38
SIENNA
The last week has been a welcome change of pace from my days of doing nothing. I’ve been to every interview Theo had set up for me, and they’ve all gone surprisingly well. Really well. Which is shocking, considering I’m fighting through thoughts of Theo as I answer questions.
My plan is back on track, but something feels off about it this time. I’m not as excited about the prospect of working in the architecture field as I was before. Something’s missing. My heart seems to think it knows the answer, but I continue to ignore it as I stare up at the building towering above me.
I’m standing in the heart of downtown Portland as cars drive past on the street behind me. The coffee shop on the first floor of the building I stand in front of is buzzing with people. I assume they are trying their best to get their caffeine fix before starting their workday.
My gaze travels up the building, and I cover my eyeswhen I stare up at the twelfth floor. Counting the windows as I go. The September sun shines bright. I squint my eyes as I imagine myself looking down at this street rather than up from it.
I look down at the note in my hand again, double-checking the time Theo has scrawled out onto the paper next to “Rose City Designs.” Not even a full year after graduating from college, I’ve secured an interview at the company I thought I’d never have a chance to work at. At least not until five years into my career. Theo’s list has thrown my plan wildly off course but in the best way possible.
I try not to think about what else my parents might have been right about as I fold the note and shove it into my blazer pocket.
Straightening my button-down shirt, I push open the glass doors of the building. My eyes squint again as they adjust to the lighting change from outside. The lobby smells of coffee and pastries, the scent wafting in from the shop next door. My shoulders loosen ever so slightly at the relief of not having to serve coffee anymore.
“Good morning,” the young woman at the front desk greets me as I approach her. Though she doesn’t look up from her cell phone until I speak.
“Good morning,” I say with a smile, “I have a meeting with Mr. Emerson at eight thirty.”
I watch as she taps her long pink fingernails on her keyboard. A star gem hanging off the pinky nail clinks against the keys as she types. Picking up the phone, she brushes her blond waves off her shoulders as she beginsto speak. Setting down the phone, the woman raises her hand, motioning toward the elevator to my left.
“Head up to the twelfth floor. Mr. Emerson will be ready for you shortly.” I’m not able to get a thank you out before she’s back to typing away on her cell phone.
It’s the longest elevator ride of my life, and I lose track of how many times the elevator stops on its way up to the twelfth floor. By the time I reach the top floor, my nerves are more shocked than before.
You can do this.
The pep talk I give myself ends when the elevator doors ding, opening to reveal the lobby of the twelfth floor. The lobby feels as though it’s growing in length as I make my way to the man sitting at the large oak desk. The front of it, one long piece of oak, smoothed and shaped into a swooping curve, the right side coming to a point almost as tall as I am. I take in the design as I pass the black leather loveseats lining the lobby. Architectural magazines lay out on the tables next to them. Behind the man at the front desk hangs the Rose City Designs logo: a rose in place of the “O,” the whole illuminated by a light carefully hidden in the ceiling.
Before reaching the man at the front desk, he holds his hand up to me, motioning me to take a seat on one of the nearby loveseats.
“Mr. Emerson will be out in a moment.” I nod to him as I take a seat as instructed.
My foot taps lightly on the dark wood floors. Not wanting to be caught with my phone in my hands, I fidget with my clothing. Smoothing out my button-down asthough the heat from my fingers can further iron out already straightened silk. The clock hanging on the wall opposite me ticks by. The sound grows louder in my ears by the second.
The clock goes silent when Graham Emerson steps into the room. He’s instantly recognizable from the many magazine covers I’ve seen him on. I wasn’t expecting him to be this good-looking in person. His suit, tailored to his body down to the centimeter, stretches only slightly over his muscles. I’d guess by his build that he and Roman aren’t only best friends but workout partners too.
“Ms. Parker, it’s nice to meet you.” Graham’s tone is warm as he throws a charming smile my way.
His smile doesn’t compare to the one I find myself missing. The smile made of pure sunshine that I’ve grown to love over the summer.
Reaching my hand out, I intertwine my hand in his, giving a firm, professional shake. The feeling is far from that of Theo placing his hand in mine, the now permanent pit in my stomach growing even larger at the thought.
“Likewise, Mr. Emerson.” I follow him when he waves me down the hallway. We pass a few doors with names I can’t catch and a conference room before reaching his. Walking into his office, I’m amazed by the view of the city, showcased by the floor-to-ceiling windows spanning the entire wall behind his desk. The black furniture and dark wood accents are bathed in sunlight, brightening what would otherwise be a fairly dark room.
Bookshelves line the wall to the right, adorned withbrass sculptures, books of all sizes, and a few personal photos in frames that blend seamlessly with the shelves. The black leather furniture rubs against my slacks as I take a seat, making an awful screeching sound. The noise reminds me of the first time I met Theo.
Get your mind off Theo, Sienna.
Easier said than done.
I shouldn't be surprised by such a beautifully designed office. Graham Emerson was given the unofficial title as the king of architecture, after all.
As Graham takes a seat at his desk, he gets right to business. “So tell me about yourself…” With that, the interview is off.
I match each of his questions with a carefully rehearsed answer, having spent all week prepping for this interview. Graham nods his approval as I speak, leaning in when I talk about the inspiration behind my portfolio. Roman did say he likes his ego stroked, after all.
