Chapter 1
There's a cold hard truth no one mentions about turning thirty-one: Nobody cares, yourself included. The youthful romanticism of one's twenties has passed. The pain of crossing the bridge into "real adulthood" at thirty has faded. And all that's left is the overwhelming sense that time passes faster and faster, the birthdays less meaningful each year, the individual days of the week racing by in a dulled blur.
It's fine, though.
I'm sure every person feels this way as they age. God, what an awful word that is when used as a verb.
Today's melancholic outlook likely stems from yet another birthday spent in the dull gray cubicle of my "office," spinning slow circles in my desk chair and memorizing the tatters in the Happy Birthday banner that's dragged out of the supply closet whenever there's an office birthday. Usually by me. But that's fine, too.
I, Mona Miller, age thirty-one as of midnight, am happy to fill the role of cheery office party planner, known peddler of a bright smile and an enthusiastic Lovely day out, isn't it?
But lately, my chipper exterior and No Worries! life motto feels like it's wavering. Then again, maybe this is what it's like to age into someone older and disillusioned. Perhaps I should join a bridge club or partake in a bingo night.
Who am I kidding? I'm not social enough for that.
But if I'm being honest, truly honest, with myself in this drab cubicle-the place no dreams are made of-perhaps my gloom stems not from my age in and of itself, but rather the idea I used to have of my life at this age, and how starkly different that idea is from reality.
I used to have dreams.
Big ones.
Now I have complacency, but it comes with a nice 401(k) match.
Before I can sink deeper into my philosophical birthday musings, my desk phone rings. Mid-reach, I take pause when the caller ID flashes an extension from one floor above. The thirty-seventh floor. The important floor.
Swallowing sudden nerves, I press the receiver to my ear with a cheerful, "Good morning, Shirley. What can I do for you today?"
"Cal wants you in his office," a husky smoker's voice rasps. "Stat."
There are a couple defining qualities when it comes to my boss's secretary. One, she's worked for Calvin Cramer III for exactly forty-two years-I should know, I bought her fortieth-anniversary cake-hence, the only reason she gets away with calling him Cal. And two, she smokes a pack a day minimum, yet has never been spotted in the designated smoking area outside the building. Everyone knows Calvin lets her smoke in the office when no one's watching.
The line goes dead, and Shirley's curt manner does nothing to quell the anxiety unspooling in my belly. In my seven years at Around the Globe Media, Calvin Cramer III has never once summoned me to his office. Placing the receiver back on the hook, I take a moment to get my bearings. Then I leave my cubicle, weaving through the monochrome walls like a mouse in a maze.
Am I getting fired on my birthday? Surely not.
My last article on the Montpelier Biscuit Festival may not have been Pulitzer-worthy journalism, but I thought I managed to highlight the kitschy, quaint charm in a way readers would find appealing.
Honestly, there is only so much one can do with a biscuit festival.
Reaching the elevator bay, my hand hovers on the down arrow as I briefly consider making a run for it. But that would never happen. I am nothing if not responsible, professional, dependable, and predictable-the embodiment of all the boring words wrapped into one. If getting fired on my birthday is my fate, I will face this unexpected challenge with class and a polite smile, most likely thanking Calvin for the opportunity and inquiring whom I shall appoint to the office party planning committee of one on my way out.
I press the up arrow.
Awaiting the elevator, I examine my reflection in the shiny steel doors, smoothing away any wrinkles in my black pencil skirt and crisp white blouse, running a hand over my sleek brunette ponytail to tamp down any flyaways. My normal sun-kissed complexion has turned pallid, so I pinch my cheeks a few times in hopes of bringing back some color as my round hazel eyes reflect only one thing back at me: fear.
All too soon, my mirrored image splits apart as the doors slide open with a high-pitched chime, and I step inside the (thankfully) empty box and lean against the far wall, closing my eyes as the doors slide shut.
A leader in the travel journalism industry, Around the Globe Media is primarily known for its cable television station of the same name, featuring hour-long programs of young, attractive hosts visiting far-off locales and informing the viewing audience at home of the top ten things they simply cannot miss the next time they happen to swing through Phuket.
I, however, work for the more reserved monthly magazine-again, of the same name-primarily known for its cover photos of unimaginably beautiful beaches, waterfalls, and rainforests that look *chef's kiss* on the magazine racks of dental office waiting rooms nationwide. (Combined with orthodontia, these make up a shockingly large market.) Even my own dentist is a subscriber, though he tucks us away on the rack while giving Travel + Leisure the coveted coffee table spot-which, fine, I'm not bitter or anything, but I bet none of their staff writers are his loyal patients. Every visit he proudly asks if I saw the latest issue out in the lobby, and I always nod and smile and muffle an awkward response around the instruments in my mouth.
The elevator chimes again.
I open my eyes, blow out a breath, and plaster on a smile.
No Worries!
Except all of them.
All of the worries.
My heels click-clack against polished marble floors as I make my way down the overly shiny hallway and reach a set of glass double doors. Etched above brushed nickel handles are an interlocked A and G inside the planet Earth. The illustrious thirty-seventh floor. An entirely different world from floor thirty-six and its threadbare carpet and cramped cubicles. Floor thirty-seven is where the real action goes down, housing not only "Cal" and Shirley, but the senior writers as well, better known to us floor thirty-sixers as the Internationals.
I pass by their offices now, all empty. Not entirely surprising since Calvin lets them work remotely when they aren't on international assignment. As long as they agree to come into the office once a week for company-wide meetings, he has no problem extending them that flexibility-a flexibility never extended to us Locals. Calvin calls it a perk earned for all their time spent flying across the world. I call it bullshit.
Reaching Shirley's closed office door, I knock softly, hand trembling, heart jolting against my rib cage with each rap of my knuckles against glass. The entire thirty-seventh floor is a transparent box that reflects any sunny skies outside a little too harshly-except for Shirley's office, where the shades stay permanently pulled (to hide her perverse indoor smoking habit, I'm willing to bet).
A gravelly cough emerges from the other side, followed by a husky, "Come in."
As I push through the door, Shirley waves away the last wisps of smoke.
"Go on." She inclines her head in the direction of the open office door of Calvin Cramer III, president of Around the Globe Media's print division. "Cal's waiting."
Moving past her desk-hoping my hair doesn't pick up the lingering scent of cigarettes-I tap my knuckles against the open door of Calvin's office to announce my arrival.
Steel gray eyes cut to mine over the top of a computer monitor, and my stomach twists. I don't know why this man intimidates me this much. Yes, he's my boss. Yes, he's worked for this company longer than I've been alive. Yes, with his glassy eyes and head full of solid-white hair leading to a short, well-kept beard the same color, he gives me major President Snow from The Hunger Games vibes. But in any of my (limited) interactions with Calvin Cramer III in passing, he's never been anything other than professionally polite, even if a bit dismissive.
"Ah. Ms. Miller," he says, halfway rising from his seat and motioning opposite his desk to a plush chair that definitely cost more than the entirety of my cubicle furniture combined. "Please, have a seat."
I sink into what can only be described as pure suede luxury. "Please, just Mona is fine," I manage, feeling my go-to, No Worries! smile firmly in place.
Calvin leans back in his ergonomic chair, fingers steepled in front of his chin, backlit by a sweeping view of Manhattan. "All right then, Mona. I'll cut to the chase. I was impressed with your last piece."
The biscuit festival?
"Oh. Um. Thank you, sir."
"You do solid work here. Always have." His cold eyes wash over my face. "You've worked for us now, for what? A few years?"
Seven in addition to the eighteen-month internship out of college, but who's counting?
I nod. "Yes, sir."
"After reading your last article, I think it's time to give you a shot at bigger things. I think you're ready."
Again, the biscuit festival?
I'm so confused. Clearing my throat, I gingerly prod. "Thank you, sir. May I ask what you mean by that?"
Leaning forward, he places both elbows on his tidy desk. "I'm sending you international. Iceland to be exact. I'm giving you a shot at the December cover story."
It's official-I'm dreaming. Or hallucinating. Or maybe I've been transported to some weird birthday parallel universe.
"Mona?" Calvin prompts at my prolonged silence.
Fingers pulling at my stiff, starchy collar, I tilt my head. "Sorry, I'm a little confused. You read my article on the Montpelier Biscuit Festival, and now you want to send me to Iceland?"
Shifting in his chair, he hesitates, then says, "I'm in a bit of a pinch. Iceland was Suki's story, but she broke her ankle roller-skating this weekend. Abigail is going on maternity leave any day now. Devon just returned from Cairo. And Jeff's preparing for his wedding next month."
Ah. Now this makes sense.
There are four Internationals, and Suki and Devon are the two typically assigned to locations with any need for athletic prowess. Both are the fit, outdoorsy, adventure-loving, risk-taking types. I don't know much about Iceland, but somewhere in the depths of my brain I recall the country is known as the land of fire and ice, which certainly has the ring of an adventurous, risk-taking kind of place.
There once was a time in my career I used to daydream of an overseas assignment, yet I always imagined something serene and relaxed. Riding a gondola through Venice. Carb-loading in Rome. Driving the rolling landscapes of Tuscany in an open-top convertible with my silk scarf whipping in the wind.
So, Italy. I imagined Italy.
Iceland feels challenging.
"If you don't want it, I'll get someone else," Calvin says at my silence. "I thought everyone aspired to be an International. Was I wrong about you?"
This comment irks me on a deep level.
I used to want nothing but this, would have sold my soul for it actually. But four years ago when there was an opening in the international division, I gathered my courage and applied, only to be passed over in favor of Devon, an outside hire. Calvin didn't even interview me, just announced Devon's arrival at the next staff meeting. I took that as a clear signal he didn't think I had what it takes. And he was probably right, he knows this business better than I do. So, I'd tucked away my childhood dreams of seeing the world and decided I was content covering my weekend fried-pickle festivals and small-town county fairs. At least I have a job writing for a living that pays my rent-as long as I keep a roommate-and provides decent health insurance. Well, as decent as health insurance gets in this country anyway.
But maybe that long-buried dream isn't completely dead after all. Or maybe it's just been resurrected, and on my birthday no less! That has to be a sign, right? Fifteen minutes ago I was bemoaning another year passing while my life remains stagnant, but this lucky break (for me, sadly not for Suki) could change everything. Iceland may not be what I'd imagined, but this could be my chance to finally prove I'm worthy of being an International. An opportunity seven years in the making.
"No! You weren't wrong," I suddenly demand. "I want this. I'll go."
Calvin Cramer III signals his approval with a stern nod. "Glad that's settled. This is last minute, so you leave on an overnight flight out of JFK Monday night. Will that be a problem?"
Problem? Only having the weekend to figure out what one takes to Iceland? "No. No problem, sir. I'll be ready."
He nods again, adding, "Now, one other thing. About your photographer . . ."
Around the Globe's customary procedure is to send teams of two to cover an assignment. One writer. One photographer. I hope it's one of the newer photographers, Jaylen, going to Iceland with me, though I'm doubtful. He hasn't had an international assignment yet, but there's something about his photos that screams raw talent.
"We're going freelance on this one," Calvin continues, dashing that hope. "There's a photographer I've been wanting on our team for years now, but he always turns me down. Just yesterday I finally persuaded him to do this one assignment as a test run."
"Oh. Okay." I'm not sure how I feel about traveling across the globe with a complete stranger, so I make a mental note to pack some pepper spray. Then I make another mental note to google if pepper spray is TSA approved.
"You'll be spending a lot of time together, so make sure to let him know how wonderful it is to work for Around the Globe." Calvin pauses a beat, appearing to consider his next words carefully. "And keep in mind, this photographer is very important to me, Mona. I'm giving you a chance here to show me what you're capable of. If things go well, there may be a permanent spot for you in the international division."
Those last sentences send a jolt of unease through me. I get a clear sense that if I want a shot at my dream again, not only do I need to write the best article of my life, but I also need to recruit this photographer like my career depends on it-because I think it just might.
Copyright © 2025 by Megan Oliver. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
