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Melinda is quiet for a moment before a surprising laugh breaks from her. “Billable hours, that’s a good one. No, none of that. And sweetie, if you are here past midnight, I will take away your access key so fast that security will have to personally escort you home at a good hour each day.”
No one has ever offered me less work as if it were a kindness.
“Thank you for the offer, Melinda. I will review all the details and get back to you in two days.”
We hang up, and the email arrives not five minutes later. Still professional, but not formulaic. Someone took the time to write this out, share their excitement, and make room for questions.
Opening my budgeting spreadsheet, I create two separate tabs. One for the firm, and one for the Foundation. With my monthly expenses already populated, I fill out the estimated monthly salary for both, comparing the taxes, retirement plans, and healthcare. I add in a low-ball guess of half a dozen clients a year I personally take on and then add in the rental income.
Looking at the spreadsheets in black and white, the answer should be obvious. More money, stability, and the kind of prestige I have been working toward all my life. My mother’s sentiments ring in my head about being the best—constant wishes for my success and backhanded comparisons to others in my field and beyond. The firm is another achievement, which has always meant safety.
Then Jackson’s voice from last night comes unbidden to my thoughts.
Maybe we aren’t all supposed to be chasing the next shiny award or big win. Maybe we are supposed to be doing what sets our heart on fire, even if it is quieter.
I keep tinkering with the spreadsheet, adding every what-if scenario I can think of to try and plan for. I squint against the headache that is starting to form and try to roll my stiff shoulders. Forcing myself to push through, to make sure I have all bases covered and thought out. Looking at my blinking cursor, I realize I typed the same line three times.
The firm’s logistics are familiar, like stepping into a pair of shoes I have worn every day. Thinking about working at the Foundation, the uncertainty, the environment I have never been before, is … terrifying. But also exhilarating. Like the moment you are about to jump off the high dive; that nervous excitement.
A soft knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. Crutching over, I peer through the window and see Jackson. With a heavy sigh, I let him in.
“Hey, wanted to drop these off. I had them dry-cleaned. They were able to get the stain out,” he rambles on.
He has the dry cleaning in one hand, and I spot a few Tupperwares in the other. He sees me eyeing them and responds to the unasked question.
“Figured you could use some leftovers from the party—too many for me to eat.”
I step back, allowing him into my space he’s already too familiar with. He hangs the dry cleaning on the clothes racks. I glance at my laptop, rubbing my eyebrows as I try to find an answer in the numbers. Jackson appears in the kitchen entrance and then starts reorganizing the fridge.
“You’re staring at the laptop like it personally offended you.”
Sighing and closing the screen, I rest my forehead on top. “I got a job offer, well, two actually,” I say into the machine.
His expression hardens. “You should never have had to make this decision.”
I frown. “What decision?”
“Starting over,” he states plainly.
For a moment, something dark flashes across his face. “You should have been deciding what promotion to take. Not what life to rebuild.”
I don’t know how to respond to that because he’s right. But also because deep down, I know I would have needed to make a change. Not now, but it would have come.
Not hearing a response from me, he clears his throat, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “Regardless, I’m not surprised you got offered a job by both. Hell, I’d be surprised if they didn’t,” he answers with confidence. “However, why is that a bad thing?”
I drop my face into my hands, exhaustion making me forget my mask. “I don’t know what to do,” I admit, my words coming out muted.
Peering up, he’s thoughtful. “I’m assuming you’ve run the numbers?” He gestures toward the laptop.
“Yes. One is a clear winner,” I state evenly.
“On paper, sure. But does the other cover the bills?” he asks impartially.
Exhaling loudly, I say, “Yes, it will, but it will be a big change, not the security I’m used to.”
“Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it.” He shrugs. “At least that is what Helen Keller says.”
He’s right. I thought I had a secure job. Good standing with the firm. And that dissipated fast.
