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It surprises me when I feel tears coming to my eyes, and I blink them back furiously. I didn’t spend two hours getting ready for my interview to go in there a crying mess with mascara stains down my face. I tell myself to get a grip. Falcon is my soul mate, and I am his. I’m not losing him—we’re just in a strange place, but we’ll get through it. We can get through anything together. He told me that the first time we had sex.
He told me that once it happened, there was no going back. That I would be his forever, and that there was nothing we couldn’t face together. I cling to that thought and take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. I’m making a big deal out of nothing. So Falcon is busy. That’s nothing new. Once he figures out whatever drama is going down, he’ll be focused on our marriage again, and by then, I might just have a job, and I’ll have something to bring to the conversation, something to talk to him about, a way to connect with him on some common ground.
Or maybe there will be another drama. There’s always another drama, another reason for him to go to the office instead of to our bed.
I step into the lobby of Magnet. It’s a modern building, all minimalist with expensive art hanging on the walls. The lobby is relatively busy, with people coming and going to the various businesses within the structure. I look around and spot a restroom, and I slip inside.
I have a little bit of time to kill, and I want to make sure I look my best for the interview. I am wearing a black, high-waisted pencil skirt with a white blouse, a simple yet elegant look that can’t let me down in an office environment. My black stilettos nip my littlest toes slightly, but I can ignore that. They finish the outfit off well enough that the nipping pain is worth it.
I look at myself in the mirror. I run a comb through my hair and check my teeth for lipstick. They are clear. I put my comb back in my purse and look myself in the eye in the mirror.
“You’ve got this, Elle. Knock ’em dead,” I say to myself.
It’s what Falcon used to tell me before he got all paranoid about me leaving the house. I mean, I understand why he worries. Who wouldn’t after what happened to his mom? But he never used to let it affect our relationship. He used to be able to rein it in. But I think now I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for so long, the thought of him letting go a little bit scares him a lot more than it used to. I’ll just have to show him I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself.
I leave the bathroom and head to the large desk that dominates the lobby.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asks, beaming.
“I have an interview with Franklin Ludlow. Elle Morris,” I say.
“Third floor, Ms. Morris,” she says, her smile not slipping for even a second.
Is this really my world? Can I fit in here?
I thank her and head for the elevators. I ride up to the third floor and step out into a plushly carpeted reception area. Behind the reception desk, an open-plan office sprawls. It’s loud, and everyone here seems young. Younger than me. The generation that embraces technology, embraces change. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m entirely out of my depth. I don’t even fucking know what multimedia solutions are or what problems they solve.
I turn to leave, but I’m too late. The woman sitting behind the reception desk noticed me, and I made accidental eye contact with her. If I go now, I’ll have to explain why.
“Elle?” she says.
Dammit. Now there’s no escape. Okay, I’ll go in there, make myself look like a fucking dinosaur, and leave. No harm, no foul.
I nod. “Yes,” I say.
She stands up.
“Right this way. Franklin will see you now,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow.
“He’s seeing me himself? I thought HR would be conducting the interview,” I say.
She shakes her head as we walk along a snaking corridor, past offices with glass doors. The people within sit at desks, talking on phones or typing furiously.
“No. Franklin conducts all of his interviews himself. He’s pretty hands on.”
There is something strange about the way she says it, but I tell myself I’m being stupid. Of course there isn’t. She looks around and lowers her voice.
“Between you and me, HR is practically nonexistent here.”
There it is again. That strange tone. She seems to catch herself saying too much, and she laughs. A laugh that sounds forced.
“It’s a good job. We all get along and don’t really have grievances,” she says.
