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ELLIE
My phone is glued to my ear, my shoulder holding it up as I neatly tuck my resume into a folder that I carefully slide into my leather tote. My heels click loudly against the pavement while I move in quick strides as I hurry to meet Austin.
“Are you almost here?” Austin’s voice on the other end is breaking up, coming out in cut-off sentences, but I know he’s around the corner.
When I finally reach the entrance of the tall building facing a row of wide stairs with people rushing in and out, I see Austin’s sunny face, one hand holding his own phone to his ear. I breathlessly approach him with a panting smile.
“You made it!” he says, his smile beaming with his greeting. He looks down at his phone. “And with ten minutes to spare.”
“I told you, you didn’t have to come with me. I can meet your aunt on my own.”
“Eh.” He nonchalantly waves me off. “It’ll give me a chance to say hi. Come on. Let’s head up!”
After I texted Austin, he worked quickly to set up a meeting with his aunt. The next day he called, saying that we could meet her the following Wednesday afternoon and I could celebrate my new job afterward by treating him to a round of drinks. It’s a sweet gesture, flirtatiousness written all over it, and I worry that Austin may expect more from this once it’s all said and done.
I obediently follow Austin, shadowing his movements as we check in through security, obtain a guest badge, and ascend up the building through the elevator. When the doors finally open, we’re welcomed to a busy but friendly office floor fully equipped with a large reception desk that showcases what looks like a Christmas tree made of books. Behind the reception desk, a logo with bright red flowers adorns the agency’s logo, Poinsettia Press, written in elegant cursive.
“Hi, Austin,” the young woman behind the desk greets us, making it obvious that Austin is a familiar face around the office. “Are you here to see Paula?”
“Yeah, we actually have an appointment for Ellie. Under Eleanor Salerno.” He turns to look down at me, my hand clasped around the strap of my bag as I smile politely at the receptionist.
“Okay, I’ll let her know that you’re here.”
Austin taps his hand on the counter. “Thanks.”
“Do you come here often?”
Austin laughs. “Guilty,” he answers, bashfully ducking his head. “She’s more of a mom to me than an aunt. I grew up with her and my cousins, so we’re really close.”
“Oh,” I say softly. I’m about to tell him how sweet it is that he has such a close relationship with his aunt and how endearing it is that as an adult, he still manages to maintain that relationship with her. But then I see a woman dressed casually in loose slacks and a cozy sweater beam at us as she walks out from the bullpen of an office.
“Austin!” she squeals with affection for her nephew.
“Hi, Aunt Paula,” he says warmly. The two hug in a quick embrace before he pulls away and motions towards me. “This is Ellie. The friend that I was telling you about.”
“Oh yes! Of course.” She turns to me, her bright smile never changing, and greets me attentively. “Austin has told me a lot about you.”
“He’s told me a lot about you as well,” I respond, smiling and shaking her outstretched hand. “Thank you for the taking the time to meet with me.”
“Why don’t we go back to my office and have a chat,” she suggests. Already, I feel welcomed and valued simply based on Austin’s endorsement of my literature background and our friendship. As I follow Paula to her private office, I turn to look at Austin one more time. He smiles back at me with two thumbs up and a nod of encouragement.
Once settled behind the heavy glass doors of Paula’s office, the chaotic noises from outside die down. I watch Paula as she rounds her large desk cluttered with manuscripts and multiple half-drunk paper cups of tea and coffee. She sits and gestures her hand out for me to take a seat in one of the matching cushioned chairs facing her.
“So,” she exclaims, loud and clear, “Austin tells me you’re a literature major.”
I nod.
“Why literature?”
I smile. “I–I,” I stutter before finding the right words, sighing as they finally pour out of me. “I can’t imagine a world without using words to describe every image and feeling. Being able to say ‘I’m sad’ or ‘I’m happy’ without actually using those words but through an expressive language instead feels like actual magic to me.”
She smiles, nodding and exuding genuine cognizance. I explained reading words and understanding every thought and emotion a writer tries to convey as a specific experience, one that most may not be able to relate to. Yet, she understood every bit of it.
“I was introduced to books at a really young age. My dad… He made sure I was surrounded by books. I don’t think there’s ever been a time in my life where it didn’t center around reading or hunting down gems in a used bookstore. Even now, I work part time at an independent bookstore,” I continue. “But I’ve learned more than to just appreciate books. I want to read and write and introduce others to a world that I’ve come to love and appreciate.”
I don’t know where I found those words. What I do know is that I’ve always felt connected to my dad through books. And this interview, this step towards my future, is about weaving those bits and pieces of him into my life so that the absence of him no longer creates a lingering ache that I can never be rid of. It’s about blending my past and my future in an attempt to move on. I’m suddenly rushed with the urgency that I want this job. To know that with the strength I gain from the slowly resolving grief, I could use this connection to my dad to have a future. One thatIcontrol, no one else.
“Well,” she responds with an exhaled breath. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone speak so passionately about the written word.”
