...with a splash of Kay

...with a splash of Kay Kelly Benoit new degree press copyright © 2023 Kelly Benoit All rights reserved. ...with a splash of Kay ISBN 979-8-88926-944-1 Paperback 979-8-88926-987-8 Ebook To the female authors, activists, and naysayers who came before us, each generation stands on the former’s shoulders to shape, grow, and flourish what they ignited. I’m grateful for your boundary-breaking ways. To my fierce girlfriends, whose vulnerability and laughter bring me endless joy, I’ve embodied the spirit of your friendship in these pages. To my family, who shaped my experiences and continue to encourage my journey, thank you. To my partner, Mario, who provides unwavering support for my ambitions, I love you. And to younger Kelly, the dreamer who turned her bedroom wall into a collage of magazine photos resembling the life she yearned for, you’ve become the woman you always aspired to be… … and while you’ve learned not everything that glitters is gold—once in a while, it is. LaToulle The sunlight graced my face as I left my apartment and turned toward Greene Street. Its warmth the strongest yet this year. Spring finally arrived, and the light breeze felt nice against my thin jacket pulled out from storage—the clear bin under my full-size bed—this morning. I looked down to see the sun’s rays illuminating the few pieces of lint from under my bed. I dusted them off, tucked my long, wavy auburn hair behind my ear, and put in earbuds. With a forced air of confidence, I started my daily commute to LaToulle Relations, the PR firm I worked at. Having choked up during yesterday’s team meeting, I was determined to approach work with a new attitude—unbothered. Easier said than done as the stain of embarrassment after losing my words played over and over in my head. I focused my attention on the colorful flowers sprouting from the New York City sidewalks. I told myself that if I could just get through today, I’d brush off yesterday’s stain like I did the lint on my jacket. Even better, it was Friday, and I had two parties at Lola’s, the lounge and bar I used to bartend at when I first moved to the city after graduating from college. At LaToulle, I took the elevator to the twenty-seventh floor, where our enthusiastic receptionist greeted everyone. “Good morning, Kay!” he said zealously. “Good morn—” I tried to reply when out of nowhere, I felt a heavy pressure on my foot. “Oh my gosh!” The receptionist shrieked when he realized our janitor ran over my foot with his cart. I looked down with regret at my orange flats. While they added a pop of color to my dark boyfriend jeans, white blouse, and beige jacket, they brought attention to my long feet. “Geez,” the janitor grunted before continuing to stroll his cart down the hall. “Are you all right?” the receptionist asked. He stood up behind his desk to peak at my feet. “All good, thanks.” I quickly looked around, hoping no one else saw what had happened. It had been nearly two years since I was hired as a creative associate at LaToulle, yet I still wasn’t used to our all-white office overlooking uptown Manhattan. Perched in Midtown East, we kept everything inside pristine to impress our daily client list of influencers, moguls, and celebrities. Mostly all brought in from the firm’s founder and CEO, Samantha LaToulle. Samantha was a B-list corporate leader but an A-list PR woman. She founded LaToulle Relations more than three decades ago, but it looked like she’d only been alive for two of them. A self-described “Latina firecracker,” Samantha donned an incredible sense of style and self daily. She exhibited her Peruvian heritage through the bright colors she often wore in the office and on the covers of every New York magazine, including the New York Times Business and Fashion sections—twice. I swiped my badge on a security switch to open the double glass doors leading to our open workspace. Each LaToulle employee had an assigned ergonomic workstation equipped with a standing desk, split keyboard, and footrest. All of it white: the monitors, chairs, and marble floors, the ceiling and noise makers attached that muffled our gossip—white. On my way to my desk, I admired the new art installation the building staff was hanging. Rotated twice a year, this newest installment displayed several of the many liquor brands we represented—Amore Tequila, Tulu Vodka, and Woosley Bourbon—with their brand names highlighted in neon. It was the only bit of color sprinkled within the office. I hung my sweater in the nearly unidentifiable coat closet, only visible by a small white hook. No personal items were to be hung on our chairs or placed on our desks. Samantha emphasized the importance of perception. According to our employee handbook, she took this belief so far that she even prohibited foods with scent in the office. We could only eat and store odorless, packaged foods, like unsalted peanuts or dried fruit. The firm saw too many important clients each day, coming in and out for pitch meetings, liquor samplings, and food pairings. Some of my colleagues and friends found it anal, but I didn’t mind. My job was one many recent graduates only dreamed of having. Even if it hardly covered my student loan payments, I was grateful to work somewhere with so much clout. On my desk sat a large document propped above my keyboard. “What is this?” I asked Andre, Samantha’s assistant, who has worked for her since she started the firm. He sat beside me, outside Samantha’s office, and always arrived earlier than anyone else. He and his husband both worked for Samantha, his husband as her personal chef. I imagined she consumed their world more than I’d personally prefer her to consume mine. “And good morning to you too!” Andre said elaborately. Everything about him was excessive, from his personality to the big brass rings he wore daily. I even noticed he added a new one