Chapter One
Jesse
After
“This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” I said, staring into the eyes of my executive team.
Some sitting at this table were the very first employees I hired when I started Cinched, a company that designed and manufactured shapewear, nineteen years ago at the age of twenty-three. Out of that group, a select few knew the news I was about to deliver. Others had speculated, I was sure. Over the last five months, I’d laid the ground work, gradually spending more time out of the office than in it, getting it ready to operate without me. The business was healthy. The last thing I needed was to create waves.
“What I learned from my dad …” I took a breath, trying to find a voice that wasn’t full of emotion. I told myself I wasn’t going to cry today, and I meant it. “Was a little something about time.” My voice softened. “How previous and valuable it is.” I paused again. I’d rehearsed this speech for weeks. It had sounded so much better in my head. “And right now, my time needs to be spent with my family.” I swallowed, the back of my throat pulsing, preparing myself for the news I had to deliver. “It’s time I take a large step back and let you all run the show. I’ll still be involved, but from afar, and I won’t be part of the day to day.”
I remembered when my high school drama teacher taught us how to cry on demand. We were told to concentrate on something so incredibly sad until the emotion overtook us. After several tries, I mastered it. What I had become even better at was holding in the tears and this moment was really testing that.
Cinched was my first baby, making it was a sensitive topic. So was knowing I’d reached the point in my life when I had to pull away and focus on my family.
My emotions were stirring.
They had been since I’d made the decision.
I looked at my vice president of sales, remembering his wedding ten years ago in Boston. It had been summer and outdoors and I had danced under the stars.
I took a breath and said, “I’ve watched this team tackle hurdles I wasn’t sure the company would ever overcome, some so large they threatened to put us under. You didn’t let that happen. You worked, you sacrificed, and you exceeded every sales objective I’ve ever set. I don’t have to tell you to take care of Cinched because I know you will.”
Several moments of silence passed before my CFO broke it and said, “On behalf of everyone at Cinched, I can say I’m going to miss seeing you every day. It’s a good thing I know where to find you when I need a Jesse fix.”
I’d known her the longest and worked with her the closest. When she first started, I couldn’t afford an office, so she came to my tiny apartment and we worked on laptops at my kitchen table. By the end of those two years, I could order for her off a menu and dress her every morning. When she went into labor with her first child, it happened in my office. I drove her to the hospital and sat with her in the delivery room until her husband arrived.
“Thank you,” I whispered to her, and then quickly glanced away, looking at the foreheads of the other team members. That was easier than connecting with their eyes. The sharp reality of not walking in here Monday morning was suddenly becoming more real by the second.
I made the mistake of gazing down, seeing my director of marketing. She had now been in remission for two years. We’d celebrated after every round of chemo. Some of those celebrations took place on her couch, but we still acknowledged every one. She had fought so hard and she was still here, stronger than ever.
I forced myself to glance away and I met more eyes, more history staring back at me. Pasts that were so incredibly thick.
I didn’t need to say good-bye or shake their hands or hug them. I wasn’t leaving, I was backing up. There was a huge difference. I released the edge of the table, a slab of oak I’d been squeezing since I’d sat down, and I offered them all a smile. “Thank you for giving me the best years of my life.” My hand then went into the air and I waved for a few seconds before I walked out of the conference room.
I stopped in my office just long enough to grab my coat and purse, and then I immediately headed to my car. The cold made the door creak as I climbed in the driver’s seat. My hand shook as I pressed the button that started the engine. I didn’t turn on the radio. I just pulled out of the parking lot in complete silence and drove through downtown Burlington, Vermont on this blistering February day. Ice sparkled on my windshield. Snow crunched under my tires. I could focus on these sounds rather than replaying the last several minutes in my head.
There were the words I had said and then there were the ones that never got past my tongue.
They were nothing alike.
At the stoplight, I could have turned left and I would have been home in four minutes. Instead, I went right, heading toward Saint Michael’s College where I’d been spending most of my afternoons. Six miles later, I was at the entrance of the campus, weaving my way through its narrow streets.
I parked directly in front of the library, grabbed the small bag from the backseat, and hurried inside to get out of the cold.
“Jesse,” I heard as I stepped past the doorway, just starting to loosen my scarf. I scanned the open space around the entrance until I found the source of the voice.
My friend, Bay, was standing by the first row of books, holding several folders against her chest, smiling at me.
“Hi,” I said once I made my way to over her. I pulled her in for a hug, squeezing for several beats before I let her go. When I did, I held out my hand with the bag. “This is for you.”
Her cheeks reddened. I could tell she was genuinely surprised. “You bought me something?”
“I saw it in the window of a store and it reminded me of you.”
“Jesse …” I could see the appreciation in Bay’s eyes. It was a beautiful thing. “You really shouldn’t have.”
“It’s just something small.” I nodded toward the bag. “Open it.”
She moved over to a nearby table and set the bag on top, reaching inside to remove the box. There was a red bow taped to the top that the sales clerk had insisted on. Bay lifted it off along with the lid and the largest grin came across her face. “Oh, Jesse, I love it.”
It was a keychain and dangling from it was a lemon made entirely of yellow crystals. It wasn’t large or flashy—things she wouldn’t like. It was petite and understated, like herself.
She held the keychain in her palm and closed her fingers around it, bringing it up to her heart. “I’ll cherish it. Forever.”
If I hadn’t cried at my office, I certainly wasn’t going to here, but Bay was making that so difficult.
I pointed toward the back of the library. “I’m going to go. You know where I’ll be.”
“Studying today?” she asked before I moved.