“A what? Why?”

“I know we go way back, and I know you are struggling with something right now, but you can’t conduct yourself like this at my company. You need to figure out whatever is going on in your personal life and get it together before coming back to the office.”

“I said I’ll be fine. I said I just needed a night to myself. Not two weeks, Zareen.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“And I’m worried about your company. If you put me on leave, who’s going to run the programming then?”

“Marigold will do it,” she says with so little hesitation, it’s actually frightening.

I’ve been with Zareen for five years and suddenly she thinks some twenty-two-year-old who’s been interning with us for a month and a half is a capable protégé? Moreover, that Marigold has what it takes to hold down the firm for more than half a day without instant messaging me some novice coding question? I’m offended. Maybe Zareen’s the one who needs to take some time off and figure things out.

“So, you’re replacing me with Marigold?”

“No need for dramatics. You’re not being replaced. You need more than just a day, Charlotte. Maybe you can’t see that right now, but if what you said is true, then those are serious issues and you need to—”

“If what I said was true? You don’t believe me? You think I’m making this all up? Actually, don’t answer that. I’ll take the house arrest and see you in two weeks,” I say and hightail it to the door.

Chapter 10

I cancel all of Leno’s midday walks since it looks like I’m going to be home for the next two weeks and can actually do them myself for once. At least, that’s what this note from Human Resources in my inbox is implying. The note, coupled with Zareen sending me straight to voice mail three times in a row and not answering a single text, call, or email this morning, also tells me she wasn’t bluffing about this whole leave-of-absence thing.

The forced PTO makes me realize I haven’t taken a single vacation day in the four-plus years I’ve worked at The Influencer Firm, and it feels so weird not to be getting ready to go into the office today. Instead, it’s 8:30 a.m. and I’m troubleshooting the Keurig, which appears to be tits up again.

After pressing the brew button incessantly to no avail, I finally cave and decide to go to Alfred’s. Frankly, I haven’t been able to shake the honey-chai whatever whatever that Brian brought to WeHot, and if the coffee is ten dollars a cup, maybe I’ll sip it slow enough to do all the urn research I’ve been intending. So I strap on a sports bra, throw on a short-sleeved shirt, slide into a pair of leggings, and complete the whole “fun-employed” look by leashing up my dog, throwing my hair in a messy bun, and tossing my computer—along with my husband’s urn—into my bag.