Page 6 of His Good Girl

I lost my job today.

The words sat there, ugly and true.

I kept going.

That makes it sound dramatic. It wasn’t dramatic. No one threw anything. There was no great moral stand. I was fired by a woman who has made an art form out of making people feel small, and even though I know that, I still feel small tonight.

I have had a rough run professionally. I know my resume shows it. I know it looks like I can’t stick with anything. Maybe there’s some truth in that, but not in the way it probably looks from the outside. Some of the companies were unstable. Some of the bosses were genuinely awful. Some of it was me being young and trying too hard to prove I didn’t need anyone after Mom and Dad died.

I paused and swallowed.

That was too much, too naked, too exactly the truth.

I kept typing anyway.

I’m not writing to ask you to invent a job for me or give me money or fix my life. I’m not even sure what I’m asking for. Advice, maybe. A direction. A chance to interview somewhere that isn’t run by someone who thinks fear is a management style.

If there is anything at Rowe Structural Group that someone with my background might reasonably be considered for, Iwould be grateful for the chance to apply properly. If there isn’t, I would still appreciate any advice you’re willing to give. I will not be offended by honesty. I could probably use some.

I know Dad would have told me to call you sooner. I also know he would have pretended not to hover in the hallway while I did it.

I finished the email before I could lose my nerve.

I’m sorry again for the late message. I hope this doesn’t put you in an uncomfortable position. Please feel completely free to say no.

Avery

I read it once.

Then again.

Then a third time, which was a mistake, because on the third read I began to see every possible flaw. I was being needy, too defensive, and too familiar. Then I thought I was being too formal and that there was too much dead-parent content. Then I thought that it didn’t have enough professional polish, that maybe there was too much personality or maybe even not enough personality. I should attach my resume. I should not attach my resume. I should burn my laptop and move to a fishing village under an assumed name and enter witness protection.

My phone buzzed.

Jules:Did you send it?

Me:I wrote it.

Jules:Send it.

Me:I need to edit it.

Jules:No, you need employment.

Me:I hate the subject line.

Jules:I hate men who say ‘let’s circle back,’ and yet here we all are.

I looked at the email again. My cursor hovered near the send button, a tiny white arrow with the power to ruin my life in several elegant ways.

I could close it. Sleep on it. Wake up sober and sensible and rewrite the whole thing into something more polished. Dear Mr. Rowe, I am currently exploring new professional opportunities. Please find attached my resume for your consideration.

Or I could send the embarrassing version. The human version. The one that told the truth.

My hand moved and for one suspended second after I clicked, nothing happened. The message just sat there, unchanged, as if the universe was giving me one final chance to become someone else.

Then it vanished.