Dream On(8)

“True.”

“Okay. So if your noodle starts giving you trouble in the memory department, there’s a simple fix: when in doubt, write it down. You’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, Brie.”

“Hold up, turn your head. The other way. Oooo, yes. Rogue Curl at it again.”

I crane my neck, and in the tiny image of myself in the corner of the screen I see what she’s talking about. Sure enough, the short curl behind my left ear is sticking straight out. Thanks to the emergency craniotomy after the accident, doctors had to shave off a patch of hair the size of a Snapple cap, and it’s still in that awkward growing-out stage.

“Damn it,” I mumble. “Hold on.” Tucking my phone in my armpit, I fish around in my bag and find a bobby pin at the bottom. I secure the curl, then use the phone’s camera to check my reflection. Brie takes the opportunity to rinse her bowl in the sink.

“How do I look?” I ask.

“One sec,” she calls, flipping the wall switch for the garbage disposal. Nothing happens. She toggles it several more times before cursing under her breath. “Garbage disposal is on the fritz again. I’ll see if Marcus can come over later to fix it.” Flopping back into her chair with a huff, she squints at her phone. “You look perfect. Every last hair in place.”

Yawning, she stretches her arms above her head. “Well, we should both get a move on. I need at least two more cups of coffee and a hot shower before I can face down a Monday. I’d wish you luck on your first day, but I know you don’t need it. Text me later?”

I blow her a kiss. “Definitely.”

“Bye-ee,” she chirps, then ends the call.

Guilt pecks at my spine, but I push the feeling away. I haven’t told Brie yet about my late-night trash mission on moving day or how my Devin sketchbook is currently buried in the bowels of my closet instead of on its way to the dump. Pinching my eyebrows together, I shake my head. This is my life. And just because I’m not ready to throw away months-worth of Devin sketches doesn’t mean I’m not ready to move on, launch my career, and find someone real.

I am. I so, totally am.

Standing up straight, I slip my phone into my bag and smooth my navy suit coat over my white blouse. I feel like myself in a way I haven’t for a long time in my go-to lawyerly attire of patent leather pumps and a formal suit. Old Cass would have strolled into any job interview with her head held high because she knew she’d crush it. New Cass might still be finding her confidence through the memory fog, but hey—fake it till you make it, right?

Pushing my shoulders back, I open the door to Smith & Boone and step inside.

The lobby is exactly how I remember it from my initial interviews: gleaming black-tile floor, oversized abstract art with bold strokes of crimson and gray hanging on the sleek walls, and a curved desk at the far end of the lobby set against a door that I already know leads to a hive of offices. My heels clack as I approach the desk, but the man behind it doesn’t look away from his computer screen.

“Can I help you?” His tone is laced with boredom.

“My name’s Cassidy Walker. I’m one of the summer associates starting today.”

Peering at me through thick, black-framed glasses, he brushes a lock of hair off his smooth forehead. “Late much?”

Fear ricochets around my chest. “What? No. The email said 8:30. It’s”—I check my phone—“not even 8:20. I’m ten minutes early.”

“Are you?” he drawls.

What the… did I misread the email? I quickly pull up the welcome email with the details for my first day. There it is: start time, 8:30 a.m.

“The email I received says 8:30.” I hold up my phone, but the receptionist doesn’t even look at the screen.

“You must have missed the follow-up. They changed the time to eight.”

My mind splutters, but no words come out.

“Take the elevator to the second floor, down the hall to your right, conference room five. Glenn Boone is about to deliver remarks to the group, so I suggest you hurry.” I recognize Glenn Boone as one of the managing partners—he’s an attorney of national acclaim and the one who can make or break my future at the firm. I need to impress him if I want to secure my permanent spot this fall. “Oh, and you’ll need this.” The receptionist extends a mustard yellow visitor’s badge. I stare at him, mouth open. He jiggles it. “Chop-chop.”

Snapping out of my panic, I grab the badge and power walk to the elevator on my right. I hammer the button, and when the doors open I launch myself inside. Hitting the two button, I clip the badge on to the lapel of my jacket with shaking fingers. As the elevator slowly rises, I take a deep breath in an attempt to calm my racing heart.

Okay, so I’m late on my first day. How can I triage this situation?

When the doors open, I push my shoulders back and step out of the elevator. Three long hallways stretch before me—one left, one center, one right. All the blood rushes from my face. Shit. I’ve already forgotten where to go. This is not happening.

Hitching my bag higher on my shoulder, I march down the hall straight in front of me. I think he said conference room five. No, four. Definitely something with an “F.” On my left, I pass a wooden door with a brass number three. Farther ahead and to my right, there’s a door with the number four. Murmured voices grow louder as I approach. This must be it.