Page 13 of Buttons

“Thank you, Virginia. That will be all.” I turn away, dismissing her.

When the door closes, I slouch in my chair. Then, I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over her contact. I want to call her and tell her to stop this nonsense. But what would I even say? “You’re being unprofessional.” “The timing is inconvenient.”

The truth is, I’m annoyed. Inconvenienced. Betrayed, yes, but I force all my focus into what is tangible in front of me.

Our marriage has always been a sensible arrangement. Elowen understands my needs, anticipates them, meets them with absolute grace. Meanwhile, I provide stability, status, and security. This is just a tantrum, some misguided attempt to make me appreciate her more, as if I don’t already value her contributions.

My eyes dart to the clock. Nine a.m. Tuesdays are usually Elowen’s day to manage the kids’ after-school schedules. Does this resignation apply to her maternal duties as well? Am I expected to leave the office to play chauffeur?

No. Elowen is many things—including irrational, apparently—but she isn’t negligent. She has the children. She’s handling it. She wouldn’t dare disrupt their schedule to spite me. Likewise, I refuse to let Elowen’s emotional breakdown derail me. I’m Julian Plaza. I built this company from the ground up.

The day stretches before me, full of meetings I’m no longer sure are with the right people at the right times, files I can’t find, and questions I don’t know the answers to.

She’ll be back. She has to come back. Where else would she go? What else would she do? Elowen isn’t built for life outside the structure I’ve provided. She needs order, predictability, purpose. I just need to stay strong.

I stare at my calendar and it stares back, mocking me with its contradictions. The McNally meeting is scheduled for two o’clock, but so is the call with Singapore. Both marked “priority.” Both impossible to reschedule. Elowen would know which one takes precedence. Elowen would have caught this conflict before I did.

I dig my fingernails into my palm. This is fixable. Everything is fixable with enough focus.

“Virginia!” My voice carries through the open door.

She appears, notepad in hand, expectant. “Yes, Mr. Plaza?”

“There’s a conflict in my schedule. McNally and Singapore are both scheduled at two.”

She nods, waiting for instructions that I realize I don’t have.

“Well?” I snap. “What do you suggest?”

She dumbly blinks. “I’m not familiar with the priority levels of these meetings, sir. Mrs. Plaza usually handled these conflicts.”

“Fine. Get Gage on the line. He’ll take the Singapore call.”

“But sir, Mr. Hale is in Montreal until Thursday. That’s why the call was scheduled for today.”

Shit.

I knew this, or at least, I should have. It was probably in one of Elowen’s meticulously prepared briefing notes that I skimmed over my morning coffee. How had I forgotten?

Doing Virginia’s job for her, I say, “Then reschedule McNally.”

“They’ve already rescheduled twice, sir. Mrs. Plaza mentioned they were becoming frustrated.”

“I don’t need a history lesson; I just need you to fix it.” I wave her away, turning back to my computer.

The clock on my screen reads 10:43. I’ve accomplished nothing this morning, except discovering how many ways my day can unravel without Elowen quietly stitching it together behind the scenes.

The Morrison contract. I need to review it before tomorrow’s meeting. It should be in my active files, the blue folder Elowen always uses for priority documents.

I open the top drawer of my filing cabinet. Nothing but office supplies. Second drawer: reference materials. Third drawer: completed projects from last quarter.

No blue folder. No Morrison contract.

“Virginia!”

She reappears, more hesitant this time. “Yes, Mr. Plaza?”

“Where’s the Morrison file? The blue folder?”