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Even as I wonder this, a text comes into my phone.
It’s from her.
No words—just an image.
My stomach drops when I look at it. It’s the photograph Jack and I took on our first night on the island—the one he posted to his social media accounts.
No!
A pit forms deep in my gut.
She did see it.
But it’s worse than that. She saw it, and she saved it.
Now Devina has a saved photograph of me and Jack, cheek-to-cheek… Our ‘happy couple’ pose.
My hand trembles as I return her call. “H-hello…? Devina?”
I can hear the smug smile on her lips over the phone line. “Ah ha, Hazel. Wonderful. So, you should know that I’ve heard all about it.” Her voice is loud and brash, as always. There’s background chatter audible, along with music, which makes me wonder if she’s out at a restaurant or bar. She might even be on her way to getting drunk if the hint of a slur in her words is an indication.
“Heard what?” I ask.
“Oh, puh-lease! Don’t even. I’m talking about the little meeting you have planned with Fabian. I already heard from Fabian’s VA that you two are all set to chit-chat about you taking my job. I got her that job, by the way, so she tells me everything that she sees in his emails. Ev-er-y-thing.” She pronounces each syllable. She loves punching up the drama factor when she can.
I wince.
In my ear, she carries on. “I know Fabian wants me out, and he wants you in my position. Honey, you can’t handle the heat. You gotta have tough skin to do the work I do.”
As far as I know, being a manager shouldn’t be about being tough. If I provide good, steady, trustworthy leadership to my team, I won’t have to defend myself against attacks.
Being ‘tough’ might be Devina’s leadership stance, but it won’t be mine.
“Mm-hm,” I say. If my answer is vague, maybe she’ll move on.
Nope.
“You think you could’ve handled it when Rochelle and Martin ganged up on me last year and tried to take me down? Uh-uh. You’d have retreated, but I didn’t run and hide. Heck no. I held my own ’cause I have people in this company who have my back.”
We’re not at war, I want to tell her.
“Devina, I know this must be tough for you.”
Oops. That was probably the wrong thing to say. I meant to sound nice, but it came out condescending.
“Oh, nuh-uh!” she barks. “I will not sit here and listen to you look down on me. If you think I’m going down without a fight, you got that all kinds of wrong. No way I’m letting you sneak behind my back and take my job. You can keep your sneaky tactics to yourself and use ‘em on some other boss, in some other job, because?—”
“I don't think we should be having this conversation. It’s not up to us.”
“It is now,” she says.
I hear glasses clinking. A dozen conversations unfold in whatever establishment she’s in. The background music sounds loud and grating.
She’s letting this pause drag out, and it’s bugging me.
“I have to go,” I tell her.
“Don’t you want to know what I’m going to do with that photograph of you and Mr. Morgan, all snug-as-bugs-in-a-rug?”
