Page 39 of I Saw You First

This is it.

Jefferson A. Wilshire III is in the building and there’s a low hum of panic in every department. He’s got an entourage of corporate lackeys with him, including the Clunky Shoe Brigade. The men wear khakis and identical charcoal gray polos with the Hometown logo.

Except for Mr. Wilshire, that is, who wears a navy suit with tie, vest, cufflinks, shiny shoes, the whole shebang. He’s shorter than I would have expected—much shorter than Wil—with sandy hair, freckles, a pale blond caterpillar mustache, squinty eyes, and a perma-frown. He is the opposite of Wil in every way. Well, except for the frown.

I’m working a mid-shift today, 9 to 5, and Felix, the district media manager, arrived at 10 for the long-awaited evaluation. Of course, today had to be the day Kevin called in “sick”—in other words, some new PlayStation game was released this week—and it’s Aurora’s only day off this week now that we’ve lost Courtney, whose position hasn’t been filled yet. Wil leaves at least four messages for Aurora until I hiss at him that she’s trying on wedding dresses with her mother and maid of honor today and he should leave her alone. She found her dress last weekend, though, so I make a mental note to inform her of this cover story.

Wil hisses back that I need to make sure I’m on the sales floor and engaging with every single fan. He even hands me a clipboard.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask.

“Look important and make sure you speak to every single fan,” he repeats. Then he scurries off to walk the department with Felix.

An hour later, Wil and the Corporates (ooh, good band name) are clustered around the media desk, including Mr. Wilshire. Wil stands stiffly, his arms wrapped around a clipboard (looking important) while a white woman with long, glistening, golden hair gestures at a cardboard display of computer games that’s seen better days. As in the days before it was packaged and shipped to the store.

“How can you allow this on the floor, Wil?” the woman asks. “The bottom corner is so mangled it doesn’t even sit level. I can only imagine how it got damaged in the first place.”

A muscle in Wil’s jaw twitches. Oh, god, I know that look. He’s pissed. He’s going to blow. He cannot lose his temper in front of the CEO, even if it is his dad.

“I’ll talk to Aurora about it⁠—”

I cut him off. “Hi.” I put my hand up in an awkward wave. The woman whirls around to face me and places her hands on her hips. I give her my biggest, brightest smile. “That particular mass display arrived damaged. In fact, the bottom piece was basically destroyed. We repaired it the best we could with another piece of cardboard and packing tape, in a way that wouldn’t be immediately visible.”

“Who’s this?” she asks. She looks at Wil instead of acknowledging me or my explanation.

“Abbey,” Wil says, “our new ATC. Rhodes, this is Kelsey Schmidt, my sister.”

His sister! She radiates complete bitch. This family is something else.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Kelsey says with a sniff.

I tip my head and scrutinize her hair and face and expressions, trying to find something of Wil. Like their father, she’s pale, and I’ll bet if I look closely enough, I’ll find freckles under all that foundation, concealer, and bronzer. I’d also bet that those glistening, golden waves come with a hefty price tag and a trip to the salon every six weeks.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I hold out my hand, but she ignores it.

“New ATC,” she says as she flips her perfect hair over her shoulder. “If you’re new, Abbey, perhaps you’re not aware of the process, although your team captain or manager should have explained it to you. When displays arrive damaged, you must send an email immediately so that I can order a replacement, although I would prefer if the team captain, not the assistant, sent it.” Her tone is smug, condescending, and filled with italics. She sniffs again, like she’s discovered dog poo on the bottom of her clunky-heeled shoe.

If I’m the dog poo in this scenario, she’s got another thing coming. Not today, sweetheart. I don’t care whose daughter or sister you are—I work my ass off for this company for pennies, and you’re not going to talk to me like that. Empowered women empower women, remember?

I smile broadly. “I am aware, thank you.” My words drip with saccharine sweetness. I’m like a can of Diet RC that’s been dropped, rolled across the floor, and is about to fizz over. I italicize like her. For emphasis. “I did email you before we even attempted the repair. In fact, it was the very first email I sent as ATC, as Aurora was off that day, and I didn’t think something of such a critical nature should wait. I spoke with my manager about it, and he agreed.”

Kelsey reaches into her camel-colored Coach satchel and pulls out a Palm Pilot digital organizer. “I don’t recall seeing an email about this.”

“Maybe you should check again,” Wil says.

“That’s what I’m doing,” she snaps. “What day did you send it?”

Wil looks at me, his left eyebrow raised slightly.

“The display arrived last Tuesday. New release Tuesday,” I stress. “I remember exactly, because of course we had so much new product to get out to the floor, and then we had to deal with this, too. Really inconvenient, as you can imagine. I almost missed clocking out for my lunch break, which, as I’m sure you know, is against labor laws.” I smile again.

Wil makes a strangled noise in his throat. His father sighs. One of the other women takes a compact and lipstick out of her purse for a touch-up, then turns to Wil and gives him a simpering smile. He looks away.

“Ah,” Kelsey says. “Here it is. I must have missed it.”

“You don’t say,” Wil says dryly, and I can only imagine what their sibling spats must have been like growing up.

“Last Tuesday was extremely busy,” Kelsey says sharply, but her cheeks color slightly.