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A few stops later, the El arrives at my neighborhood station. Along with the dozens of other commuters around me, I climb wearily down the stairs and walk the few blocks to my apartment.
My neighborhood isn’t exactly pleasant to look at, but it has its charms. Most of my neighbors are international, and my whole block takes on the mouthwatering aromas of cumin and coriander every evening. Some neighbors have begun decorating for the fall, while others are clinging to their summer flowers. Most of the buildings could use a fresh coat of paint and the road could certainly use re-paving.
But this is home. I trudge up the front steps of my solid brick apartment building and stop to check my mail, grimacing at the stack of bills that seem to control my finances. My parents helped me pay for college, but city life is expensive, and I barely make enough to cover daily expenses. Stuffing the envelopes into my bag, I make my way up three flights of stairs, grimacing at how dusty the banister is.
Inside, my apartment is stuffy from having the windows closed the whole day. I go through my usual after-work ritual to try and decompress a bit. I quickly open every window in my apartment to catch the late afternoon breeze and to banish the stagnant air. Once this task is done, I slip into my favorite sweatpants and a t-shirt, and finally, I turn on the kettle for tea.
While I wait for the water to boil, I let my eyes drift around the one-bedroom abode I call home. I’m fortunate to have a corner apartment, which means more natural light. The exposed brick walls make the place edgier than it is, while the wooden floor is filled with nicks. The paint is chipping in a few spots, but the appliances are more or less new.
My décor, however, makes up for these shortcomings. My couch is a hand me down of rich, deep blue velvet. I have colorful rugs scattered everywhere that I stole off my parents, and the artwork is all gifts from talented friends. There’s a plant in the window that – miraculously – I haven’t killed yet, and it adds a breath of green to the living area. The bedroom is a little plainer, boasting only a bed, dresser, and closet, but I like its simplicity.
The teakettle whistles shrilly, disrupting my musings. Once I prepare my chamomile and honey concoction, I’m ready to settle into the work at hand. I grab my bag and sink onto my couch, grumpily staring at the meeting notes from earlier.
These are for Carlton.
Frowning, I shake my head and look down, determined to keep my mind straight. The talking points are all clear enough and I managed to capture the presentation details fairly well, despite how distracted I was. For the next hour or so, I type furiously on my laptop, organizing information and trying to reiterate the points I know Melody would want the client to focus on. After a final review, I sit back for a moment to work up the courage to actually draft an email to Carlton.
Acknowledging that it’s my job to send him the notes, I scramble off of the couch to fetch Carlton’s card from my bag. Then I sink back into my seat, staring at the business card. It’s a simple logo and design, but one detail on it makes me feel like a profound idiot:
Founder and CEO, Dissidence Corporation.
I knew Carlton was a bigwig at Dissidence because of how Melody had been acting around him. But I had no idea that he is, in fact, the boss.
I groan loudly.
Your childhood enemy is a hot billionaire. So what?
“The world isn’t fair,” I say aloud to my tiny apartment.
Biting my lip, I craft a straightforward note to Carlton. I consider adding in a snarky comment but remind myself that first and foremost, he’s a potential client and that I’m a professional. Satisfied that the email is courteous and that the notes are as good as they’ll ever be, I hit the send button, feeling tense the entire time.
Once the message is delivered, I roll my eyes at my own nervousness. I forward emails and notes to important clients all the time, so why should he be any different?
Because it’s Carlton, that annoying voice in my head reminds me for the umpteenth time.
In an attempt to forget about my sexy former bully, I head to the kitchen to search for dinner.
“Canned ravioli,” I frown as I consider my options. “God.” I dump the thick mixture into a bowl and pop it into the microwave. Just as the machine hits its last minute, I hear the familiar ping of an incoming email on my computer. Sighing, I wander over to see what it is. Probably just some junk mail. But then, my eyes open wide.
