Chapter 8: Work Talk Jar

Ivy found me at lunch on Thursday, in the stairwell, where I eat when I don't want to be asked questions.

She sat down two steps above me with a salad and a laptop.

"I need you to read something," she said. "And I need you not to be polite."

"I'm never polite. I'm accurate."

"That's why I'm here."

She turned the laptop around.

The subject line said: Request for transfer, Chicago office, VP track.

I read it once.

"You're leaving?" I said.

"I'm asking to." She stabbed a tomato. "The Chicago team has the same opening."

"And?"

"Dennis said yes to an interview. I texted Tristan last night because I needed a reference."

"I know."

Ivy stopped chewing. "You do?"

"He was asleep on my couch when it came in."

I heard what I'd said as it left my mouth.

"On a couch," I said. "In the break room. He naps."

Ivy looked at me for a long moment.

Then she decided not to ask, which is the finest quality in a person.

"I told him not to tell you," she said. "I wanted to say it myself."

She poked at her lettuce.

"I didn't want you to think I was quitting the race."

"Are you?"

"I'm trying to win it somewhere nobody thinks I'm his favorite."

I took the laptop onto my knees.

"Okay," I said. "Rule one. Delete 'passionate.'"

"I'm very passionate."

"Nobody gets promoted for passion. They get promoted for numbers. Put the numbers first."

Ivy leaned over my shoulder.

"The Fenwick account?"

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