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Pulling out of Becca’s driveway, I wait for the anxiety about quitting to hit. It doesn’t. Not with what I found on the firm, not with Jackson’s name all over it—quitting was never the hard part.
The insurance is the hard part. Three weeks until it lapses. And the continuation of those benefits out-of-pocket costs more than my mortgage payment. I know work is a priority, it’s been my driving force since I was sixteen years old. And yet, my brain is having a hard time fathoming going back to the same routine. I make a mental note to look into stopgap measures during this time—a bubble-wrap suit, maybe—right as my phone rings. Nessa.
“This is Phoenix Lane,” I respond on autopilot.
“Okay, this is Vanessa Anne Durham.” Nessa chuckles.
“Sorry,” I mumble bashfully.
“It’s fine, you never have to apologize to me,” Nessa comforts before continuing, “Unless you energetically contaminate my tarot deck, then we will have problems.”
“I won’t—scout’s honor,” I confirm, knowing that’s one of the only foolproof ways to mess with her. “So, what’s up?”
“Alright, don’t be mad, but I may have overstepped a teeny tiny, minuscule amount,” she squeaks out.
My eyes widen in fear. Nessa, saying she overstepped? This could be anything.
“What did you sign me up for?” I ask, attempting to stay calm.
“Alright, you don’t have to take it. But I may have gotten you an interview at the Durham Foundation next week.”
I blink, utterly surprised at this admission. The Durham Foundation is the charity that Durham Corp supports. It’s a program in Cascadia that focuses on transitional housing for women leaving unsafe situations. They provide short-term and safe housing scattered throughout Central Oregon.
“Nessa, the Foundation does fantastic work, but I am not a property manager. What job would I be doing there?”
“You would be the backbone of the next phase of the Durham Foundation, the legal support. I have been thinking about how we could do more with this program for a while, and when you left your job, the idea struck me. Transitional housing is a fantastic way to help these women and children, but they are fighting a system they don’t have the resources to handle. They need things like restraining orders, emergency guardianship, divorces, and custody filings. That’s where I proposed you come in.”
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Where the old cases left a hollow behind my ribs, this feels almost light. My shoulders relax instead of tensing higher.
“Phi, you there? I know I overstepped; I’m sorry, but I would really appreciate it if you went on the interview … It’s probably a stupid idea.”
“Nessa, why would you say that? It is an absolutely brilliant one and a fantastic extension to the program.”
There is a pause before Nessa responds, voice softer. “Really, you think so?”
I shut my eyes tight, hearing the questioning tone in my friend’s voice. The utter dejection in her tone, like she doesn’t believe she could have such a great idea, kills me for my friend.
She’s creative. Passionate. The most caring person I’ve ever met. Her mind runs at a frequency the 9-to-5 world was never built to pick up—and half her family still hasn’t figured out how to tune in.
“Yes, an outstanding addition to the Foundation, and I am honored you thought of me.”
She clears her throat. “Well, I can’t take all the credit. I was pondering your situation when I was doing a chakra meditation, and I felt my Sacral chakra flow with this creative energy.”
I smile at her antics, letting her derail the conversation.
“Thank you, Nessa. When and where?”
“Thursday, 4:00, Daddy, Stewart, who oversees all the properties, and Melinda, who built and runs guest intake services, will interview you. Obviously I put in a good word for you, even if I am technically not an employee referral.”
We hang up as I step out of my car, parked outside the garage since my side is now full of my tools and construction supplies. I walk through my front door into the chaos of unfinished projects and half-packed boxes. My mattress is currently on the floor of the first-floor office/sunroom. The main bedroom is upstairs, and I will give the floors one more day to cure.
Staring at the boxes, willing myself to pick one to unpack, I hear steps at my front door, followed by a knock. He knocks twice. I already know it’s him before I open the door because Jackson Mercer has always knocked exactly twice, in quick succession, and I have apparently memorized that too.
Opening the door, I stare at his stupidly handsome face and see that his sharp cheekbones have darkened. His hair is messy, not the perfectly tousled look he usually has.
I know this conversation is due, so I step back and to the side, letting him walk past me into my new side of the duplex. Jackson takes in the bare walls, the moving boxes, and the utter chaos of my current state and heads into the kitchen, setting down a white takeout bag with a heavenly smell.
“I brought you the soup that you like from Dolly’s. Even got you an extra bread roll,” he says, staring at me, receiving no look of thanks. “Uh … for your cold.”
