Pregnant By The CEO by Cassandra Dee
1
Casey
I’m late for work again and it’s raining. Blech. I don’t like rain in New York because it reminds me of home, and it makes me wonder why I even moved here in the first place. Then again, back in the Midwest, the pre-storm sky is so dark and deep, it can be frightening. When the clouds finally rip open, the deluge is practically the Great Flood come again. It’s absolutely terrifying. At least in Manhattan, storms are only an inconvenience.
Gripping the bannister, I quickly make my way down the slippery stairway into the subway station. Of course, there’s nothing worse than taking it slow down the stairwell and then watching your train pull away as soon as you reach the bottom step. Just my luck. I stand there, flummoxed, wet as a rat and pissed as hell.
But I’m not the only one. The platform is humid and thick with disgruntled commuters sweating in their raincoats. I regret my flimsy ballet flats and wish I had chosen boots today. My stockings are feeling pretty squishy and wet in my shoes, and it’s disgusting. I’m probably going to get hoof to mouth disease this way.
The digital sign above the platform tells us that a Manhattan bound 4 train is coming in three minutes. But you know how the NYC subway is – totally unreliable. The sign could say one thing, but reality often marches to its own drummer.
Eventually, over a loudspeaker a mangled voice tells us the MTA is experiencing severe delays. Shocker. People curse and start making phone calls. Some of the commuters just leave, grumbling as they go up the wet stairs.
I fish around in my bag for my phone and look up Uber prices. I instantly balk at the surge surcharge. What in the world? They literally want three times what the normal price of a ride is. I can’t afford that! So yeah, it’s not happening unless there’s magically a promotion waiting for me at work today.
I guess I’ll be staying at the office late tonight.
Time passes. My hair, which is always curly, feels like it might cross the line to frizzy. My bag feels heavy and weighs my shoulder down, making me walk lopsided.
When the train finally hurtles towards me on the platform, I draw away slightly, the gush of wind stale yet welcome at once. It’s impossible to move much though because the platform is still chock a block with people, mostly dressed for the office. There is the distinct smell of wet wool as I squeeze my way into a car and grab onto a strap. Clearly, we’re all going to get to work looking bedraggled.
Unfortunately, the train is so packed that when it starts up again, I nearly lose my footing. But once we’re moving, I manage to extract my phone from my bag. It’s already nearly ten, and my boss arrives at the office at nine. I make a mental note to text Nicole at the next stop. She can let Rhonda know that my extreme tardiness is out of my control.
But I’m lucky to have this job. When I was hired at Two One Two, I was straight out of college and brand new to New York City. I was living with four roommates (and, to my irritation, their boyfriends) and I’d never published anything outside of The Orange Gazette, my college paper.
And yet, I’d been so very cocky. I thought my degree in Journalism combined with pure grit would have me on the staff of a major news publication within my first week. I was very wrong. Of course, like anything, it’s taken time. After six exhausting months of applying for jobs, hearing nothing and spending money I didn’t have, I took a job as a waitress. No, that’s too fancy. Actually, I was more of a waitress-in-training slash janitor and barely got any tips, much to my chagrin.
But eventually, I got hired in an entry level role at Two One Two. I started out mostly writing captions and sub-editing other people's articles. The pay was atrocious and I rarely had a byline.
Finally, right when I turned twenty-four, I was given my own advice column called The Corner Chat. The Chat mainly focuses on matters of the heart, and I would like to think that I provide perceptive and impartial advice to my readers. It’s been my salvation because it allows me to cobble together a living, although I’m hardly living in luxury.
As the train crawls into Manhattan, the once overstuffed cars begin to thin out. I finally reach my stop and peel myself out of my seat. Like every morning, I tell myself maybe it’s time to leave Brooklyn and move into the city itself. With a lot of scrimping and saving, I might be able to afford a tiny studio. It would be small, but it would be all mine and the peace and tranquility would be such a godsend after having a merry-go-round of roommates.
Plus, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m twenty-eight. Thirty is right around the corner, and recently, it feels like everybody I know is getting married and having babies. It doesn’t look like anything like that will be happening for me any time soon, sadly. Oh well. Such is life. But maybe, by thirty, I’ll have my own apartment.
I imagine myself in my own place, taking bubble baths without worrying that someone’s angrily waiting for me to finish on the other side of the door. Cooking without someone else’s dishes in the sink. Walking to work on a mild summer day. Wow, that would be so nice.
Damnit. Those are just pipe dreams, and I know it. A studio in Manhattan costs thousands of dollars, and I just don’t have the kind of income to support that. Damnit. I might as well get breakfast. At least I can kind of afford that. I stop into the deli on the corner and order myself a bacon egg and cheese on a bagel. I grab an extra large coffee and stir through my two sugars and my half and half. I grab a few packets of snacks for breakfast as well.
When I finally arrive at my desk, a mountain of work awaits me. Oh god, it’s Wednesday. Wednesdays are always hectic because it’s the run-up to our Friday deadline. I suppose I should be grateful for the consistency, even if it’s chaotic consistency, but after a while, it becomes oppressive. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. It just wears a person thin.
Plus, on Wednesdays, I have to read every letter I’ve received over the week. From there, I choose what to feature in my advice column before penning a reply. Honestly, the pity parties can be a lot to take emotionally. I spend my weeks absorbing other people's heartaches and romantic troubles, and it’s exhausting. Who said this job was easy?
Sighing, I quickly pop over to my friend Nicole’s desk to say a quick good morning. She’s up to her elbows assigning coverage for the upcoming Food and Wine Festival.
“Hey,” she chirps, looking up from her computer. Nicole’s sleek as always in her black jumpsuit, with her blonde hair in a flawless ponytail. Visitors to the office generally assume she’s our fashion editor, and not the food editor, when they first meet her. After all, the woman positively oozes glamour.
“How was last night?” I ask, referring to her date.
“He canceled,” Nicole says with a pout. “What a jerk. Said something came up. Yeah right.”
“Maybe something did come up,” I shrug. “Maybe he broke his leg? Or his dog died?”
Nicole shrugs and rolls her eyes. “Well, I don’t know. I mean, really, a last minute cancellation? This is someone without manners. You know as well as I do that ‘the dog died’ excuse is total BS.”
I grin cheekily. “Write me a letter about it.”
She laughs. “Listen, I can’t talk now. You know, deadlines and all. But lunch later?”
I nod. “Let’s try the burger place that intern was raving on and on about. What could possibly be so special about this new place?”
My friend giggles and nods.
“I heard you can get double their special sauce on the patties if you just ask. I’ll come grab you around twelve.”
I nod and saunter off, a smile on my face. Burgers always make me happy, especially if there’s going to be a double serving of tangy sauce. But right, this is work. Back in my office, I take a deep breath, and then a bracing gulp of my coffee. It’s cold and tastes like a witch’s brew. Making a face, I open my emails and dive in. There’s no sense in putting off the workday any further.
Dear Corner Chat,
I’m crying as I write you this letter.
A few months ago, I started dating someone who I thought was my dream man. Let’s call him P. He was everything I always fantasized about: successful, driven and masculine. He was a fantasy come true.
As my boyfriend, P loved to spoil me. He brought me to quite a few lavish events during our time together. He was like a celebrity. Everybody seemed to know and respect him. We had many romantic nights and I felt like a princess most times.
But last week, the man went AWOL. He completely ghosted me for no reason. What happened? It was confusing, but I sat tight.
Finally today, I heard from him, but in a ridiculous way. There was a knock on my door, and when I answered it, some guy whom I’d never met before was standing there. He looked nervous and introduced himself as P’s assistant at work. I almost jumped out of my skin. My boyfriend sent his assistant to break up with me. Who does that?
Sure enough, the assistant said that P was “very sorry, but had decided that things were over between us.”
Before leaving, said assistant thrust a box into my hands, and when I opened it, there was a diamond bracelet. Again, who does that? Who buys off ex-girlfriends with expensive jewelry? It’s crazy, right?
My question is: what should I do now? My heart is completely broken, but I am also so angry. Plus, I feel conflicted by the gift. The bracelet’s exquisite, but it represents something so ugly. Should I send it back? What do you think?
Many thanks,
Diamonds Aren’t a Girl's Best Friend
I lean back in my chair, feeling bad for this poor woman. She must be crushed. Mortified, in fact. Who the hell is this terrible man and on what planet is he living on?
Against my will, my brain travels back to college. My senior year, I had a boyfriend named John. He’d swept me off my feet, telling marvelous tales of his school breaks spent in far-flung locations. Over the summer, he’d traveled through Europe by train. During the winter, he was off to Bali. But then the day before spring break, he broke up with me by letter, if you can even call it that. Out of the blue, he flew some skinny blonde chick to Paris with him for vacation. Very romantic, even as he destroyed my heart.
As a consolation prize of sorts, he’d left a long, dramatic Dear Casey letter on my pillow, along with an airline voucher. As if he could buy me off with a gift! Even worse, I’ll never forget my humiliation when I realized that everyone else living on my floor had seen him drop it off.
I’m years beyond that, of course. But hearing this poor woman’s story brings it all crashing back. The waves of humiliation. The feeling of being used and thrown away, with an airline voucher as a ratty consolation prize. The feeling of being paid to get dumped. Everybody told me it wasn’t my fault, and that John was the asshole, whereas I was the victim. But it didn’t make me feel better because everyone knew. God. The pitying looks as I walked around campus crush me to this day.
I eventually did get over it. I swear, I really did. I realized that it was John’s fault and that he was the dickhead. I did nothing wrong. But somehow, we never get over our teenage angst. So yes, I’m lost in a web of emotions reading this letter: fury, pain, and indignation race through my veins. Suddenly, I make an executive decision. I’m breaking my Wednesday habit and writing my response before looking over the other pieces of mail. The others can wait. Almost involuntarily, I begin typing up a quirky yet compassionate answer to my reader’s query.
Usually, these things take a bit of time, but today, my fingers fly on the keyboard. The reply is kind, but also bracingly honest because she needs to hear the truth. Her boyfriend is a douche, and someone’s got to tell her.
I do a few quick revisions and check my spelling. When I’m this charged up, there are bound to be a plethora of words completely wrong. A few copy-paste jobs here, a few edits and rearranging of words there, and I’m on a roll.
Once I’m fully satisfied, I email the letter and my reply off to Rhonda, my editor. I hope my letter writer, whomever she is, finds as much comfort in my response as she can.
I finish my coffee and toss the cup in the trash. Confidence surges in my veins and I feel like a conquering hero. Because there are so many asshole guys in the world and Casey Henderson, feisty advice columnist, is just the one to call them out.