Chapter 1 #4
I have had a rough run professionally. I know my resume shows it.
I know it looks like I can’t stick with anything.
Maybe there’s some truth in that, but not in the way it probably looks from the outside.
Some of the companies were unstable. Some of the bosses were genuinely awful.
Some of it was me being young and trying too hard to prove I didn’t need anyone after Mom and Dad died.
I paused and swallowed.
That was too much, too naked, too exactly the truth.
I kept typing anyway.
I’m not writing to ask you to invent a job for me or give me money or fix my life. I’m not even sure what I’m asking for. Advice, maybe. A direction. A chance to interview somewhere that isn’t run by someone who thinks fear is a management style.
If there is anything at Rowe Structural Group that someone with my background might reasonably be considered for, I would be grateful for the chance to apply properly.
If there isn’t, I would still appreciate any advice you’re willing to give.
I will not be offended by honesty. I could probably use some.
I know Dad would have told me to call you sooner. I also know he would have pretended not to hover in the hallway while I did it.
I finished the email before I could lose my nerve.
I’m sorry again for the late message. I hope this doesn’t put you in an uncomfortable position. Please feel completely free to say no.
Avery
I read it once.
Then again.
Then a third time, which was a mistake, because on the third read I began to see every possible flaw.
I was being needy, too defensive, and too familiar.
Then I thought I was being too formal and that there was too much dead-parent content.
Then I thought that it didn’t have enough professional polish, that maybe there was too much personality or maybe even not enough personality.
I should attach my resume. I should not attach my resume.
I should burn my laptop and move to a fishing village under an assumed name and enter witness protection.
My phone buzzed.
Jules: Did you send it?
Me: I wrote it.
Jules: Send it.
Me: I need to edit it.
Jules: No, you need employment.
Me: I hate the subject line.
Jules: I hate men who say ‘let’s circle back,’ and yet here we all are.
I looked at the email again. My cursor hovered near the send button, a tiny white arrow with the power to ruin my life in several elegant ways.
I could close it. Sleep on it. Wake up sober and sensible and rewrite the whole thing into something more polished. Dear Mr. Rowe, I am currently exploring new professional opportunities. Please find attached my resume for your consideration.
Or I could send the embarrassing version. The human version. The one that told the truth.
My hand moved and for one suspended second after I clicked, nothing happened. The message just sat there, unchanged, as if the universe was giving me one final chance to become someone else.
Then it vanished.
Sent.
I froze as a cold rush went through me, followed almost immediately by a hot one. My heart started beating everywhere: temples, wrists, throat, stomach. I clicked into my sent folder because I guess I needed to look directly at the crime scene. There it was. A favor. 11:48 p.m. To: Callum Rowe.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered.
My phone buzzed again.
Jules: Well?
I picked it up with numb fingers.
Me: I sent it.
The typing bubbles appeared instantly, disappeared, appeared again.
Jules: That’s my girl.
Then, a second later:
Jules: Proud of you. Even though you’re disgusting about your godfather.
I laughed, but it came out shaky.
Me: Goodnight, chaos demon.
Jules: Dream of load-bearing walls.
I set the phone down, closed the laptop, and sat in the lamplight with my hands clasped between my knees.
Nothing had changed, not really. My apartment was still too small.
My bank account was still anemic. My resume was still a patchwork of bad luck and worse judgment.
Callum Rowe was still somewhere across the city, impossibly far above me in every practical sense, and now an email from me was waiting for him in his inbox, slipping silently toward him through wires and servers and whatever invisible machinery carried humiliations from one life into another.
I should have felt relief. Instead, I felt like I had stepped off a curb without looking and heard, somewhere close, the low and unmistakable sound of a large truck heading right for me.
I turned off the lamp and crawled back into bed, but sleep did not come quickly.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Callum’s name glowing on the screen.
I saw his face from that construction photo, wind-cut and serious, his eyes narrowed against the weather.
I imagined him reading my message in the morning with coffee in hand with his tie still loose.
Ignoring it. Forwarding it to someone so they could handle it.
Calling me personally, his voice calm, saying my name like he had always known exactly where I was going to end up.
Avery.
Just that.
Just my name, in his mouth, with all the years between us suddenly rearranging themselves into something I did not know how to survive.
Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, my phone stayed dark.
And in the morning, everything would either be exactly as bad as before, or much, much worse.