This can’t be happening. This was not part of the plan. I didn’t spend the past six months working my hardest to lose a promotion to Chad, of all people. I took on extra projects, came in early, sacrificed evenings out with friends to work late, put up with misogynistic comments from middle-aged men, got yelled at by customers and clients, and all for what? I put up with it all because I thought it would be good for my career. Apparently it didn’t mean a damn thing.

I don’t know how long I sit and stew for. The meeting must be over though, since the team is standing and chattering about their holidays. I don’t know if anything else of importance was said, but honestly, I couldn’t care less. Thankfully, my seat is by the door which allows me to make a quick exit before anyone else meanders their way out of the room. I beeline to my office, barely registering the click of heels behind me that most likely belong to Juliet. She’s one of the few people in this office that wears heels regularly. I’m in our office and halfway to my desk when the door shuts with a loud thud.

“What the hell was that?” Juliet asks, her voice clipped.

“I have no fucking idea,” I say as I drop into my chair, even though I’m pretty sure it was a rhetorical question.

“You deserved that promotion,” she says earnestly, and all I can respond with is an affirmative grunt. “You’ve been working your ass off—I mean, we all have since Peters left, but especially you.”

“I know. I’m as confused as you are, especially since I have a meeting with Mr. Bateman in ten minutes that I assumed was to talk about the promotion that apparently Chad got.”

“Shit, really?”

“Yup,” I say, popping the p.

She drops into her own chair, and we stare at each other for a moment across our desks.

“What are you going to say?” she asks carefully.

“Again, I have no idea,” I admit. With a deep breath, I stand and straighten my blazer. “But what I do know is that I can’t wait another eight minutes for our meeting.”

“Good luck.”

I give her a quick nod before walking with purpose out of our office and down the hall toward my boss’s office.