THE PRESENT REALITY - Breadcrumbing

The afternoon sun filtered through the glass windows of Morrison & Partners, casting long shadows across the conference room table. I sat there, heart racing beneath my carefully composed exterior, as Mr. Davidson closed my performance review folder.

"Well, Sarah, I think we can all agree your contributions this past year have been exceptional." He smiled, exchanging glances with the other executives. "We'd like to offer you the Senior Marketing Manager position."

I forced myself to maintain professional composure, though inside, I was dancing. Two years of late nights, countless presentations, and sacrificed weekends had finally paid off. The salary bump would mean I could finally start looking at apartments in better neighborhoods, maybe even—

My thoughts stumbled over Mike, and my smile faltered slightly.

Back at my desk, I stared at my phone, my thumb hovering over Mike's contact. My boyfriend of three years deserved to be the first to know, but something held me back. Instead, I typed, "Hey, babe, got some news to share. Dinner tonight?"

"Sure! Want me to cook? Got some leftover chicken we can use."

I glanced at my designer handbag, a recent splurge that had caused a small argument about "unnecessary expenses." The same bag that half the women in senior management carried without a second thought.

"Actually, can we go out? Feel like celebrating."

"Everything okay? Money's a bit tight until my next paycheck."

I quickly replied, "My treat!" adding a heart emoji to soften what shouldn't have needed softening. Mike had been at the same gaming store for four years, still making barely above minimum wage. He loved his job, always talking about the regular customers and the new releases, but—

A notification interrupted my thoughts. My friend Rachel's Instagram story: her husband surprising her with keys to a new Tesla. "Because you deserve it, babe, #blessed #powercouple." Last month, it had been a surprise vacation to Bali. The month before, a designer watch.

"La Bella's at 7?" I texted Mike. The Italian place was modest by downtown standards but still nice enough for a celebration.

"Fancy! Special occasion?"

"Maybe"

The rest of the afternoon crawled by. I tried focusing on emails but kept drifting to the couples at last week's office party. James from Legal and his surgeon wife. Christina from HR and her tech entrepreneur husband. Even Peter, who'd started the same time as me, had recently gotten engaged to an investment banker.

At 6:45, I touched up my lipstick in the bathroom mirror. The woman staring back wore success well—a tailored blazer, subtle highlights, manicured nails. Professional. Ambitious. Going places.

Mike was already waiting outside La Bella's when I arrived, wearing the same faded jeans and plaid shirt combo he'd had since college. He grinned that boyish grin that had made me fall for him in the first place, pulling me into a warm hug that smelled of the vanilla car freshener from his old Honda.

"There's my corporate warrior," he said, kissing my cheek. "Ready to tell me what we're celebrating?"

I pulled back slightly, studying his face. The excitement in his eyes was genuine, untainted by the comparative thoughts that had been plaguing me all afternoon. Mike had always been my biggest cheerleader, genuinely happy for every small win in my career.

So why did that make me feel worse?

"Let's get a table first," I said, threading my arm through his. "And maybe some wine."

As we followed the hostess inside, my phone buzzed with another notification. Rachel again, this time a photo of her morning coffee with the caption, "Breakfast meetings with the hubby. Building empires together."

I slipped the phone back into my bag, trying to ignore how Mike was already checking the prices on the menu, how his shirt was slightly wrinkled, and how the other men in the restaurant wore suits and checked luxury watches.

"Hey," Mike squeezed my hand across the table. "Earth to Sarah. You okay? You seem distracted."

"I got the promotion," I blurted out. "Senior Marketing Manager."

Mike's face lit up. "That's amazing! I knew you'd get it! God, Sarah, I'm so proud of you!" He was already half out of his seat, ready to hug me, completely oblivious to the sidelong glances from neighboring tables.

I smiled, pushing down the nagging voice that wished he was wearing a suit, that we were at a rooftop bar instead of La Bella's, and that his excitement came with an equal announcement of his own advancement.

"Thanks, Mike," I said softly. "Should we order some champagne?"

He hesitated for a split second—so brief anyone else would have missed it. "Of course! My treat. My girl deserves it."

The waiter arrived with our champagne, presenting it with a practiced flourish. Mike fumbled slightly with the cork, and I noticed an elderly couple at the next table exchange glances. The familiar warmth of embarrassment crept up my neck.

"To my brilliant girlfriend," Mike raised his glass, oblivious to the watching eyes. "Who's going to run that whole company one day."

As we clicked glasses, my phone lit up again. A group message from my work friends:

Rachel: "Drinks at Sky Lounge tomorrow? Girls' night!" Melissa: "I'm in! James is at a conference anyway." Emma: "Perfect! David's working late at the firm."

I typed a quick "Count me in!" before setting my phone face-down.

"The girls want to do drinks tomorrow," I mentioned, taking a sip of champagne. "Probably to celebrate the promotion."

"That's nice," Mike said, studying the menu with too much concentration. "Sky Lounge—that's the new place on the 47th floor, right? The one with the twenty-dollar cocktails?"

"We don't have to talk about the prices," I said quietly.

"I'm not! I just..." he sighed. "I wish I could take you to places like that."

"Mike, don't—"

"No, seriously. You deserve it. All of it. Sometimes I feel like I'm holding you back."

The words hung between us, too honest for comfort. I reached across the table, squeezing his hand. "You're not holding me back. Don't be silly."

But even as I said it, Rachel's Instagram story flashed in my mind—her husband surprising her with those Tesla keys, his expensive watch glinting in the sunlight.

"Tell me about your day," I said, desperate to change the subject. "Any interesting customers?"

Mike's face brightened. "Actually, yeah! This kid came in looking for a rare Pokemon card. He launched into an animated story about trading cards and collector's editions, his hands gesturing enthusiastically.

I found myself watching him rather than listening. He was handsome in his own way—warm brown eyes, an easy smile, that one dimple that appeared when he was really excited. But his hair needed a trim, his shirt was at least two years old, and there was a small stain on his sleeve he hadn't noticed.

My phone buzzed again. Another message from Rachel: "Bring that new Gucci bag tomorrow! We need a group photo for the 'gram! #corporatequeens"

The pasta I'd ordered suddenly felt heavy in my stomach. Mike was still talking about the trading cards, completely in his element, while around us, couples in designer clothes were discussing stock portfolios and vacation homes.

"Sarah?" Mike's voice broke through my thoughts. "You disappeared on me again."

"Sorry, just thinking about work stuff." The lie came easily. "The new position means more responsibility, you know?"

"You'll be amazing at it," he said with such certainty, such pure faith, that I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes. "Hey, maybe we can go to that food truck festival this weekend to celebrate? The one you liked last year?"

Food trucks. While Rachel and Melissa would be at wine tastings and yacht parties with their husbands.

"Sure," I forced a smile. "Sounds perfect."

Later that night, lying in bed in Mike's small apartment, I scrolled through Instagram one last time. Rachel's Tesla photo had hundreds of likes. Melissa had posted about a surprise weekend trip to the Hamptons. Emma shared a photo of a Cartier bracelet—a "just because" gift from her husband.

Mike's arm was draped over my waist, his breathing steady in sleep. The same position we'd been in for three years. The same apartment, the same routine, the same life while everything around us changed.

I closed Instagram and stared at the ceiling, listening to the rattle of the old heating unit and distant traffic. Success, I was learning, had a way of rearranging things—priorities, perspectives, possibilities.

The question was: What was I going to do about it?