by Nikki Chase
We lie awake in the darkness, letting silence take over.
We’ve been here for a while now, only occasionally moving to adjust the blanket underneath us. There was a bee trapped between the grass and our blanket before, and we laughed while we staged a mini search-and-rescue mission.
But now it’s just the two of us, hands clasped together while the light summer wind swirls around us, caressing our skin.
This is nice, I think to myself. I think I’m actually happy. Happier than I’ve ever been in my life.
Slowly, everything blurs as water fills my eyes, the droplets streaming down past my temples and falling onto our picnic blanket. I turn to look at him and smile. I can’t help it. Looking at him makes me smile.
His eyes are closed. His thick, sandy brown hair is usually long enough to touch his shoulders, but now it fans out on the blanket. A few strands float in the warm breeze.
I turn onto my side and face him. I stroke his hair — I know he likes that. My index finger traces the curve of his forehead, the angle of his nose, the softness of his cheeks.
God, I love this man. I love him so much just looking at him pains me sometimes. Not because he hurts me — he’d never do anything like that. But, as cheesy as it sounds, my feelings for him are so intense sometimes it feels like my heart could burst from the fullness.
He turns his head to look at me and notices the wet streaks across my face. But he doesn’t have to ask to know they’re not sad tears. He smiles at me tenderly, then reaches out and wipes my tears with his warm fingers.
We gaze into each other’s eyes and luxuriate in our oneness. I can read his thoughts and reach into his soul, and he can do the same with me. He knows me, all of me, and he’s still here, looking at me like I’m the best thing he’s ever laid eyes on.
On a night like this, we don’t need words.
And yet the words are bubbling up inside me, begging to be spoken into the world.
“I love you,” I want to say, but my voice won’t come out.
I search for my voice inside my chest and my throat. But it’s not there. I can’t get it out.
I take a deep breath and force my vocal cords to vibrate, and I hear a soft moan in my own voice.
I can do this.
“Ahhh…”
I hear myself speak, and my eyes slowly open.
The stars have disappeared, and so has the man.
I’m in my bedroom, all alone in the desolate darkness of the city.
Fuck. Not again.
Tears flow, unbidden. From my eyes, through my hair, and into my pillow. Tears of sadness, of loss.
It’s been more than a year. These pangs of agony don’t torture me every minute of every day anymore, but they appear out of the blue sometimes and destroy all the emotional progress I’ve made.
Sometimes I feel like he’s still around, like he’s watching over me, trying to make sure I’m okay. I used to look out the window a lot, hoping to catch him in the act.
But that’s just crazy talk.
I pull out some Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and blow my blocked nose. I have to be able to breathe if I want to go back to sleep.
I steer my thoughts toward other things.
Like work. That’s a good thing to obsess over. I finally have a good starting point — a beginning to a potentially wonderful career instead of another shitty, dead-end job.
I turn my phone on and find the article I was reading before I fell asleep. Seven Interview Tips That Will Get You the Job. I let the words fill my head and make my eyelids grow heavy…
“Emily!”
I sigh. Do we really need to do this every day?
“Yeah,” I mumble as loudly as I can, fighting my morning lethargy.
“Em!” Footsteps get closer to the bedroom door. I know what’s coming before the knocking starts.
“Yeah, I’m awake,” I say, hopefully loud enough for my sister to hear from the other side of the door.
“Yay!” Alice cheers and stops the loud knocking. It’s not something I like to admit after everything she’s done for me, but the cheerfulness in her voice grates on me sometimes, just a little bit. Especially in the mornings. “I made you waffles for breakfast.”
“Okay,” I say, yawning and rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
I sit up and check my phone. Two more minutes until my alarm. Damn it, Alice. I turn the alarm off and walk toward the bathroom.
I know two minutes is barely enough time to do anything, but all that time I waste waking up a few minutes too early must add up. Two minutes today, five minutes yesterday, three minutes the day before that…I must lose, like, one whole hour of sleep every month.
Another day, another interview to fail, I think to myself cynically as the shower sprays hot water onto my body.
Life as a millennial sucks. It used to be that a regular college degree could get your foot in the door.
But now, they want a college degree with exceptionally good grades and heavy involvement with multiple student organizations. And let’s not forget the multiple years of work experience required for entry-level jobs these days.
For someone like me, who didn’t even go to college, all those things combined together basically mean I’m screwed.
Every now and again, I come across some news article about how millennials are lazy and how people used to start in the mail room and slowly climb their way up the corporate ladder. Nothing makes me angrier. Those old, irrelevant people have no idea how much more difficult it is to even get a job — any job — these days.
If I can’t even get a shitty job to tide me over while I improve myself and find a better job, how am I supposed to move forward in life?
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, letting the water wash over me.
I once went to a yoga class where the instructor recommended meditation during the morning shower by letting all thoughts flow away down the drain with the water. It was a good trick and it worked, for a while at least, until… Well, let’s just say it worked until it didn’t.
But this is not the time to feel sorry for myself, or even to fill my brain with anything unrelated to today’s interview. I need to clear my mind.
I got a tip about this interview from Alice. It’s an entry-level junior marketing position at Foster Hotels, a local chain of chic boutique hotels here in San Fransisco.
I’ve always wanted to work in the travel industry, so this is a big opportunity for me. I don’t usually get interviews for something that matches my interests so well. Alice told me that Marco, our childhood friend in Seattle who works in hospitality, has put in a good word for me. Which reminds me, I should probably thank him.
I turn off the shower and dry myself while practicing my answers for common job interview questions. I’ve done nothing but read up on interview skills and attend actual interviews these last few months. I’m practically a professional interviewee at this point.
“My biggest weakness is I don’t have a degree,” I recite as I walk back into my bedroom and close the door.
I scan the items in my wardrobe and quickly settle on a gray button-down shirt. It’s a safe choice that shouldn’t turn any potential employer off. And it’s in better shape than my other office-appropriate shirt.
“But that also means that I’m a blank slate, ready to absorb knowledge and skills from your excellent training program. I don’t have any preconceived ideas about how things should be done.”
I quickly blow-dry my long honey-blonde hair and put it up in a neat French twist. It’s my go-to hairstyle when I don’t have much time to look put together.
I mastered it after watching and re-watching like ten tutorials on YouTube all day — that was back when I had the luxury of time to waste and back when I actually cared about my appearance. Now it’s just a practical up-do.
“I’ve also been reading up on industry trends and learning a lot about hospitality from books in the library, as well as online sources. I believe my efforts s
how my commitment to this line of work. My inner motivation and thirst for learning will benefit Foster Hotels as I continue to improve my skill set.”
The books and articles I’ve read say to stick with natural makeup that won’t distract the interviewer from my qualifications — not that I have much to show in that department.
“Once I settle into my new position, I fully plan to further my education so I can contribute more value to Foster Hotels.”
I spread some tinted moisturizer all over my freshly washed face, dust a bit of rosy blush on my cheeks, fill in my eyebrows with a dark brown pencil, apply some waterproof eyeliner to my upper waterline, and put on some waterproof mascara.
“I also plan to update my shitty wardrobe, so you don’t have to worry about having someone who looks like a bag lady representing your luxury brand,” I say while checking my own reflection in the $5 full-length mirror hanging over the door.
I’ve paired the gray shirt with a black pencil skirt. They’re both a little baggy. I’ve lost a lot of weight over the past year and a half. I may look out of place in a fashion magazine, but I think this outfit is professional enough. At least my clothes don’t look like they came from the clearance section of the thrift store.
I take a deep breath.
You can do this, Emily, I tell myself. If you just get this job, you can start to build a life again. A life you love.
I feel the familiar pricking in my eyes as sadness comes over me, but I fight it back. I’m not going to let it overwhelm me. Not today.
Stop it. You’ve cried enough. Focus on the here and now.
I grab a tissue and dab at the corners of my eyes, briefly thanking Maybelline for their line of affordable waterproof makeup products.
I grab my bag and check that I have all the documents I need inside. A copy of my resume, a copy of my reference list, and a cheat sheet with details about Foster Hotels that I plan to review on the bus. Perfect.
You’ve got this.
I walk out of my room and follow the aroma of waffles and coffee into the kitchen. “Hey.”
“Hey sleepyhead,” Alice says, looking up from the cup of coffee in her hands.
She has the same blonde hair and blue eyes that I do, but she’s always been the taller one, the prettier one, as well as the smarter one.
“Hey, don’t judge. I’m just not a morning person.” I shrug. I grab a mug from the cabinet, fill it with tap water, and gulp it down.
“The waffles are on the counter,” Alice says.
“Awesome. I like waffles,” I say, grinning. I pick up the plate of waffles and pour hot coffee into the mug.
“I know you do, idiot. That’s why I made them.” Alice kicks a chair out for me.
“You’re too good to me, Alice.” I take my seat. I know she means well, but sometimes I feel like she pities me and I hate that. “But I don’t need waffles, you know. A lot of things that you do for me, I don’t need you to.”
“I know. I want to do those things for you. You’re my sister.”
“I’m your sister and I never make you waffles.”
“That’s true,” she says, acting like she’s in deep thought. “So pancakes tomorrow?”
“You know that’s not what I mean.” The corners of my mouth tug upward, dragging my lips into a smile.
“You’ve been through a lot, Emily.” Alice places a hand on my upper arm. “It takes time to heal. So take as much time as you need.”
“Ah, damn it. Now you’re going to make me cry.” I sigh.
“That’s okay,” Alice says. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
“I’m going to pay you back someday, Alice. Somehow…” I let my voice trail off while I fight to suppress my tears. God. I haven’t been awake for even one hour and I’m already a weepy mess.
“I look forward to my luxury, all-expenses-paid vacation in Bali,” she says, shooting me a cheeky grin.
“God, that would be nice. Sunny weather, sandy beach, warm water, and…mysterious foreign men?” I raise an eyebrow at Alice, and we both laugh.
We’ve never had money to travel, and the thought of us lounging by a swimming pool in the tropics sounds ridiculous at this point in our lives.
I’m dead broke and would be homeless without Alice.
And Alice, well, she does okay, but she also has to provide for her freeloading, dead broke, almost homeless sister.
She always has been my entire support system and I truly feel horrible about holding her back in life.
“You get that job,” Alice says, winking. “And we’ll be flirting with international men of mystery in Bali in no time, Em.”
Chapter 3
Cole
“Pop. You must’ve read that report at least five times.” I look across the desk at him, anxious to get him out of my office.
“It pays to be meticulous. The devil is in the details,” he says calmly.
“I know. That’s all you ever say. That’s why I have a bunch of professionals to check and re-check everything.”
He waves his hand dismissively and adjusts his reading glasses. He looks almost like an old, harmless librarian when he does that.
I take a deep breath and try to ignore him, distracting myself by reading the news on my phone.
I can’t afford to give him any clues about just how restless I am. Of course he has to choose today to visit the office, of all days. I should’ve expected this.
You’d think I’m a slacker, the way the old man’s acting. But I’m far from it.
My employees think I’m a micro-manager, but they only say that because they have never worked directly with Robert Foster. Even in supposed retirement, he sticks a finger in every damn pie.
This is the shitty thing about a family business, no matter the size. Normal people worry about their work bleeding into personal or family life. I have family digging into my work all the time, scrutinizing and criticizing every little thing.
I take a deep breath.
Patience. Remember, there wouldn’t be a Foster Hotels in the first place without Robert Foster.
Hospitality isn’t a cheap business to get into, and my father gave me the resources I needed to start. I have access to the best brains on his team and of course some of his money as well.
I do remember and appreciate his support now that Foster Hotels is thriving. But I also wish he’d give me less of that same support.
I’ll admit that things have improved compared to three years ago when I first founded Foster Hotels. Back then, he probably spent as much time in my office as I did. And I had to suffer through an interrogation session every time I went home for family dinner.
Compared to those days, he’s practically letting me run the company on my own now, but the old man doesn’t seem to be able to completely let go just yet.
Now he only comes into the office for a weekly update. That’s as close to a vote of confidence as I’ve gotten.
I suppose I should take that as a compliment from a man like Robert Foster, who requires everyone, even his sons, to earn his trust.
“I only have high expectations of you because I believe in you,” he’d say often.
But I’ve been bending over backward to meet his demands and still he maintains a tight grip over my business. I’m starting to think I would’ve fared better if I had just taken out a business loan or sought investor funding to start the company myself instead of leaning on him.
Honestly, I was already looking into it when I decided to just accept my father’s help. Caine works with him and is pretty much free to do what he wants, I thought back then. But I failed to take into account the fact that I’m not my brother.
I hold my phone up with one hand and ball my other hand into a fist, afraid I’m going to start fidgeting in front of my father. If he gets a sniff of my anxiety and finds out it’s because I’m about to have a meeting, he’d insist on staying. And that wouldn’t do. Not today.
“Okay.” My father takes off his read
ing glasses. “Everything seems fine. How’s the plan for expansion to Seattle?”
“The initial report is being prepared, and I’m planning to go there again in a few months. We’ll have a better idea of what to do after that.” I try to keep my voice calm and steady, pacing my words so they don’t tumble out all at once in my haste.
There’s still time. There’s still enough time.
“Good,” he says, putting on his suit jacket and standing up. “I’ll see you next week. Probably on Thursday or Friday.”
“Okay, Pop. See you then.”
He nods, then unceremoniously walks out the office door. Chatty, as usual.
The door slams shut and I let out a big sigh a relief, slumping into my leather chair.
I check the time again.
Everything should be fine.
Emily Webb.
That name, which sounds so familiar in my head, now looks out of place on the computer screen. The work computer screen.
After making a few mistakes in the beginning, I now keep my personal life strictly separate from my work, which is why I’m not completely comfortable with what I’m about to do. But I don’t see a better option.
“Cole.” My personal assistant’s voice filters through the phone speaker, breaking the silence.
As I pick up the receiver, I notice my hands are shaking. I’ll have to get my act together.
“Yes, Lily.”
“Emily Webb is here to see you,” she says.
“Send her in,” I say, taking a deep breath.
I’m as ready as I can be.
“Okay,” Lily says. I can hear the first syllable of what she says to Emily before she hangs up and the line dies with a click.
I’m sure Lily is confused about why I’m doing the interview for the junior marketing position myself. When I told her to put this in my schedule, she furrowed her eyebrows in confusion for a second. Luckily, one perk of being the boss is not having to explain my actions.
