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  The fear had been palpable for weeks. Members of her own team, many of whom she had known for years, avoided her like she was waving a blow torch in a fireworks factory.

  Claire could hardly blame them. They knew the drill.

  She would arrive unannounced in the cubicle of an unsuspecting employee—a person who trusted her, someone with a family and a future to worry about—and ask the person to join her. And the employee would follow, nervous and silent, into a small windowless conference room. Waiting for them both, a member of the Human Resources department would be sitting there, calmly thumbing through the stack of papers ostentatiously stamped with Employee Exit Packet in bold red ink.

  She checked her calendar and was relieved to find that she'd only be letting one person go today. Then she saw the name. Lorraine Davis. Rumor had it, the administrative assistant was the last one to let go of her beloved Smith Corona. On seeing that she was two months shy of retirement eligibility, Claire hung her head.

  Bastards.

  She picked up the phone and called Kristy Watson in Human Resources. When it went directly to her voice mail, Claire headed down to the fifth floor. After all, this particular conversation deserved a face-to-face.

  Kristy, a thirty-something woman whose sense of style aimed for successful businesswoman but landed closer to sorority pledge, was chatting with a middle-aged man who made no effort to direct his gaze at anything but his colleague's cleavage.

  Claire approached, asking, "Kristy, do you have a second?"

  Annoyed at the interruption, the woman glanced at Claire. "What's up?"

  With a pointed look, she replied, "Not here."

  Unfazed, Kristy asked, "Is this about Lorraine? Because if it is, there's nothing you can do. The decision's been made."

  "Really. By whom? There's got to be something in the company she can do. You can't just rob her of her retirement."

  "It's done. This is a privately held company, Claire. They don't have to play by the rules if they don't want to." She turned her attention back to the eye-contact challenged man.

  Claire huffed out a sigh. "Isn't this the Human Resources department?"

  Kristy dragged her attention back to Claire, pursed her lacquered lips together, and frowned.

  With a roll of her eyes, Claire pressed her fingertips to her forehead. "Sorry. It's just that—all these layoffs. It's been rough."

  Somewhere between a grimace and a smile, Kristy purred, "Oh, don't worry. You're done after today."

  Claire brightened. "Oh, I hope so."

  Tightening her smile, Kristy replied, "I know so."

  * * *

  "Dear Plate Spinner—I need your help."

  After reading the plea out loud, Mattie Ross, the Chicago Gazette's reluctant advice columnist and marathon-runner-in-training, cringed.

  Another letter from a frazzled working mother, seeking direction and hope—commodities she herself was in dire need of ever since her coach walked out on her, taking her heart with him.

  Nick.

  Her heart squeezed in her chest and she closed her eyes. After hiding behind the same I'm married with kids lie she perpetuated with her publisher and readers for the eight months he had spent training her, she could hardly blame him for being upset.

  With a heavy sigh, she texted her editor, Dianne Devane. Any openings in Metro yet?

  Almost before she hit Send, she got her response. Sit tight, sweetie. I'm working on it.

  Emitting a quick growl, Mattie turned her attention back to her computer screen and skimmed the brief account of the weary woman's conundrum.

  The salary of my demanding, soul-sucking job is holding me hostage. I haven't had a vacation in over five years (maternity leaves do not count). I see my kids so infrequently, that if I don't keep their pictures on my desk current, I tend not to recognize them in passing (their resemblance truly is jarring). Any friends I have left have given up hope of ever seeing me in person again, especially when I had to cancel my appearance at an intervention they were staging on my behalf, because I had to meet an absolutely critical deadline. As it is, I'm spread so thin, I make plastic wrap look opaque. My only hope is to convince my husband, a stay-at-home dad to our boys, to return to the corporate world. Chances of this happening, though, are slim to none—especially after he machine-washed yet another one of my dry-clean-only sweaters, and I leveled him with a 'does not meet expectations' on his most recent performance review (I mean, seriously—can you blame me?).

  Needless to say, it did not go over well. He has since relocated to the man cave-slash-office down the hall and has barely spoken to me since.

  So, tell me. Should I force his hand and quit my job, or file for divorce and offer him a job as a live-in nanny (because he looks a hell of a lot better in an apron than I do)?

  It was signed "Burned Out Breadwinner."

  You gave your husband a performance review?

  Mattie didn't know whether to send the writer a list of local marriage counselors or encourage her to pursue a career as a stand-up comedian. Staring at the ceiling above her cubicle for a moment, the advice columnist tried to think of a fitting response.

  The pressure…

  She closed her eyes, scanning through her cerebral database of advice she'd doled out during the nearly three years she'd been on the job.

  I got nothin'.

  Still trying to salvage her once-promising investigative journalism career, and having just torpedoed her own relationship with the best man on the planet, she hardly felt qualified to offer any noteworthy pearls of wisdom.

  She shot another text off to Dianne. What's the hold up?

  As soon as she hit Send, her editor appeared in her cube.

  "How do you do that?" Mattie asked, astonished, watching as Dianne hoisted herself up onto her desk.

  Ignoring her question, the stylish expat from Manhattan proceeded to announce,

  "According to our esteemed publisher, Lester Crenshaw, if we move you to Metro, I lose a head count."

  C-r-a-p.

  A move to the Metro section would go a long way toward putting Mattie's sidelined career back on track.

  Mattie's shoulders slumped. "So I'm trapped in this position forever?"

  "For now, unless we can find another Plate Spinner who's willing to work freelance. At least until I can get another head count."

  And with that, Dianne left her reluctant advice columnist alone with the Burned-Out Breadwinner.

  Mattie's eyes drifted back to the words displayed on her computer screen.

  One thing was certain, as burned out as she claimed to be, this breadwinner was a hoot.

  I wonder…

  As she continued to stare, wisps of an idea started to form into a semiviable plan. Like her last brilliant idea, forming Team Plate Spinner at the onset of her marathon training, she was certain this one had the power to change lives. Her own included.

  * * *

  Paul pulled into the parking lot at the back of the high school and saw the cross-country team emerge from the forest preserve just beyond the football field and outdoor track. He knew those trails well and still ran them nearly every single morning. He slid his car into an empty space and made his way over to the wide expanse of grass to the side of the end zone on which the boys had formed a loose circle. At least forty pairs of shoes were sticking up in the air as they began executing a series of crunches.

  In the middle, a man stood with his back to Paul, but he recognized the stance. Cap on. Clipboard under the arm. Stopwatch in hand.

  He felt a grin spreading across his face as memories of his own high school days started to float before him.

  Good times.

  He could see Luke there in the midst of the other guys, his red, sweaty face showing the strain of hard work. Paul chuckled, his own abs aching at the memory.

  A combination of joy and pride nearly jettisoned him into the center of the circle, but he hung back. Chatting with some of the other parents who had gathered, he s
topped midsentence when the man with the clipboard turned around.

  His jaw dropped, and he was suddenly back in his old office, talking on the phone to Mike McClausen, his manager, mentor, and friend.

  "Yeah, I'm sure," he had repeated while staring at his computer screen. "There's at least three million missing. No write-offs, no notes, no nothing. It's gone. I told you DeRosa was up to something. Numbers don't lie."

  A low chuckle had come through the other end of the phone. "Ok, well I'm sure it's just a blip. Find a way to hide it, would ya? Charitable contributions maybe."

  Hearing a knock on his door, Paul started. He hunched over his phone before responding, "You're kidding, right?"

  "Hey listen, Paul. I've gotta run. We'll talk more about this later."

  Ever since he was a kid helping his dad zero out the registers in his grocery store at the end of the day, Paul loved numbers. They were absolute, black and white, right or wrong, no in between. But at Creiger Financial, his first job out of college, he learned numbers weren't always so absolute and gray areas abounded.

  The knock had sounded again. He had hung up the phone and turned to see Ed DeRosa standing in his doorway wearing the same smiling face Paul was looking at now. Feeling a vein throb in his temple, he looked around quickly at the other parents, incredulous that none seemed to be the least bit bothered that they were standing in the midst of a criminal. A criminal who would be coaching their sons, no less.

  Dumbfounded, he stood listening as the man who destroyed his career introduced himself to the parents assembled around him as Nick DeRosa.

  You gotta be kidding me.

  Stunned, Paul barely listened as DeRosa rattled off a bunch of phony credentials, including, by the sound of it, breaking all of Paul's old records at the school (you wish) and, perhaps most ridiculous of all, winning a spot on the Men's Olympic Track and Field Team.

  What a crock of sh—

  Luke tugged at Paul's arm. "Come on, Dad. Let's go. I'm hungry."

  The imposter had stopped talking, and the other parents were milling about, introducing themselves and volunteering for upcoming team dinners.

  Digging the car keys out of his pocket, he handed them to his son and said, "I'll be right there. I wanna talk to the, um, coach for a minute."

  Luke shrugged and headed toward the parking lot. Paul waited for the other parents to leave. When the two men stood alone, he had to fight back the urge to take him out, but given the ugly scar on the guy's chin, it looked like someone had already beaten him to it.

  Instead, he sneered, "What the hell are you doing here?"

  The coach looked surprised and more than a little confused. Narrowing his eyes, he cocked his head and asked, "I'm sorry. Have we met?"

  Paul nearly choked. "Is this a joke? I have half a mind to call the cops right now."

  At this, the man opened his mouth, and then shut it again. Taking off his cap, he put a hand on his chest, and with the resolution of a courtroom witness swearing on a Bible, said, "I'm Nick. Nick DeRosa."

  Paul stared for a minute, not completely convinced he was telling the truth.

  The man continued, "Could you, by any chance, have me confused with my evil twin?" Pointing to his chin, he added, "Happens a lot, unfortunately."

  He extended his hand to Paul.

  Taking Nick's hand in his, Paul gripped it. Hard.

  "Didn't know Ed had a twin." He didn't bother keeping the snarl out of his voice.

  "No worries," Nick replied, giving his hand a quick shake as soon as Paul let go.

  A tentative smile returned to the coach's face. Nodding toward the parking lot, he asked, "So, you're Luke's dad?"

  "Yep."

  Glancing at his clipboard, Nick replied, "He's a good kid. Fast. Works hard. I can tell already that he'll be an asset to the team."

  Damn straight.

  At that, the proud father said, "I'm Paul Mendez."

  He waited for any hint of recognition. Not seeing any, he nodded toward the school building. "Class of—" He stopped short, feeling old enough as it was. Why advertise it? "Well, I went here too."

  Nick gave him a sideways glance. "Not Paul Mendez, as in cross-country and track all-conference champion Paul Mendez?"

  Paul looked into his star struck face, certain that he had never shared those details with Ed or anyone else at his former job. For the first time in a long time, he felt ready to leave the past in the past.

  Well, this part of his past, at least. He wasn't so sure he was ready to leave behind the performance review Claire had given him just yet.

  Raking his hand through his hair, the former record holder took a deep breath and chuckled. "Yeah, that's me."

  He gave Nick's shoulder a not-so-light smack and added, "But my friends just call me Paul."

  * * *

  Before heading home for the night, Claire stood in her manager's doorway and gave her best impersonation of an obedient, upbeat employee. "You wanted to see me?"

  Tracy Decker-Slone, a curt, recently matriculated, MBA-cum-new mommy, turned from her computer screen to face her. Wearing what she described to anyone in the office who had the misfortune of making eye contact with her as her prebaby clothes, she looked her only direct report in the eye.

  "We've decided to make a change."

  Claire waited for her to elaborate. She had nothing to worry about. She'd been bleeding buckets for this company. Still, her palms started to sweat, and an odd sensation began a slow squeeze deep within her chest.

  Raising both eyebrows, Tracy explained, "I.e., we're letting you go."

  The words hit Claire in the gut, robbing her of breath like a sudden gust of frigid air.

  Didn't see that coming.

  After lowering the boom, her latest manager clicked her manicured nails on the desk and waited for a response. The designer reading glasses Claire suspected Tracy wore in an attempt to look wise beyond her years slid halfway down her nose. A view of a dilapidated parking garage graced the office window behind her.

  "We?" Claire asked, her mind reeling. "Does Jerry know about this, or have you taken to using the royal 'We?'"

  Jerry Pavel, two levels above Tracy and a longtime mentor to Claire, had been out of the office more often than not for the past month.

  Tracy, possessing the interpersonal skills of an upright vacuum cleaner, responded, "Yes, he knows. Of course he knows. It was his idea."

  Like hell.

  She turned her attention back to her laptop. "I've called up HR to see you out. Leave your desk keys and badge with them."

  Claire clenched her jaw and returned to the sanctuary of her office down the hall, feeling the eyes of her remaining team members follow her every step of the way. Sinking into her chair, she grasped the armrests and tried willing her body not to shake. Reaching forward, she yanked the yellow sticky note off of her monitor, balled it up with one hand, and tossed it in the blue plastic recycling bin under her desk.

  So this is what it feels like.

  Truth be told, a small part of her had been hoping this would happen. Claire couldn't remember the last time she actually wrote something that wasn't a status report, program plan, email, or performance review. She couldn't even recall the last time she had actually looked forward to going to work.

  Apparently, any attempt on her part to hide her disdain fell short. Why, just a week earlier, she had found an interoffice envelope in her mail slot. There was no telling who had sent it, but as she had pulled out the single sheet of paper, she somehow knew what it was going to say. In small, carefully disguised cursive were the words You are a miserable person.

  At that point, it became official. She hated her job, and everyone knew it.

  Not wanting to give Kristy the satisfaction of walking her out, Claire hiked the strap of her overstuffed briefcase, bursting with family photos, coffee mugs, and knick-knacks she had accumulated over the years, onto her shoulder. She strode into Tracy's office and tossed her keys, her badge, and her corporate cr
edit card onto her desk.

  "It's been a slice," she lied to her ex-boss's back and headed for the elevators.

  Sixteen years working for the same company and nothing to show for it but a scrawny severance package.

  The enormity of this revelation weighed on her more than the whispers and stares that accompanied her out of the building.

  Once outside, everything felt different. Shielding her eyes from the light of the setting sun, the usual urge to rush home abandoned her. Instead, she meandered down the sidewalk that would take her to her train, moving in slow motion while getting jostled and bumped by hurried commuters on either side. With her mind singularly focused on her four boys, an overwhelming sense of responsibility crushed her tired shoulders. College, braces, food, mortgage. Her family's livelihood was all on her. That she had to bear that burden alone while an able-bodied adult was living under the same roof churned up the familiar bile of resentment she felt toward the ol' ball and chain.

  Gazing out the window as her train rattled north alongside the Chicago River, she closed her eyes and thought of her mother, a fiercely independent career woman who had always resented her husband's complete lack of support.

  Growing up in the grip of the incongruous union, Claire and her sister, Kate, knew with absolute certainty by the time they were in middle school that marriage was not for them. In a primal ceremony involving a Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robot game they retrofitted with their wedding-outfitted Barbie and Ken dolls, they made a pact to never get married to anybody, ever.

  And Claire had had every intention of sticking to it, too. She even rebuffed the affections of one Jake Garnet, the drop-dead gorgeous older brother of her college roommate. Jake ultimately went on to grace the cover of People magazine's Sexiest Man Alive issue. Twice.