Chapter 3 #2
“Is everything okay?” he asks, studying me. “You seem a little…lost.”
I swallow, trying to lubricate a throat that suddenly feels like I’ve been chewing drywall, and nod like any of this is normal. Like my ex isn’t sitting at the table. “I’m great,” I manage. “Super excited to be here.” Not sure how the lie came out, but my smile holds.
Yes. I’m perfectly fine.
Not even close. I should apologize for wasting everyone’s time and sprint for the exit before my body spontaneously combusts from secondhand embarrassment.
But I can’t. I won’t. Not when my teacher is the reason I’m sitting here in the first place, not when she believed in me enough to open this door. I refuse to let her down.
Judy smiles, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of her eyes. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you in person,” she says. “Your campaign proposal from last year’s competition was impressive. Great ideas.”
“Thank you,” I manage, fighting to keep my voice level while my fingers clamp around my portfolio like it’s the only thing keeping me afloat. “It was a fun challenge.” I even manage a small smile, as if my ticker isn’t trying to sprint out of my chest.
Last year in school, as our final assignment, we were split into three groups that competed to develop a marketing campaign for EcoLume, a solar-powered camping lantern that doubled as a phone charger. My team won.
Did we ever.
Not because we had the flashiest presentation or the most complex strategy, but because we understood people wanted to feel heroic in small ways.
While other teams focused on technical specs, we built a campaign around “moments of connection” in the wilderness.
I can still feel that rush when the judges announced our victory—my heart swelling with vindication. This is what I was born to do.
Jake clears his throat, glances down at his notes with infuriating levels of calm professionalism, and then asks, in a voice far too casual for the full-scale emotional apocalypse detonating inside of me, “Please, tell us about yourself.”
Like he isn’t personally responsible for turning my pulse into a war drum. Like my past isn’t sitting across from me in a tailored suit, radiating unfinished business and excellent tailoring. He does look good in a suit.
What am I thinking?
I shoot him a quick, pointed glare. Jerk. He should already know everything about me, down to the way I take my coffee and the way my heart used to crack open when he smiled.
But I refuse to let him rattle me, not in the most important interview of my life. I draw my shoulders back, paste on my most professional smile, and launch into my rehearsed pitch like it’s a lifeline.
“Well, I grew up in this town,” I begin, voice steady. “It was here that I first got into marketing by selling lemonade outside Meridian High.”
I let the memory settle, sweet and bright. “The neighborhood boys used to stop by after their football games to buy some.”
I pause on purpose, letting my gaze drift to Jake and stay there. He shifts in his chair like he’s suddenly discovered the seat is made of thorns.
“That,” I add softly, “was my first taste of consumer demand.”
Judy chuckles, a rich sound that momentarily cuts through the tension in my body.
The man to her left leans forward, elbows resting on the polished table. “What about college? What drew you to marketing?”
I focus on him now, grateful for the distraction, and my voice finally finds its steady rhythm. “I’ve always been drawn to storytelling,” I say, letting the truth anchor me. “Marketing is a way to tell stories, whether it’s about a brand or about the way a product fits into someone’s life.”
I keep my smile professional, my hands still. “I majored in Marketing and Business, and during my internships I worked on campaigns that blended creativity with data, the heart and the numbers.”
A breath. “One of my favorites was a social media push for a local nonprofit. We doubled engagement by centering personal stories from a financially underprivileged community, not just what they needed, but who they were. People don’t connect to statistics. They connect to faces.”
Judy nods, approval settling into her expression, and for the first time a strand of her perfectly coiffed hair slips slightly out of place, as if even she’s human beneath the legend. “Pam showed me what you’re capable of,” she says. “She’s the one who steered me toward you.”
Miss Pamela Reed. My favorite professor at Columbia University, queen of a prestigious marketing program and the kind of woman who could dismantle a campaign with two sentences and a raised eyebrow.
I had no idea she was friends with Judy Hawthorne until that unexpected email from Lantern Bridge landed in my inbox, inviting me to interview.
When I showed it to Miss Reed, she didn’t even pretend to be surprised. She simply confessed she’d reached out to Judy about me.
My jaw nearly hit the floor. Because apparently, I’d been recommended to a marketing legend like I was a name worth remembering.
But then Jake leans forward, forearms on the desk, and his voice is infuriatingly neutral, like we’re strangers who’ve never met. “How do you handle high-pressure situations when everything falls apart?” His gaze flicks to my portfolio, not my face. “The marketing world can be unforgiving.”
I don’t look at him when I say, “I’ve navigated my share of unexpected collapses, professionally and otherwise.”
I straighten, fingers pressing into the leather of my portfolio until the texture anchors me. “When things shatter without warning, I assess the damage, salvage what matters, and rebuild something stronger.”
Then I lift my chin and finally meet his gaze. “I have no trouble trashing elements of a campaign that have proven worthless,” I add, voice calm, “even when others insist they still hold value.”
I notice a muscle tick beneath the skin of Jake’s jaw before I glance back at Judy.
After a few more standard questions, I answer on autopilot, my mouth moving while my mind stays tangled elsewhere. Then Judy rises with graceful authority, the kind that quiets a room without effort, signaling the end. “We’ll be in touch soon,” she says, smiling. “It’s been a pleasure, Sarah.”
“The pleasure’s mine, ma’am,” I reply, shaking hands all around the table, but I deliberately avoid meeting Jake’s gaze.
As I return to the elevator, the pressure in my chest lifts, like bubbles rising after uncorking champagne. I can breathe again.
The questions they asked weren’t the ones I’d spent nights rehearsing until my jaw ached. They were simpler. Cleaner. More direct. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe this was more of a formality than inquisition.
And then reality tilts back into place. The only dark cloud on my horizon now is Jake. The absolute last person on earth I want as a coffee-break companion.
I’m halfway through the lobby, heading for the exit, when I hear footsteps quickening behind me.
“Sarah, wait!” Jake calls.
I don’t look back. I just pick up my pace, hoping he vanishes. But his stride eats up the distance effortlessly, and then his voice is beside me.
“Hi.”
That’s the best he can do? After four years of silence, he offers hi like we saw each other yesterday.
I pivot to face him, smoothing my expression into calm, careful neutrality—Switzerland during a global conflict. “Hey,” I say, sounding as pathetic as him.
“You...look great, Sarah,” he says awkwardly, rocking slightly on his heels.
It takes every ounce of self-control not to knee him where it would do the most damage and leave him folded on the lobby floor. But I keep my smile tight, my hands at my sides, my fury locked deep inside.
“I’m busy. Gotta go,” I say, and then I’m moving, fast, practically sprinting for the revolving door. Better to leave now, before my resentment gets the better of me.
Once I’m outside, the fresh air hits my lungs like a reset button. I dig my phone out of my purse with shaking fingers and fire off a text to Maisie and Claire, our universal drop-everything signal: iceberg dead ahead.
And the truth I’ve been dodging all morning surfaces, ugly and undeniable. Due to a certain personal inconvenience, even though it’s been my dream to work at Lantern Bridge ever since I learned marketing wasn’t just billboards and jingles, some small part of me now hopes I don’t get the offer.
How sad is that?