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“I think you could be a perfect fit for us, Willow.” I shake the hand of Mary Wilson, the clinic manager of the urgent care, when it’s offered to me.
She’s a short, petite woman with dark hair, brown eyes, and a firm grip. Despite her small stature, something tells me she has no problem commanding respect. She seems like she could be fierce if the situation called for an iron fist.
“I think so too. I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me,” I say.
I smooth my hands down my skirt.
“My pleasure. I’ll be in touch.”
We say goodbye, and I push through the double glass doors.
I got a call from Mary yesterday, requesting an interview, and we agreed to meet today, first thing this morning. The interview wasa welcome distraction from the shit show that had happened the night before last at Cowboy’s.
I spent a good twenty minutes after our phone conversation trying to cover the puffiness of my eyes from my meltdown the night before. Once the dam had been opened that evening, the tears couldn’t be staunched. They lasted into the night and only stopped once exhaustion won out. But it had been cleansing in a way, losing my composure like that. A release of sorts that I didn’t realize I needed.
Still, I was glad I had a full day for my appearance to improve before the interview.
When I arrived this morning, Mary gave me a tour of the facilities, and I met the two doctors who had started the practice in the first place. They are both former emergency room physicians who ventured out on their own. The four of us sat in a room and talked. It felt more like a meet and greet and less like a formal interview.
I immediately liked both the physicians. I enjoyed the fact that one of them was female even more. Especially considering my old male-dominated job.
The position is for a mid-level practicioner. The urgent care is open seven days a week—eight a.m. to eight p.m. on the weekdays and ten a.m. to six p.m. on the weekends. They have multiple PAs and nurse practitioners working for them, and two physician owners. The shifts rotate and vary, including holidays. They tout the place as a family establishment. A small business that emphasizes a good work environment and prides itself on caring for their employees.
They asked about the salary at my current job and what it would take for me to make the leap into urgent care. We talked about numbers and specifics. But they didn’t offer me the position. Yet.
I start walking down the stairs and spot Wyatt and Benji waiting for me. Wyatt texted me yesterday to check on me, so I told him about the interview. We made plans to grab a bite to eat afterward. I haven’t heard from Zane, and I don’t plan on contacting him. I’m still raw from the way he treated me the other night.
Wyatt is perched on the staircase that I’m walking down, and Benji is pacing nearby, like he’s incapable of sitting still.
“Hey,” I say as I approach.
Wyatt glances up from his phone and stands. His eyes scan down my body as his hand slips through his hair. “How’d it go?”
“Really good,” I reply, stopping in front of him.
Benji whistles low and long. “If the job is based on appearances alone, you’ve got it in the bag.”
He winks at me, and I can feel my cheeks flushing.
Since I didn’t pack a professional-looking outfit, I went into town yesterday after the call from Mary and picked out a skirt and blouse to wear to the interview.
“Thanks, Benji.” I hug him when he walks over. “Where are we eating?”
“There’s a burger place across the lot,” Wyatt suggests. “Unless you want to go somewhere nicer.”
“No way,” I say, falling into step with the two of them. “A burger sounds perfect. As long as fries are attached to that order. And a big, fat Pepsi or Coke.”
Wyatt chuckles, throwing his arm across my shoulders. “That’s my girl.”
We enter a burger joint called Billy’s. The smell of fried meat fills the air. It’s small, and there’s a U-shaped counter with stoolsalong each side and a grill in the middle. Two guys stand behind the counter, cooking burgers, fries, and onion rings. I bite my lip to hide my smirk when I see just as many fries on the floor as in the baskets they’re preparing.
“What’s up, Santi?” Benji says when we walk in.
A guy wearing a black beanie, a grease-stained T-shirt, and low-riding jeans steps around the counter to slap Benji’s hand. He repeats the gesture with Wyatt.
“What’s up, fellas?” he says. Then, his eyes stop on me and stay. “Who’s this?” He takes a step closer until Benji puts a hand on his chest, stopping him.
I laugh.
