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He doesn’t try to distract me. He doesn’t tell me to stop crying, the way Caleb did or act as if I’m sick and fucked up for not being over it yet, though I know it’s true. He just stands there, waiting, solid and unhurried and whole, willing to be whatever I need right now.
It’s kind of him but useless. There’s no end to my grief. No bottom. Eventually he, like everyone else, will need me to stop, to pull my shit together. So I might as well get on with it.
Clenching my jaw, I pull away and cross the room, wiping my face hard. I find the boxes that say “Kate’s closet” in Caleb’s precise hand. “I think I probably just need that one,” I say, pointing at the wardrobe box, my voice cracking.
“Scoot,” he says, nudging me out of the way. “Go lower the tailgate.”
He closes the door behind us and locks it, ending any thoughts I had of going back for one last look.
I wait in the car while he ties the box down. On Instagram, Lucie has posted a photo of the twins heading to tennis camp.
It’s as if she’s trying to get in my head as much as I’m trying to get in hers.
* * *
By the timeI reach Santa Cruz for my interview on Friday morning, my inner thighs are damp with sweat, which I’m certain is pooling at the bottom of my skirt—nothing like the appearance of a urine stain to impress potential employers. I’ve been fumbling around my neck for my missing locket so much that I have a red spot there, and I’ve bitten a hangnail until it’s bleeding. I should have gotten a manicure. I should have gotten a haircut. I should’ve tried to find my briefcase in the storage unit.
I should have recognized that I’ll be lucky if anyone ever hires me again. Especially in a job overseeing their money.
Once upon a time, people would hear about my background, about foster care, and they all saw someone who deserved a chance. A professor once called me “a flower that bloomed in a desert” in a letter of reference. It’s nice being the underdog—no matter how poorly you perform, you’re still exceeding expectations.
That changed after I graduated. Then people saw an Ivy League MBA on my resume and they expected a fucking Ivy League MBA, not an addict with chewed-up nails wearing a suit two sizes too big.
Today’s interview is not in the best section of the city, but I guess I’m probably not the best MBA looking for a job anymore either. I park and walk down sidewalks that need to be repaved, the heel of my shoe catching in a crevice, tweaking my ankle as I stumble. I greet the receptionist and sit in the lobby, staring at the threadbare carpet as nervous sweat dampens my shirt.
It takes nearly thirty minutes before I’m led to the CEO. He has one of those generic business-guy faces—jowls, a slight wave to his thick, overly styled hair, an off-the-rack suit hiding what is undoubtedly a middle gone soft. Surrounding the tables behind him are photos of himself and his family doing expensive shit—sailing, playing golf, standing in front of the Colosseum. The kids I went to school with had families like that. I assumed I’d have one too, as an adult.
He greets me but doesn’t apologize for the delay.
“So, Wharton?” he asks, squinting at my resume. “And then Envirotech...that one didn’t last long. And you haven’t had a job for several years?”
Sweat beads along my hairline and I run my hand over it. “Yes.” I swallow. “I was pregnant, but my daughter died shortly after she was born. It took me a while to get back on my feet.”
“How’d that happen? How’d she die?”
My teeth grind. A decent person would be horrified, would at least offer some rote apology. This asshole, however, just wants to sate his idle curiosity. “It’s called meconium aspiration. Sometimes it gets into the baby’s lungs during childbirth.”
He nods and moves on. Apparently, Hannah’s death didn’t prove as exciting as he’d hoped. “Even so, takingyearsaway from the workforce seems excessive, does it not?”
I could lie, but it’s a small world. This guy will undoubtedly know someone at one of the jobs I left off my resume, someone who will describe how I turned up at a work event high as a kite, how I was led by security out of the building. My only hope of this lasting is to come clean, as little as it appeals.
“I had some issues with drug usage.” I steel my voice, aiming forbluntrather thanashamed. But how could I possibly not be ashamed? I spent my whole life exceeding expectations only to fail my own so miserably. “It took a while for me to complete rehab, but I did, and I’ve been clean for four months.”
His smile is the sort you’d give a small child who thinks she’s Picasso—patient, a bit condescending. “I congratulate you on your success, Ms. Bennett, but you do realize we’re trying to hire a CFO here, do you not?”
“I was promoted to CFO at my last position after six months, and I—”
“I need to stop you,” he says firmly. “If you’d been more forthcoming in your letter, this interview would not have taken place.”
“As I was saying, I’ve been clean for—”
He sighs. “I can’t entrust my company’s finances to an addict.”
I want to punch him right in his smug, self-righteous face, sitting there in his cheap fucking suit with his unattractive family in photos behind him. But I somehow rise from the chair, sticky with sweat and disappointment, and thank him for his time.
He stands as I walk to the door. “In the future, Miss Bennett,” he begins in that unbearably smug voice of his, “I’d suggest you—”
I pull the door shut hard behind me before he can finish. The only victory of my day so far.
