1: 1

The night I lost the promotion, I crouched by the roadside with a box of fried calamari.

I ate them one by one, and the tears came down just as steadily.

I texted my girlfriend, Lucretia Henson:

【Kind of a rough day, but the calamari's good.】

No reply.

Half an hour later, I couldn't help sending another:

【You busy? I just want to talk to you.】

She finally answered:

【What's this supposed to mean? You want me to reimburse you?】

I stared at that line for a long time.

Lucretia's startup had barely gotten off the ground when her father drained every cent of her funding, and overnight she was buried under a hundred million in debt.

After that, the thing she hated most in the world was gold-digging.

And I killed myself proving I wasn't one.

In six years I never spent a cent of hers.

We split every bill, I returned every gift, and even at the company I laid all my project results out on the table for anyone to judge.

I refreshed my social media, and there was Clint Whitney, the intern who'd won the promotion, wearing a Philippe watch, captioned:

【Thanks to Ms. Henson for celebrating my promotion. I'll keep working hard.】

I'd seen that watch in a magazine. Three of them in the whole world.

In six years, Lucretia never gave me a gift worth more than a thousand.

And the watch on Clint's wrist was worth ten million.

The tears blurred the screen, and it suddenly hit me that all those years I'd spent proving I was clean,

in her eyes, probably weren't even worth the price of a single piece of fried calamari.

......

I finished the last bite, flagged down a car, and went back to the office.

The results were already posted.

But I still wanted to ask where I fell short.

Six years of project experience. Three straight years ranked first in performance. The most stable team in the whole company.

And I'd lost to an intern who'd just gone permanent.

The second I got out of the car, I saw Lucretia three meters away, bent over, opening the car door for Clint.

"There's no rush on this project. Get familiar with the process first."

"In a couple of days I'll take you to London to meet a client. Good experience for you."

"But I only just went permanent..." There was hesitation in Clint's voice.

"Doesn't matter."

Lucretia cut him off, her voice gentle.

"As long as you've got the ability. Your position isn't important."

"Besides, I'm right here. Anything comes up, I've got you covered."

The summer wind blew warm, and yet the soles of my feet went cold.

In six years, Lucretia had been to thirty-five countries, and not once had she taken me.

She always said, "We don't mix personal feelings into the company."

I'd asked, "What if I go as the project lead? Not even then?"

She'd looked at me and said, "Dudley Delgado, are you trading your project results for a business trip? You need to learn to mind your position."

Mind my position.

I minded it. I didn't dare arrive or leave with her, didn't dare post about her, didn't even dare ride the same elevator as her at work.

And then she turned to someone else and said, "Your position isn't important."

Clint spotted me and raised a hand. "Dudley!"

Lucretia followed his gaze and turned her head.

Her eyes didn't linger on me for even a second before dropping back to Clint.

"Come on, I'll drive you home. Get some rest."

Clint nodded, then smiled at me again. "Dudley, are you heading back to the office, or coming with us?"

Only then did Lucretia look at me.

"Just grab a cab home. Clint's place is the opposite direction. Out of the way."

But in the end she'd still come back to our home, so what exactly was out of the way?

Before I could say a word, she got in the car and started the engine.

I stood there in the wind and watched the car disappear.

That back, walking away, after six years.

Once, she'd have driven across half the city to pick me up when I had a contract to negotiate.

Now, it was out of the way.

On the HR department's computer I found the judges' evaluation sheet.

In the row with my name, Lucretia's score for me was: 58.

Six judges, and hers was the lowest.

I turned the page, and there was her score for Clint: 98.

I stared at that 58 and couldn't seem to catch my breath.

How could I have guessed it would be Lucretia?

She, of all people, knew better than anyone what I'd gone through these six years.

Every late night working overtime, every all-nighter before a pitch, every scorecard her eyes skimmed past. She'd watched all of it, with her own eyes.

And the score she gave me was the lowest.

"Why?" I murmured to myself.

The answer was the sound of a tear hitting the keyboard.

And, outside, the sudden patter of rain.

2: 2

By the time I got home, I was soaked through.

Lucretia was sitting on the couch, laptop balanced on her knees.

She didn't even look up.

“I reminded you to take an umbrella this morning.”

No towel, no hot water, not even a decent word of concern.

I stood in the entryway, water dripping off the ends of my hair, pooling into a small puddle on the tile.

“On the evaluation sheet, you gave me a 58 and Clint a 98.”

“Why did you give him the highest score and me the lowest?”

Lucretia set the laptop on the coffee table and leaned back into the couch.

“Because it was fair.”

“Fair?”

“A lot of people at the company have already figured out what we are.”

“Out of deference to me, the review panel was always going to score you high.”

“If I scored you high too, your contest result would mean nothing.”

“So the lowest score had to come from me.”

I looked at her and dragged out a bitter smile.

“Lucretia, six years. Not once did I ever use us to get an opportunity.”

“Every project I ever worked on, I did with my own hands. This contest, I signed up on the strength of my project numbers. You know that.”

She picked up her cup, took a sip, and set it down, the base tapping lightly against the table.

“Because there's one thing you still haven't learned. At work, if people think you got there through connections, then you got there through connections.”

“I gave Clint the highest score because on the day of his contest speech he went the whole way without notes, full of energy, poised. He earned it.”

“So you admit it. You gave him a 98 not for ability, but for how he carried himself?”

Lucretia stood up and looked down at me.

“Dudley, can you not do this every single time you fail? Start hunting for reasons to blame someone else?”

“You lost. That's all it is.”

I tipped my head back and fought to hold the tears in, but my eyes burned until they ached.

“If I'd lost because I'm not as good as him, I could honestly wish him well. But the reason I lost is you!”

“My girlfriend of six years! The one who saw exactly how hard I worked! And it was your 58 that dropped me from first to fifth and cost me the contest!”

Lucretia turned her head and clicked her tongue, impatience in her voice.:

“That's the difference between you and him. If he'd been the one who lost today, he'd just smile and wish you well. Always positive. He'd never blame anyone.”

“And you? All you ever do is sit here feeling sorry for yourself.”

I let out a laugh, and the tears came down.

“Lucretia, I've been feeling sorry for myself for six years.”

“But what hurts is that in six years I never once got a normal relationship! Six years of splitting every bill, returning your gifts, never riding to work in your car, laying every project result out in front of everyone for anyone to check——”

“I lived like that just to prove I'm not the kind of person you despise most!”

Lucretia said nothing.

She just stood there, hands in her pockets, watching me.

I slowly sank down, one hand braced on the floor, the water in my hair running down mixed with tears.

“Six years...”

“I tried so hard... why do I end up with nothing... why did it have to be you...”

I hugged my knees and cried out loud, my whole body shaking.

Lucretia's phone rang.

She picked up, and her voice turned gentle and patient at once.

“Clint? Mm.”

“That project analysis... I'll send you a template to work from... it's no trouble.”

“Ms. Henson... am I just too slow?”

Clint's voice leaked through the receiver.

“You're not slow. I'll teach you, take your time.”

A pack of tissues landed by my feet with a slap.

“If you're going to cry, keep it down. He's still over there rushing a proposal.”

“You can let one little setback drag you under if you want, but at least leave some quiet for the people who actually want to get ahead.”

3: 3

The next morning at the office, the break room was buzzing.

I walked in with my mug, and the noise dropped all at once.

Someone coughed. Someone else ducked their head and pretended to scroll through their phone.

"Hey, did you hear? The special pick crashed and burned."

"I always said he acted so high and mighty. Who knows how long he'd been kissing up behind everyone's back."

"Turns out Clint didn't pull any strings at all. He won fair and square, on pure skill."

"Maybe he's getting old. Can't perform in bed anymore!"

I stood there, nails digging into my palm.

Clint came over holding a cup of coffee.

"Dudley. You're here."

"About yesterday, I really feel awful. You're my senior, and beating you makes me so uncomfortable..."

"Let this coffee be my apology. From now on, feel free to teach me anything about the work."

He held the coffee out, held it there for a full five seconds.

I reached to take it.

The instant my fingertips touched the side of the cup, his fingers went slack.

Scalding liquid streamed from my chest all the way down to my waist.

I sucked in a sharp breath and stepped back on instinct.

Clint froze for a second, then looked down at his own hand.

"Dudley... did you, did you not grab it right?"

"I know you're angry with me... but you didn't have to refuse it on purpose..."

His eyes reddened, his voice trembling.

"That coffee was fresh. It was so hot I could barely hold it..."

Everyone's eyes swung toward me at once.

"Clint brought him coffee, nice as anything, and he not only wouldn't take it, he let the whole cup dump on himself..."

"Loses the promotion contest and pulls a stunt like this. Pathetic."

"What's going on here?"

Lucretia walked in.

Her gaze skimmed over Clint's reddened eyes and settled on my shirt, soaked with coffee.

Her brow creased.

"I was bringing Dudley coffee, and he didn't grab it right..."

Clint's voice shook. "It was all an accident..."

"I didn't—"

"Did it burn your hand?"

Lucretia cut me off and glanced at Clint.

Clint looked down at his own sleeve. There was a small coffee stain on the cuff.

"No, just got a little on me..."

She looked at me again.

"You made this mess, you clean it up. Go buy him a clean shirt."

I looked down at the burned red skin across my chest.

"I—"

"Don't stand here disrupting your coworkers."

Her voice was so flat there was nothing in it at all.

I looked into her eyes. No emotion, like she was looking at a stranger.

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

Forget it.

Nothing I said would she believe anyway, right?

I nodded, didn't say another word, turned, and walked out.

At the mall downstairs, I grabbed the first shirt I saw and took it to the register.

The cashier took the shirt, gave it a look, then looked at me.

"Sir, this size doesn't really fit you. Want to go up a size?"

"Also, that burn on you looks pretty bad. Do you want to take care of it first?"

I glanced down.

The dark brown coffee stain ran from my collarbone to my lower belly, stuck to my skin.

The burned patch was red, and a few blisters had already come up.

Even a cashier could see it.

And Lucretia could only see that one little stain on Clint.

"It's fine."

I scanned to pay, took the bag, and walked back to the office.

Standing in the lobby of the building, the tears just fell.

No one would notice me.

And there would be no Lucretia crossing half the city to comfort me.

I brought Clint's shirt to his desk.

Lucretia was talking to him. "That must have been a shock today. Take the day off and get some good rest."

"Thank you, Ms. Henson."

Lucretia didn't look at me.

"Dudley. His work today. You finish it."

My face didn't change. I gave a low sound of agreement.

I turned and walked back to my desk.

There was a tube of burn ointment sitting on it, unopened, a sticky note pinned under it.

【Remember to use it.】

I picked it up, gave it a look, and dropped it into the trash can by my feet.

I opened my computer, and a task list popped up on the screen, the work packed wall to wall.

I stared at the entries.

The back of my hand still had the burned red mark, and it stung sharply, pulling every time I hit a key.

At six that evening, I finished the last line.

I opened a blank document and typed the title:

Resignation Letter.