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If Megan was already panicking, it was best not to add to the stress. “What’s going on? Maybe I can help.” Or at least point her toward someone who wasn’t Megan, who had answers.
Lyn tugged at her elegant apron, which covered a smart-looking tailored suit. “We’ve got a delivery of cut fruit waiting for us at the loading dock. The problem is, I already have the fruit, so this doubles our order. They’re insisting Gretch signed off on it, and they’re going to leave the food no matter what. But if I accept the delivery, Megan will be charged twice, and this food will probably all go to waste.
That definitely wasn’t the kind of decision I could make on Megan’s behalf. “I’ll help you look for Gretch.”
“I asked them to wait. I doubt I can hold them off for more than another 15 minutes. They have other things to do today.”
After ten minutes of searching, and not turning anything up, Lyn had to break away to go talk to the delivery people. I headed back to the bridal dressing room, to see if I could talk to Sonya without freaking Megan out.
She didn’t need this, especially today.
2
landon
The forty-one-year-old stripper.It sounded like the name of a low budget movie sequel.
Nope. It was my life.
I didn’t have an issue with my own career choices, though I was looking to make a change. The people I was hoping would hire me, on the other hand…
I sat in a small conference room that could easily be transplanted into the gazillions of others in this state—oval, cheap leather chairs, and one wall made of glass, allowing for infinite distractions during any meeting.
My back was to said glass, which defied all my training and instinct and had me fighting the urge to check over my shoulder every few seconds. That the three men across from me at the long conference table could see behind me wasn’t reassuring.
The one on the far right was heavyset and about ten years my senior. The one on the far left was taller, muscular, and wore a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. In the middle was a man who was average height and weight, with a receding hairline, but still enough dark brown strands to rake his fingers through nervously.
I sat across versions of these same three men in almost every group interview I went to. One would be cynical, one would be quiet but the guy who knew his shit, and one would be outgoing and friendly, with more confidence than skill.
Judging them while the conversation was going well was a bad idea. They were people, not archetypes, and I was hoping they’d be my future co-workers. Giving them generic nicknames now like Old Man, Shy Boy, and Cocky Ass would dehumanize them. Make them the enemy.
That wasn’t right. I wasn’t in the Marines anymore, and I wasn’t shielding myself from a harsh home environment. I wasn’t struggling to convince my college professors I was intelligent, rather than the idiotic jarhead they saw when they looked at me.
I was professional. I knew my shit even if I didn’t have experience. Besides, so far the interview was going well. The questions about programming as it related to gaming were easy, their jokes were mostly pun-based around the industry, but still funny. They were also jokes very few people would get if they weren’t coders.
These guys were friendly, easy going, and I could see myself fitting in here.
“So you were a Marine,” Cocky A— Matt said.
There was no reason to read anything into his tone, or compare his question to the times I’d been asked something similar in other interviews. This was its own moment in time, and a reasonable question. “I am. Once a Marine, always a Marine.”
The three exchanged a glance I couldn’t interpret.
“But you don’t serve anymore, or whatever.” That was Larry, notOld Man.
I shook my head. “I don’t. I was discharged.”
Larry looked at my resume. “And then you went to college.”
“Correct.”Don’t clench your jaw. Don’t make assumptions.
“At thirty-five?” Matt asked.
“Yes. That was when I was discharged and went back to school.” Why did everyone make a big deal out of my age in college? They weren’t allowed to ask me how old I was now, and I could object and remind them that this was the same, but I had no interest in working a job I had to litigate my way into.
“Do you feel like your other job will interfere with this one?” Josh had apparently decided we were moving on.
I’d be grateful if I didn’t know what the new question was attached to. It was no secret I was a stripper—asking if it would be a problem during the screening calls was a good idea, since so many companies had morality clauses in their employment contracts. If he was asking though, it was going to be a problem after all.
