Friction(2)
“Firms aren't lining up to hire me, Mom. The least I can do is go to the interview; it can't hurt."
What does hurt is saying those words out loud.
Despite everything, I moved home still sure of myself, sure that everything would be okay, sure that I would snag a new job in record time. Instead, I've heard the same thing repeatedly, meeting after meeting:
Overqualified.
Maybe I am, but I also know the real reason I haven't been hired yet and it has nothing to do with too many credentials. I walked out on a two-year contract with my last employer. And the employer in question—whose newest text messages have already nudged beneath my skin before eight AM—is job-blocking me at every turn.
Mom’s chair scraping against the tile floor draws my focus from Tom and back across the table. She works to coax her frown into a reassuring smile as she stands and grabs her mug from the placemat. "If those firms have any brains, they'll call you," she says, walking over to the dishwasher.
“I’m not holding my breath.”
"Make sure you take your pepper spray to that interview.” When I start to argue, she holds up one finger, reminding me of the arguments we had when I was still a child. No matter what, Susie Williams is always right. "You found them on Craigslist, Lucinda. Take the damn pepper spray.”
Drawing in a breath, I promise her I will and leave the table to search moving boxes for my lucky nude pumps. I wore them the day I was promoted to Senior Marketing Director at WLC—a year before I let Tom talk me into working for him at Java-Org. Today, I need all the luck I can get because the bastard’s right about one thing:
It's not fun having my life so far off-track.
It's just over an hour drive from the bungalow I share with my mother in Worcester to EXtreme Effects in East Boston, so I leave two hours early. I’m still flustered by the texts Tom sent—and I’ll likely spend the rest of the day on edge because hearing from him has such a crushing effect on my psyche—but I concentrate on what I can control. Like I told Mom, the firms I've applied at so far haven't been beating down my door, and I need this interview to go off without a hitch.
Desperately.
The GPS announces that I've arrived at my destination, and I pull my Jeep up to the curb, twisting around in my seat to get a better look at the building as I put my car into park. My lips drag into a deep frown. Compared to WLC's ten-story building in downtown San Francisco or the chic South of Market office space Tom and his business partner leased for Java-Org, the tan structure before me looks more like an oversized garage. Knowing my luck, the person interviewing me will probably have a dip-chewing obsession and coveralls that haven’t been changed in the last week.
The moment that thought crosses my mind, my scalp prickles with shame. I bury my face in my hands and groan into my palms before shoving my hair away from warm cheeks. “Don’t be an elitist bitch,” I tell myself harshly. “Don’t you dare be that way.”
As I approach the building with my purse and portfolio in hand, the first waves of nausea slam into the pit of my stomach. I'm good at what I do, but I've always struggled with getting my foot in the door. I had stressed about my college admission interviews so much my easy-going father confiscated my laptop and copy of Selling Your Skill Set for Dummies just to force me to relax. Dad’s advice before my appointment at Brown, and even when I called him freaking out over the WLC position the year before he died, is still fresh in my mind.
Kick some ass, Lucinda Jane.
Clutching my pepper spray keychain in one hand, I step out of the early January chill and into the warm confines of the company I found on Craigslist. The one I know absolutely nothing about because they have zero web presence, and I only applied to because the sixty thousand dollars a year salary was music to my broke ears.
The part of the building I'm standing in is small—a ten by ten space with filing cabinets lining one side of the wall and a few chairs against the other. A leggy brunette sits in the seat closest to the blue steel door on the far side of the room, flipping through her own portfolio and occasionally sneaking glances at the intricately designed metal clock on the receptionist's desk.
I confidently approach the desk, and the heavily tattooed woman behind it lifts a pair of startling light green eyes from the screen of her tablet. "Let me guess, Client." She rolls her chair backward a few inches, and I try not to stare at her t-shirt that says Fucking Classy. After a few seconds, I open my mouth to correct her, but then she shakes her head and muses, "Ahh, interview."
God, I hope I wasn't ogling her shirt too hard.
"Yes, I'm Lucy Williams-Duncan. I was contacted by Daisy about coming in at two for the marketing position."
“I’m Daisy." Her lips quirk, and she scratches a stylus through her platinum pixie cut as she skims her gaze over my golden yellow peplum dress. "And you, Sunshine, are early."
"A bad habit."
"One I should probably pick up before Mr. E has me sending out invites to fill my own job.” She points to the two empty chairs next to the brunette. "There’s a one-thirty before you, so it might be awhile.”
Before I leave her desk, I tap my fingertip against the face of the clock, shivering at the hard, cold texture. "This is beautiful."
She beams. "We made that here."