Page 13 of His Good Girl

Callum’s jaw moved once. “Marlena Cross?”

I blinked. “You know her?”

“I know of her.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It was meant to.”

A small, mean spark of satisfaction lit in me before I could become a better person. “Good.”

He almost smiled, then let it go. “What happened?”

I told him about my time with Marlena’s company starting with the midnight emails, the impossible revisions, and how Marlena changed instructions and then blamed me for following the previous version. As I spoke, I heard myself trying to make it funny because being funny was my own personal brand of armor, and I heard myself trying not to sound wounded because being wounded was inconvenient. Callum let me do both. He did not interrupt much. When he asked questions, they were practical and specific, like how long I had been there, what my responsibilities had been, whether anything was documented, and whether I had references from anyone else at the firm.

When I finished, he was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “You are not the first person to be fired in their twenties.”

I looked down at my hands. “It feels like it in this moment.”

“That’s because your twenties are designed to convince you every mistake is a verdict designed to judge your life.” His voice was gentle, but not soft. “It isn’t. Sometimes you fail because you are careless, or because you are learning, or because the person above you has confused management with sanctioned cruelty. The trick is learning which is which without lying to yourself.”

My throat tightened again, annoyingly. “And which do you think this was?”

“I don’t know yet.”

That surprised me.

He saw it. “You wanted me to say it was all her fault.”

“I wanted you to say it convincingly enough that I could believe it.”

“I won’t do that.” He leaned forward slightly. “I believe you had bad bosses. I also believe a person can have bad bosses and still develop bad habits from surviving them.”

The words should have stung more than they did. Maybe they would have from anyone else. From him, they felt like a hand at the back of my neck, not holding me down, but making sure I did not look away.

“What habits?” I asked.

“You tell me.”

I exhaled slowly. The rain moved against the glass behind him, fine and silver. Far below, traffic slid between buildings like blood through veins.

“I over-explain,” I said. “I try to anticipate what people want, but then I panic and anticipate everything, including things theynever asked for. I take criticism personally and then pretend I don’t. I stay too long because quitting feels like failing. Then when I finally leave or get pushed out, I act like I meant to do that.”

Callum watched me for a long second, and I had the terrible sense that he was pleased with my honesty.

“That,” he replied, “is more useful than most polished answers.”

“I’m glad my professional damage has utility.”

“Most things do, eventually.”

I laughed once, quietly, because I could not tell if that was comforting or grim. With Callum, the two seemed related.

He glanced at the folder in my lap. “May I see your resume?”

I handed it over. His fingers brushed the edge of the paper, not my skin, and still I felt the moment with ridiculous clarity. This was going to be a problem. Not now, maybe. Probably not even today. Maybe not ever in any meaningful sense. But my body had begun keeping separate records from my brain, and I did not trust the clerk.