Free Fairy Tale Interrupted by Rosemarie Terenzio

first issue—except me. Staring at the cover girl, a bewigged Cindy Crawford dressed as George Washington, with exposed abs that would have made the first president blush, my throat tightened. I wanted to share in his excitement, and I was excited to see the first issue, which we had all worked so long and hard to put together, but the fact that he’d left me out of the grand unveiling hurt my feelings. I’d been at George since the very beginning—we were “a little family,” according to Michael—and I thought they valued my efforts. The editorial staff might have been smarter, better educated, and more experienced, but no one cared as much as I did. For the past six months, I worked harder than I had at any other job (I hadn’t had a day off for three weeks straight), but just likethat, every insecurity I had was reinforced; I was just a dumb secretary again.

    As I stood there trying to fight off tears, John’s face clouded over with anger. “What’s your problem?” he asked.

    “I’ve been working my ass off and have had no life for about a year, and you can’t even show me the magazine?” I started to cry.

    “You know what?” he snapped, stuffing the magazine in a manila folder as if in punishment. “If this is the way you’re going to behave, you can just go home.”

    I fled his office like a schoolgirl who had been admonished by the principal and returned to my desk. John closed his door, but I didn’t go home. Instead I sat there—with red, puffy eyes, sniffles, and all. Nobody asked me what was wrong. Minding your business is the unwritten rule when dealing with those who have to cry without the privacy of an office, and I was a crier.

    John stayed out of my way that afternoon. Whenever he left his office, he skirted my desk without making eye contact. Crying and drama, especially when he was the cause, irritated him and made him retreat into a cold, protective shell. It felt cruel, though. As warm and welcoming as John was, he could be equally distant and punishing. Like everyone else, I wanted something from him—I wanted him to understand why I was upset, and felt betrayed and fooled that he didn’t.

    When the clock neared quitting time, I collected my things and prepared to meet Frank for a much-needed drink. I shut down my computer and steeled myself to say good night to John, which I did every day before I left. I lightly knocked on the door, and then opened it. John was sitting at his desk, looking through the day’s messages.

    “Is it okay if I go? Do you need anything else?” I asked.

    “It’s fine. You can go,” he said without looking up.

    I almost threw up. I ruined everything, I thought. Why had I cried? My outburst was so unprofessional. I had no right to expect anything from him. He was my boss. All he owed me was a paycheck.

    Nothing could cheer me up, not even Frank ordering a second round of our new favorite drink, dirty martinis. I was defeated, a feeling that stuck with me all night and into the next morning as I opened John’s mail at my desk. John called me into his office almost as soon as he arrived.

    That couldn’t be good. He was going to fire me, I was sure of it. My throat was choked with a fresh round of tears, but I squared my shoulders and opened the door to find John hunched over his desk, looking up at me.

    “Take a seat,” he said. He looked serious, and I readied myself to hear a lecture about what’s required in a professional workplace.

    “I’m sorry, Rosie,” he said.

    The sincerity of his words was so plain that I thought I would start bawling again out of gratitude and relief.

    “That was really rude and insensitive,” he continued. “I should have showed the magazine to you first. I should have showed it to you before they saw it. I totally apologize.”

    John meant what he said, and the gentleness he showed in that moment overwhelmed me. I wasn’t used to such generosity.

    “Thank you” was the only reply I could