Violet's POV
"I swear on everything I love, Fabian - and I mean everything - my kid has Fregoli Syndrome. Look it up!"
Actually, don't - because I can't even remember where I'd seen that word. The point is, I had a reason for being late. A very ridiculous and unbelievable reason. And of all the excuses to come up with, I had to come up with FREGOLI!! What the hell was that!?
"Violet."
My manager, Fabian, said my name like he was fighting for control.
"Fabian." I replied, matching his energy.
"This is the third time."
"Third time what?" I set my bag down on my desk with the confidence of a woman who hadn't sprinted four blocks in heels. "Third time I've dealt with a pediatric emergency this quarter? Yes. It has been a rough season. My son's school keeps calling…"
"You don't have a child, Violet." He said through gritted teeth.
A heavy silence fell over the office. Karen from legal looked up from her computer. She had been waiting for this moment. I could see it in her eyes. She'd packed a snack for this.
"Fabian." I placed a hand over my heart. "I am going to need you to think very carefully about what you just implied, because the audacity…"
"We've looked into it." He slid a manila envelope across the desk, making my stomach drop. "HR has reviewed your file. There is no child enrolled in any school district under your name. There is no emergency contact listed for a minor. There is no…"
"He's homeschooled."
"Violet."
"I teach him myself. On weekends. He's gifted, Fabian, he doesn't…"
"You're fired."
The word landed like a dropped piano.
Karen from accounting took a sip of her coffee. Savoring it.
*******
Here's the thing nobody tells you about being fired. It's not the word itself that ruins you. It's the elevator ride down. Thirty-two floors of standing next to a security guard named Billy who is very kindly carrying the sad little box of your desk belongings, and you have to just stand there watching the numbers go down while your entire life rearranges itself into a before and after.
Before: employed, functioning member of society, woman with a plan.
After: unemployed at 27, holding a cactus I'd named Sly and a half-empty bottle of hand lotion.
Billy didn't say anything. Good man, Billy.
I sat on a bench outside the building for approximately four minutes before the grief curdled into something hotter.
It wasn't even my fault.
And that - that - is where the story really begins. Because I could have accepted defeat. I could have wallowed gracefully. I could have gone home, cried into a tub of ice cream like a normal, emotionally regulated adult.
But no.
Because he had to exist.
**
Let me paint you a picture of my apartment building. Lovely place, really. Good water pressure, big windows, the kind of crown molding that makes you feel like your life has potential. I moved in eight months ago and I was happy.
Past tense.
And then, approximately six weeks after I'd settled in, the man in Unit 10B arrived.
I don't know his name. I've never seen his face. What I have experienced, intimately and against my will, is his entire personality - transmitted nightly through the wall we share like some kind of sonic torture experiment.
The music starts around eleven. Deep bass. Some nights it's jazz. Some nights it's something that sounds like a DJ having a spiritual crisis. Always, it's accompanied by moaning sounds from very enthusiastic women.
I have knocked on his door multiple times. The door has never opened. I have called the landlord - a man named Mr. Hank, whom I've never met before - four times. Twice, I got voicemail. Once, I got a very long hold music situation that ended in a disconnection. The fourth time, someone picked up, breathed heavily into the phone, and hung up.
I had started sleeping with earplugs, a white noise machine, and a pillow over my head. I was averaging four hours a night. Four broken, resentful, bass-thumping hours.
And today, because I had lain awake until 2 a.m. listening to the symphony of someone else's fantastic sex life, I had overslept, panicked, deployed my usual excuse with an invincible child, and lost my job.
So yes.
It was his fault.
**
When the elevator opened on the tenth floor, I did not go to my apartment.
I stood in the hallway for exactly three seconds, Sly the cactus under my arm, sad little box against my hip, and I made a decision.
I turned left.