Expense it. Just get on the plane. Roland looked at her. He really looked at her. He saw the dark circles she masterfully concealed with makeup.
He saw the cold, sterile perfection of her office. And then he thought of his cramped apartment in Queens. He thought of Chloe sitting at the kitchen table last night drawing a picture of the two of them with a crayon that was down to a stub. He thought of the three school plays he had missed. The two emergency room visits where he arrived an hour late, smelling of airplane cabin air and expensive cologne.
He was 38. He felt 50. "No," Rolan said. Vivien blinked. It was a microscopic movement, but for her it was a flinch.
"No, no. " Roland closed his notepad. He said it gently on the edge of her desk. He didn't slam it. He didn't raise his voice. He was just immensely, deeply tired.
I'm done. Don't be dramatic, Viven, waving a hand dismissively. If you need a raise, we can discuss it after Zurich. I know you work hard. Just book the flight.
I'm not negotiating, Viven. Roland reached into his pocket. He pulled out the heavy tungsten key card that granted him access to every floor, every vault, every private elevator in the building. He placed it on top of the notepad. Next came the encrypted company phone.
Viven stood up. The irritation vanished, replaced by a sharp, defensive edge. If you walk out that door, Roland, you don't come back. I don't give second chances. You know that.
I know you're making a mistake. You have stock options vesting in 6 months. You have a pension. You're going to throw that away for a birthday party. I'm going to throw it away because my daughter needs a father, not a ghost who pays her rent.
Rolan turned around. He didn't wait for a response. He walked out of the office, past the rows of cubicles, past the security desk, and into the elevator. As the door slid shut, he expected to feel a rush of panic. He was a single father with a mortgage, walking away from a six-f figureure salary with zero backup plan.
Instead, as the elevator dropped 42 floors, Roland felt something he hadn't felt in 6 years. He felt light. The afternoon was foreign to him. For 6 years, Roland's afternoons were a blur of conference calls, crisis management, and fetching lukewarm salads for a woman who forgot to eat them. Today, he picked Kloe up from school at 3 course.
She stood by the chainlink fence, a small girl in a yellow raincoat, looking around for the babysitter. When she saw Roland, her eyes widened. She dropped her backpack in the puddle. "Daddy! " "Hey, kiddo! " Roland knelt down, catching her as she barreled into him. She smelled like wet wool and grape juice.
He squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face in her shoulder. It was a Tuesday. He was holding his daughter on a Tuesday afternoon. "Why are you here? " she asked, pulling back, her little brow furrowed. "Did someone die? " Roland laughed a dry, rusty sound.
"No, sweetie. Nobody died. I just I got off work early, like forever. Something like that. Come on, let's go get your cake. " The rest of the day was quiet.