“I know. But I bet this isn’t the first time they’ve had this happen. So I’ll call, ask them for advice. Consignment shop, eBay, who knows, maybe they have someone who’ll buy it at a discount. I’m going to handle the dress for you, and what else I can. And you know you’d do the same for me.”
“I would. And when this is behind us, I’m taking you for a weekend. A spa weekend. Mom, too. Yours if she can fly up. Girls’ trip in lieu of honeymoon.”
“I’m all in for that. Are you ready to go kick balls?”
“They’re not combat boots, but they’ll do.”
As she drove through the madness of Boston morning commute traffic, Sonya reviewed her plan. In theory, it seemed simple.
She’d ask for a few minutes to speak with either of the co-owners of By Design—and keep that simple, too.
She’d called off the wedding after realizing she and Brandon weren’t suited, and weren’t ready for marriage. No further details necessary.
Due to the stress of that decision, she’d request, for the next few months, at least, she and Brandon not be assigned to the same project.
Brandon had seniority. While she’d worked at By Design for seven years, including an internship, he had nearly ten in. But they’d both climbed up the ranks, had their own offices, often headed projects, put their own teams together.
He specialized in advertising—billboards, television, and internet ads. And he was good, she couldn’t deny it. He was very, very good. The dickhead.
Though digital art—websites, banners, social media—comprised the bulk of her work, she also designed visuals for companies and individuals. Created looks—consistency—in logos, business cards, letterheads, those websites, physical and digital signs.
Still, it was a small, privately owned company—exactly the kind of company she’d hoped to work for—and she and Brandon often worked on different parts of the same project.
She’d just ask for some breathing room. And promise to maintain a courteous, professional relationship with Brandon in the workplace.
Simple, she thought. Reasonable and clean.
Of course, in a small, privately owned company, there would be gossip. She’d handle it. In fact—despite Cleo’s objections—she’d take the blame.
Simpler, cleaner to say she’d realized she wasn’t ready, that she and Brandon had different goals in life. His being to screw her cousin, but no point in mentioning that.
And in a few weeks, the talk would die out, replaced by some other drama.
She could wait until then.
Meanwhile, she had no doubt Brandon would find some way to corner her. So she’d meet that head-on. She’d make it clear to him, in private, face-to-face, that they were done. And she’d do that calmly, dispassionately.
He’d hate the calm and dispassion, she thought, and smiled as she pulled into the employee parking of the two-story refurbished factory that housed By Design.
She went in the side door, straight into what she thought of as the Nesting Area. She’d started there, right out of college, at one of the workstations. And most who’d man those stations now, working on assignments, assisting designers, hoping to make their own mark, would be as green and eager as she’d been.
Some would move up, some would move out, others would take a leap and strike out on their own.
She’d moved up, happy with the rhythm and tone of her workplace. From production artist to graphic designer and now senior graphic designer.
She’d come in early deliberately, and walked straight through to her office.
Not big, not grand, but it had a window, and she’d put her treasured African violet, Xena, in that stream of southern exposure. It rewarded her with pretty pink blossoms and glossy green leaves.
She set her briefcase on her desk, glanced at her mood board.
She routinely created a physical as well as digital mood board for a project. The digital—easy to share, to change. But the physical meant she could stand, shift, study from different angles.
And this one, laying out the plan, the visual for a start-up company, just worked.
Baby Mine, founded by crafty sisters, created handmade baby clothes—no charge for personalization if desired. For preemies—specific to the needs of infants in the NICU—and up to eighteen months.
For the logo, she’d drawn an infant in an old-fashioned cradle with a mobile overhead spelling out the company name in softly rounded fonts, in quiet pastels.
Soft, sweet—that’s what a parent wanted for their baby.
The website visual followed that tone, adding in the easy care, the lovingly handcrafted accessories, photos not just of the products but of babies wearing the products, or parents using the blankets, the burp cloths.
Various social media posts would increase those visuals, consistently. And a fresh and, again, consistent, look for the sisters’ blog.
And now that they’d moved their little company out of their homes and into an actual workshop, she’d carried that design into the physical space.
A few finishing touches, and they’d be off and running.
She’d so much rather sit down and work on those finishing touches than air her personal business with her bosses.
But it had to be done.
She started out. She heard voices now, artists coming into the Nesting Area, or hitting the break room for coffee before they settled in.
She walked up the metal stairs to the second floor. It held the directors’ offices—art, design, creative—and their assistants’ work areas, the presentation room where designers pitched their concepts and completed work to the directors, the owners’ offices, a second, snazzier break room.
Since Laine Cohen had hired her, she went there first, knocked.
“Come!”
When she opened the door, she saw Laine, hair a sharp, angled wedge of mahogany, bright blue readers dangling from the silver chain around her neck, at her desk. Her partner sat on the corner of her L-shaped workstation.
The window behind her offered a view of the Boston Common on a perfect summer day. Posters of designs created in-house lined her walls. She rotated them every few months.
Sonya currently had one displayed. So did Brandon.
And she saw, when Laine and Matt Berry looked at her, they already knew.
Matt, slim in chinos and a pink polo, slid off the desk. As usual, he had his glossy blond hair pulled back in a tail. A gold hoop winked in his left ear.
“I wonder if I could have a couple of minutes,” Sonya began.
“Of course, of course.” Matt gestured her in. “Close the door, have a seat. How are you, Sonya?”
“I’m all right, thanks. I—”
“Laine and I were just talking about you taking a few days off.”
So Brandon had beaten her to it, she thought. And in his way.
“I appreciate that, but I don’t need time off. I hope to finalize the Baby Mine account today, and I hope to present some initial designs on the Kettering account by the end of the day.”
The quiet sympathy in Matt’s eyes, the speculation in Laine’s had Sonya tossing the plan out the window.
“I take it you heard we’ve called off the wedding.”