Gina
By the time Sarah appeared at the switchboard, my stomach had already tied itself into enough knots to qualify as modern art.
She wasn’t smiling.
That wasn’t unusual. Sarah wore professionalism the way some women wore designer handbags—effortlessly and every single day. But because she was also one of my closest friends, I knew the tiny differences. Today, her smile wasn’t missing because she was busy.
It was missing because she couldn’t give me one.
“Gina?” she said.
I looked up from the blinking switchboard lights.
“Mr. Preston would like to see you.”
Jill slowly swiveled in her chair beside me.
“Ooooh,” she whispered dramatically. “She used your government name, Gina. That’s never good.”
I sighed.
“Thanks for the confidence.”
“I’m just saying…” Jill shrugged. “When Sara
