I’ve got to find Chelsea Williams.
Calling her is obviously out, given she no longer has a working phone. But she lives with Monica. As I head up in the elevator to my office, it occurs to me that I could look up her address in the computer and pay ol’ Chelsea a visit. Maybe I’ll do it during lunch, at a time I’m sure Monica won’t be around.
Except as I’m walking to my office, Denise is standing in the doorway, a grim expression on her face.
Christ, what now?
“Abigail,” she says sharply. “Can I speak with you in my office?” “Now?” I say.
She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “Yes, now.”
I wordlessly follow Denise down the hall to her office. Her heels click loudly on the floor, echoing through the relatively quiet room. I look around and notice everyone seems to be staring at us. What’s going on here?
“Please have a seat,” Denise tells me, gesturing at the chair in front of her desk.
I settle into the chair, my heart now pounding audibly in my chest. There is no way this is good news. She’s definitely not telling me I just got a promotion and a huge raise.
“As you know,” she begins, her ice-blue eyes on my face, “yesterday, we completed company-wide urine drug testing. I was informed this morning that your test came back positive for methamphetamines.”
My… what?
“That… that’s got to be some sort of mistake,” I gasp.
“Is it?” Denise arches an eyebrow at me. “Your behavior has been increasingly erratic in the last several months. I’ve been suspecting drugs were involved for some time now. This only confirmed my suspicions.”
I feel like someone punched me in the gut. How could there have been meth in my urine? That’s not possible! I don’t take meth. I don’t even know how to take meth? Do you snort it? Smoke it? Chew it? Mix it in a blender with bananas and yogurt?
The only thing I’ve been taking is an occasional sleeping pill. But I haven’t had one in a week… and anyway, I’m pretty sure sleeping pills don’t have meth in them. It would defeat the purpose.
“I don’t take meth,” I manage. “This is a big mistake.”
Denise rolls her eyes. “Well, in any case, the laws in New York State allow us to dictate our own policy for positive drug screens, and Stewart has a zero tolerance policy. So as of now, you are terminated.”
I’m… fired?
I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve never done drugs in my life. I’ve never even smoked a joint! I’m too square for any of that. I know there are rumors about businesspeople doing coke and then there’s that opioid epidemic, but I never do any of that! Hell, I’ve never even smoked a cigarette.
“I swear to you,” I choke out, “I never… I mean, I would never… you
know me, Denise…”
“Do I?” The woman who hired me right out of college more than a decade ago raises an eyebrow. “I gave you an incredible opportunity, Abigail. I put my trust in you. You’re the one who chose to throw it all away.” For a moment, her voice breaks. “I’m very, very disappointed.”
I think back to the day when I got the call from Denise Holt herself, telling me I was her new assistant. As soon as I put down the phone, I started jumping around the room and shouting like a crazy person. She was my idol. And those first few years, she was so good to me—she taught me everything she knew. Not just about the advertising business, but about life. She listened when I admitted things were getting serious with my mathematician boyfriend. He sounds like a keeper, Abigail. She taught me how to dress, how to smile, and how to be confident.
I still remember standing in the ladies’ room with Denise, the two of us giggling like schoolgirls while I attempted to twist my hair into a chignon. I doubt many people besides me have seen that side of Denise Holt. I haven’t seen it in years.
“Please, Denise.” I’m ready to get down on my knees. “You have to believe me.”
When she raises her blue eyes, that twinge of emotion has disappeared. “I’m sorry, Abigail.”
I’ll have to go over Denise’s head. I’ll have to talk to her boss, and figure out if there’s anything I can do. But it can’t be now because a security guard has arrived to escort me out of the building. They don’t even let me go back to my office. The guard marches me right out to the elevators, in front of everyone. I can hear them whispering.
Everyone knows.
I realize at this moment that I can never return to Stewart Advertising. My reputation has been irreparably tarnished. And what sort of job will I land with this in my history?
As soon as I get out of the building, I hail a taxi back home even though I usually take the subway. I need a taxi. I don’t think I can keep from crying for the length of a train ride. As it is, I sob in the back seat the entire way home. The taxi driver doesn’t comment.
When I get back to the condo, I can hear the water running in the bathroom. Sam must still be home. Thank God. I need someone to talk to about this. He’ll know what to do.
He comes out of the bathroom, his hair still damp from the shower, his face smooth and smelling of aftershave. His eyes light up when he sees me. “Abby! What are you doing home?”
It takes him another half-second to notice the tears in my red, swollen eyes. He sprints across the room, his brow furrowed. “What’s going on? What happened?” Before I can answer, he says, “Is Monica okay?”
“Is Monica okay?” I practically scream at him. “Is that the first thing you ask when you see me crying?”
“Well, I… I just thought…” His face turns bright red as he stammers out the words. “I thought maybe it was something with the baby…”
“No, Monica’s fine,” I snap at him. “The baby’s fine. But I…” His brow creases, looking down at me. “What?”
“I… I got fired!” I sob.
He pulls me close to him, even though I’m ruining his dress shirt with my tears and snot. He doesn’t seem to mind. He holds me until my shoulders stop shaking.
“That Denise is unbelievable,” he says. “You need to fight this. Take them to court for wrongful termination. What was the bullshit reason they gave for firing you?”
I pull away from him, wiping my eyes. “My drug test came back positive for methamphetamine.”
Sam’s mouth falls open. He drops his arm from my shoulder and takes a step back. “What?”
“Denise told me this morning,” I say. “They did this urine drug test yesterday and apparently it was positive for meth.”
He takes another step back, shaking his head. “You’re not serious.”
Oh my God, does he think I was actually doing meth? He can’t possibly. “It’s a false positive, Sam. I’m not doing meth!”
But he doesn’t say anything. He just keeps staring at me.
“Sam!” My heart is pounding. “You don’t really think I’m a meth addict, do you?”
“No…” He squints at me through his glasses. “But… you have to admit, it does explain a lot of your behavior lately. The way you’re up pacing every night. The paranoia.”
“Yes, but the insomnia is from stress.” I frown at him. “And I’m not paranoid.”
“You’re definitely paranoid.” “No, I’m not!”
“Abby.” He shakes his head at me again. “You went on a long rant last night because you were trying to get through to Monica’s roommate on the phone and couldn’t. You thought something terrible was going on.”
“You don’t think that’s at all suspicious?”
“No, I don’t! And you can’t seem to keep track of any of your meetings. You mixed up the times for Monica’s appointments. Plus you’re constantly talking about how you think Monica is up to something…”
“She almost got me fired!”
“No.” He takes another step back. “You got yourself fired.”
My stomach sinks. “Sam, I swear to you: I’m not taking meth.” He doesn’t say anything.
“Please.” The tears spring to my eyes again. “You’ve got to believe me.
You’re my husband. If you don’t believe me, then…”
Sam blinks a few times. “I… I’ve got to get to work, Abby.” “Do you believe me?”
He lets out a long sigh. “Yeah. I guess so.”
I try to reach for him again, but he jerks away. It’s obvious that in spite of what he says, he doesn’t really believe me. My own husband thinks I’m a meth addict.
