Page 61 of The Hard Launch

“Is that really all you were here for?” I ask her as she walks away.

“Absolutely!” she calls without turning back.

I roll my eyes at Trevor. It’s a reflex now, it’s all I did through the kickoff meeting, and it’s probably all I’ll do through the whole integration. Or until I leave or get fired.

“Everyone knows,” he insists.

“Yes, because you’re telling them.”

“Listen, little bro.” He swings a leg over to the base of my chair and uses his foot to roll me closer to him. “A couple things. One, this shit’s not that deep. You gotta stop treating it like it’s life or death, okay? It’s a newsletter that people put on the Internet and they email it around. That’s all it is. You and my boy in there are acting like a volcano just exploded on us. That shit’s not healthy.”

“Okay,” I say, wondering how I got to a place so dark that Trevor became the voice of wisdom.

“Two, whatever you and Jude have going on with the boot knocking, that’s your biz. But he’s the CEO, dude. It’s his company. And he’s already kicking his own ass pretty hard, so he doesn’t need you doing it, too.”

“Alright,” I tell him, because for once, I don’t feel like arguing. It’s also possible he has a point.

“Everyone knows you’re better than me, but I’m taking Project Z. You’re going to chill and prioritize the bug queue or watch refrigerator stocking videos on TikTok. We cool?”

“We’re cool,” I say, rolling back to my desk and into the bug queue.

This morning when I stormed out of the office, I wondered if maybe that was it. I imagined a version of my life where I never returned to the Lettercat offices again. Kate could pack my stuff up for me in one of those boxes that appear when there are layoffs. Maybe Faith and Layla would still be interested in me, or I could find another startup. Or maybe I’d pack my entire studio into a U-Haul and move somewhere down on the Central Coast, close enough to home that I could go have dinner with my parents on Sundays. Get a normal job with normal hours and try to learn how to behave like a regular employee.

I walked the path along the bay and felt bad about everything.

And then I came back.

Not because of Jude, or for Lettercat. I came back for Ingrid and Dave, maybe even a little bit for Trevor. It feels unfair to bail on them out of the blue, to leave them with this stupid fucking traitorous project on their own. I might hate everything we’re doing and the people we’re doing it for, but I’m a team player, goddammit.

If I do end up leaving, I’ll do it the right way.

I’m at work for the next few days, but I’m not. I attend all the meetings, I’m present for the conversations, but I don’t engage. I have nothing nice to say so I don’t say anything at all. I flit around the edges of things while decisions get made. I copy tasks into the tracking system, I log the dependencies that others flag, I prioritize based on what I’m told. My brain isn’t in it, much less my heart.

If Glenn were here, he’d give me a talking to. But he’s not.

“Is there a point where you’re going to be done sulking?” Dave asks, when I refuse to go out for lunch again.

“I’m not sulking. I brought leftovers.”

“So bring them. We’ll get something we can eat on a bench,” he says.

“We’re concerned about you,” Ingrid tells me.

“Is this an intervention?” I ask. But I go, because I remember that I’m here to support my team, not be the Ghost of Lettercat Past.

I sit on a bench and pick at the remainders of last night’s burrito bowl, jealous of the shawarmas Dave and Ingrid are eating, as well as their detachment when discussing our employment situation.

“The real trick,” Dave says between bites, “is deciding if the potential payout is worth staying for.”

“It’s not,” Ingrid tells him. “Unless you have way more equity than I do. I did some research: the deal will probably be structured so there are multiple payments. Corday Ford has a history of keeping people until the quarter where the final payout comes, so the cash stays on the books as long as possible. Then they do layoffs. You’re looking at a full year if you stay.”

“So why bother?” Dave asks.

“Indeed,” Ingrid says.

“Do you think they’ll hire when people start leaving in the short term?” he wonders.

“I don’t intend to be around to find out,” she says.