She shrugs.
“We’re not sure yet because it depends on his availability. As you can imagine, as a world-famous author, he has many demands on his time.” She slides a sealed envelope across the table. “But please, read this first because it sets out some of Sweet Lies’ expectations. If you wish to proceed after reading, sign it electronically. Do not share details with anyone. Discretion is appreciated.”
I take the envelope. It’s heavier than I expect.
The interview ends as abruptly as it began. Ms. Reyes stands, and so do I.
“Thank you for meeting with us, Ms. Vreeland. I look forward to hearing from you.”
Her palm is soft, but her grip is iron. Then, she’s gone.
Outside, the clouds have parted and the sun stabs through like a revelation. I stand on the sidewalk, envelope pressed to my chest, and try to decide if this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, or the bravest.
I text Simone, fingers trembling: “Got a weird job interview. You free tonight?”
The reply comes instantly: “Is it culty? If so, bring snacks.”
I laugh, the sound sharp and wild in the thin morning air.
My reflection in the glass is ghostly, but my eyes are brighter than I remember.
Five thousand a month. All I have to do is figure out what this is about.
Simone’s apartmentsmells like microwaved curry and the faintest whiff of incense, a combo she swears helps her “concentrate on the grind.” Her place is a shoebox, but it’s cozy, every surface jammed with thrifted finds and psychology textbooks stacked in tilting towers. The couch is so broken-in it has actual hip divots; sitting on it feels like falling into the lap of a retired sumo wrestler. I drop onto the cushion cross-legged, magazine in hand, the blue circle blazing out like a dare.
Sim plunks down beside me, still wearing her campus work-study shirt (“Peer Mentor: I Care, Ask Me How”). She tosses herlong blonde hair into a messy bun and pulls a six-pack of mini wine bottles from her bag. “All right, girlfriend, spill. What’s this job that has you texting at the speed of light?”
I pass her the magazine, open to the ad. “Don’t freak, okay?”
Her eyes take maybe half a second to go full bug. “‘Women only.’ ‘Curvy and fit.’ Under twenty-five? Kat, are you kidding me? This is either a pyramid scheme or you’re about to get kidnapped by Romanian organ harvesters.”
I groan, roll my eyes, but the words sting. “It’s sketchy, right? But they said it’s a world-famous author living in a cabin in the woods. That’s why it’s so hush-hush.” I realize how desperate that sounds even as I say it.
Simone cracks open a wine, downs half in one gulp. “Five grand a month in a rustic cabin, with no one else around? Yeah, totally normal. That’s not a horror movie at all.”
I snatch the magazine back and toss it on the coffee table, next to her copy of DSM-5 and a glitter pen. “Look, I know it’s sketchy. But this is the first interview I’ve landed in months that doesn’t involve a food service hairnet.”
Simone leans forward, blue eyes locked onto mine. “Yeah, but what do they want exactly, Kat? Did you ask them that?”
“They said some light cleaning and cooking, and helping with the book. Proofreading, reviewing drafts, most likely.” My voice is too small, defensive. “I only did one interview so far. I’ll walk if it’s creepy.”
Sim scoffs. “Sweetie, the ad already is creepy. I mean, you told me they asked for your measurements, but why do they need them? It’s so weird!”
My cheeks flush. “I know, but it was just height and weight, and not, like, cup size or anything. They said it’s because the cabin’s located on a mountain in the woods, and so they need someone reasonably fit.”
My pretty friend fixes me with a look. “Let me come with you to the next interview round then! I’ll pretend to be your lawyer, or your parole officer.”
“No way,” I say, laughing but meaning it. “They’re big on ‘discretion.’ If I drag you, they’ll immediately say no.”
We’re quiet for a second, the only sound the fizz of Simone’s wine bottle settling. She flips the magazine shut and looks at me sideways. “Just… please, Kat. If you get the tiniest bad vibe, bounce. I know you need the money. But I’d rather you couch-surf in my bathtub for a year than end up on a milk carton.”
I nod. My throat is tight. “It’s not forever. Just a few weeks, really. Then I can get back to real life.”
Simone shakes her head, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Thisisreal life. That’s the problem.” She raises her bottle, and I clink mine against hers. “Here’s to making money,” she says.
“To making money,” I reply, although my voice is a bit hollow.
We spend the next hour watching trash TV, shouting advice at contestants on some dating show where the prize is “a year’s rent in Manhattan.” My buddy claims she only watches ironically, but she screams at the screen every time someone picks the model over the neuroscientist. I let myself sink into the moment, the warmth of her little apartment, the predictable drama. For a minute, I almost forget what I’m about to do.
