“Come on,” I mutter under my breath. “Come on, come on…”
The phone keeps buzzing.
I finally yank the phone free only to nearly drop it when I see the caller ID.
Dante.
Kissing my teeth, I silence the call and straighten, purse firmly in place now and keep walking.
Hearing his voice right now would be the emotional equivalent of pouring lighter fluid onto this already flaming garbage fire. Whatever he wants, and he always wants something, it can wait. It has waited five years. It can wait another hour.
And even then, he can go to hell.
Nico had a meltdown this morning. Full tears, tiny fists, the works. All before seven a.m.
So, to say I have energy to handle another tantrum, from a grown man at that, would be optimistic at best.
I shove the phone back into my bag and pick up speed, dodging a woman with a tiny designer dog tucked beneath her arm like an accessory.
The cold air slices through my lungs as I move, part of me hoping Nico isn't tormenting my best friend right now.
He didn’t want the blue shirt this morning. He didn’t want the green cup too. He wanted "the car that goesvroomvroom”which we couldn't locate because our apartment is approximately the size of a generous walk-in closet.
I tore apart the couch cushions. I checked under his bed. I found several Cheerios and an old crayon, but no toy car.
After finally getting him to Piper's with promises of pancakes, extra cartoons, and the firm assurance that Mama would find the car, he let me leave, but his chin was still wobbling when I kissed his forehead.
The wobbling chin gets me every single time. In fact, I spent the first three blocks of my commute feeling like a genuinely terrible person.
But there’s only so much worry I can afford right now with rent overdue, bills piling up, and food running out. Again.
Those envelopes all sit on my kitchen counter in a neat little stack that I rearrange instead of opening because rearranging is free.
My last severance check from Calloway & Voss dissolved in under six weeks. Groceries, back rent, Nico's dentist appointment, the pediatric specialist visit I'd been putting off. Gone. All of it.
Which means this interview,this specific interview, on this specific morning, with this specific coffee stain spreading across my chest is not just important.
It's everything.
If I blow this, I’ll have to crawl back to my father with my tail between my legs and my son in tow.
I'd rather chew glass.
Speaking of glass.
The building finally rises into view across the street. Dark glass, brushed steel, and enough reflected sunlight to temporarily blind innocent pedestrians.
Ferretti Global Risk.
Forty-six floors of money, power, and people who definitely do not have yogurt stains hidden inside their handbags.
I push through the revolving doors and suddenly feel like a child in a museum.
Everything gleams.
The marble floors shine so brightly I can practically see my financial ruin reflected back at me.
A massive chandelier hangs overhead like something stolen from European royalty, and the lobby smells faintly of expensive cologne, polished wood, and people who look like they apologize by buying countries.
