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My old college professor always said to take the bad with the good. A rejection is not always a bad thing. One’s like this said you made a lasting impression.
I kind of expected no less from the glowing resume and application I’d sent in for the junior associate position close to a month ago. I’m sure my references backed up my application.
I might not have finished my internship at Silvermans but I’m signed off because I was close and they knew my departure was because of Dad’s health. I was highly valued there and any references that come from them will be glowing.
None of it, however, will help me much now.
Bad enough to get the rejection yesterday but I’ve been on edge for the whole day, not knowing what to do.
The only thing left hanging in the air for me as an option is working for Nick.
Nick Giordano.
When I went home after the truly scandalous sexual encounter, I went straight to Google and looked him up. I looked up the whole club as my brain tried to grab some reasoning to make it right. It felt like it had to be more than just helping with the financial situation. The financial situation was enough but I needed more. After all it was my body in question.
The man wanted my body or me to do what we did when we first met. For a hundred grand.
Christ… I had to push that out of my mind all of yesterday, and I hoped that I would hear something positive from Barkers. It was the last firm I’d applied to, and the only one I hadn’t heard back from.
I’d figured no news was good news, or rather it was something that could be hopeful because no decision had been made yet.
That was what I was thinking. Until this morning when I got the email with the dreaded rejection.
The door to the coffee house opens and it makes a little jingle. I lift my head and see Chloe walk in. She looks like a million dollars, or at the very least like some high fashion model walking the path like she’s on the runway.
The blunt bob she has her jet black hair cut in works perfectly to accentuate her high cheekbones that she’s enhanced with this season’s Dior highlighter. My best friend looks amazing and I can’t say I’m not a little bit jealous. It feels like forever since I was able to do anything like shopping for make-up or clothes.
It feels like forever since I was able to stop or have a break from the worries and stress. I just want a few moments. That’s all, but it’s too much to ask.
Chloe’s smile brightens as she approaches me and all eyes follow her in her procession. Eyes are still on her when she gives me a big hug and lowers to sit.
The fact that she’s not paying attention to the guy in the corner who’s practically breaking his neck to look at her tells me she’s totally into Sal, because she doesn’t notice him. She doesn’t notice a guy that’s a dead ringer for Brad Pitt when he was in ‘Fight Club’. It says a lot.
I can’t resist the little smile that pulls at the corners of my mouth.
“How are you?” she asks first.
I place my hands on the table and warm my fingers against the mug of hot chocolate I’d ordered on arrival.
I’m not sure how to answer that.
Chloe bites the inside of her lip and pulls her chair closer to the table.
“Okay,” she pulls in a breath and presses her lips together. “Looks like there’s a whole bunch of stuff going on in that blond head of yours Mia. Spill it sister.”
I purposely didn’t speak to her yesterday, or all of today.
We’d already agreed to meet tonight a few days ago. She also didn’t know that I went to The Dark Odyssey. She gave me the details, told me about the job and to give Sal’s name but I never said I’d go, or when I’d go. This meet up is our regular weekly touch-base session we’d started a while back.
I release the breath I’m holding onto and prep to recount the tale, the saga the last few days held for me. I think to start somewhere close to the beginning, like how I went to the club the night before I braved the task of going inside, and that was just after we’d spoken on the phone.
But I don’t start there. I cut to the chase.
“I went. I went to The Dark Odyssey,” I announce and that good old lump forms in my throat.
I’m actually amazed that she didn’t guess that I wanted to talk in private from where we’re sitting. It’s the furthest booth in the coffeehouse. Away from everyone. The closest person to us is about twenty feet away. No one can hear what I’m about to tell her.
As if on cue she realizes, but her eyes had already turned to saucers from my declaration.
