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“It seems our term has come to a close,” she said.
No way was this merger going to happen now. Strangely, after everything, I was okay with that. I felt…lighter.
“I apologize for making all of your efforts for naught,” I told Pamela.
“Sometimes no matter how hard we try, what appears to be a good match simply isn’t.”
And sometimes, those who seemed too wildly opposed fit together just right. Like me and Layana. I couldn’t wait to see her, to make things right.
“Your work has been impeccable, and I’m happy to recommend you to any future clients.” I offered Pamela my hand.
“Thank you.”
We shook.
“Do you need a ride?” I asked. “Wallace could take you back to the office once he drops me at the studio.”
“Sure,” Pamela said. “Why not?”
We got in and headed toward the television studio. Pamela pulled out her phone. With the way she scrutinized the screen, she was likely already starting work for her next client.
I took the opportunity to pull out my own phone. Without allowing myself to overthink it, I sent Layana a hopeful text.
Me: I’d like for us to talk, in person, tonight if you’re willing. I’ll make reservations at Mellifluous for seven. I hope you’ll come.
Cautious optimism filledmy chest as I forced myself to breathe instead of focusing on the fact that I did not receive an immediate response. After a few moments, I got in touch with my personal assistant and asked that he set up the reservation. It wouldn’t be a simple request, I was sure, given the significance of the date. I’d have to be sure to properly thank him later. Was Valentine’s an appropriate occasion for a bonus? No. Spring, then.
A text came through. I opened it immediately.
Layana: Fat chance you’ll be able to score it. I bet they’ve been booked for Valentine’s for at least a year
My happy,hopeful heart pirouetted in my chest.
Me: Does that mean you’ll come?
Layana: If you can deliver, I’ll be there
We hadissues to work through, unquestionably. But a rock in the road was only an obstacle. She’d see the interview. I’d prove to her that I could be better, that I was worth the risk to her heart.
Wallace arrived at the studio three minutes before I’d been told to be there. With a steadying breath, I said goodbye to Pamela, climbed out of the car, and stepped inside the studio.
I was ushered straight in by a mousy woman. The hustle and bustle of the studio was immediately overwhelming. Grips and cameramen rushed around, finalizing preparations. The interviewer, a polished woman in a smart pantsuit, gave me an encouraging smile.
A mousy assistant pressed a bottle of water into my hands and pushed me into a small room. “Wait here,” she said. “Drink the water. Don’t want you to get parched.”
Then she left. I was grateful for the quiet moment alone in my greenroom, where I attempted to compose myself and determine what exactly I wanted to say.
It couldn’t be a script, couldn’t be predetermined. I would tell her I loved her. I would tell her I was sorry. It had to come from the heart.
Too soon, the same assistant from before fetched me, attached a mic to my jacket, and led me onto a bright stage. It was all happening so fast, too fast.
I felt my entire body tensing.
The interviewer, a woman named Aisha Coral, welcomed me before launching right into her questions. We hadn’t met before, which helped. These scenarios always went wrong, and it would have been worse to interview with someone who had called me a robot before.
We breezed through my work, including my passion for waste reduction. I focused on giving thoughtful, honest answers, pushing down my nerves.
“And where exactly did your passion stem from?” Ms. Coral asked.
