Chapter 25
twenty-five
ROSIE
The boys don’t say anything before my second interview.
In the fancy, sleek office floor of Xion HQ, only clicking away on keyboards can be heard. Occasionally, a whisper or mumble, but none from the boys who would usually jump at this opportunity to subtly torment me.
Jeremiah and his three friends sit around me in the office’s hallway, tucked away from the nine-to-five employees. It’s the prime position to psych me out, but they stay quiet. The most I get are a few glares that teeter into uncomfortable.
It should feel good. No one is commenting on my outfit or mocking my intelligence. Jeremiah doesn’t even gloat about his own past experiences, too loud to be ignored.
The longer the silence stretches, though, the more suffocating it becomes. By no means do I want these boys to throw negativity my way, but while I fidget in my seat and mess with my hair, it sinks in that the respect I so desperately deserve still isn’t mine.
They’re not quiet because they respect me. They’re quiet because they respect Locke.
I’m proud of Locke. Standing his ground at the club was for me, of course, but I can recognize that it was for him, too.
He’s never felt brave enough to fight against someone.
My chest warms at the thought of him caring about me so much, he’s willing to face his biggest fears in my honor.
It’s one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me.
His actions, and his clean-pressed suit, led to our rendezvous in the bathroom. No regrets—or complaints.
I’m thankful he stuck up for me. It’s the result that doesn’t feel satisfying. I’ve imagined it a million times over. I’d know what being respected and recognized as Rosie Mendoza would feel like. This isn’t that.
I’ve just gained respect as Locke McCarthy’s partner.
“Rosie Mendoza,” A man donned in a well-pressed suit calls from the office doorway, and we all look.
When I get up, I feel glares again. Four sets of eyes relay the same message.
Why are you here?
I suspect one person has a different message. One just as unsettling.
Where’s Locke to save you?
I tug the hem of my skirt lower. No one’s commented on it, but I still feel uncomfortable.
The office is larger than any other I’ve been in, but the walls seem to press in on me. In the time it takes to get from the entrance to the pulled-out office chair, a drop of sweat has cascaded down my face. The clicking sound of the door closing sucks the air out of the room.
Xion Group’s interviewer today is the hiring manager. I spent hours reading tips and tricks from Brookstone alumni, and the most often repeated advice was to give a firm, confident handshake before sitting down.
When he reaches his chair across from me, I wait for him to hold his hand out. My own twitches while I stand by my chair, second-guessing everything that’s happened up until this moment.
If the silence of my peers isn’t earned on my own, does it hold any value at all?
The hiring manager—Mr. Daniel Fitz, according to what I’ve read—finally reaches out, but only to point at my seat. Instead of waiting for a shake, he just nods and says, “You can sit now.”
The cushioned chair is high enough that my feet dangle, toes barely touching the floor, but it feels like I’m sinking deeper and deeper into the ground.
My hours of research told me he’d start with a round of questions about my background—to see if my recollection of events matches my resume. The sad reality sinks in when two minutes pass and he doesn’t say a word.
Nothing has changed. Locke put himself out there for me, and it got Jeremiah and his friends to tone down the bullying, yet I’m still a woman fighting twice as hard for half as much.
Rosie Mendoza still hasn’t gotten the respect she deserves.
“Your background looks good,” Mr. Fitz finally says after shuffling through my resume five times over.
“Thank you. There’s a lot of passion behind it.”
He doesn’t comment on how I grit out my words.
“I did notice that under experience, you stated you had over a decade of general Python knowledge. Are you sure about that?”
My lips stretch into a painful smile. Writing that down was a risk. I went into this interview thinking I’d be asked about it. I hadn’t considered being questioned with amused eyes and a doubtful tone.
Painfully pressing my hands together, I nod. “Yes. I started taking online courses in high school, during my free time. My self-lessons only went so far, but I thought it’d be worth including, since I had the basic fundamentals down before college.”
It’s not the most impressive thing I’ve ever done. There are so many more skills and experiences I have printed that he could question me about. I wait for him to bring any other topic up.
Mr. Fitz chuckles and looks back down at the page. “Okay. Interesting choice.”
I think I’ve lost circulation in my left hand.
Despite the countless topics at his disposal, he doesn’t ask anything else about my history. Mr. Fitz replaces my resume with his own packet of papers, tossing the itemized list of my life’s work aside. His gaze holds a newfound interest with these pages.
“What is your ideal career path?”
Finally, something I prepared for.
“My overall goal is to become a quantitative research analyst for Xion Group.”
He hums. Nods. Writes something on his pieces of paper and only glances back at me once. “Our positions for quantitative research analyst roles are extremely competitive.”
“Understandably. I wouldn’t want to be at Xion Group if it wasn’t the best.”
He taps his pen and tilts his head. “Good to know you’ve done your research.”
Research for the last decade of my life, yes.
“With our roles being so competitive, however, we usually require a PhD before taking on a full quant analyst role. Is this something you could see yourself achieving in the future?”
“Of course. It’s a bit ambitious, but I’d like to earn my PhD before I’m thirty.”
I brace myself for the worst reply—the one that usually follows. I want to blame it on habit, and not the motion of his mouth down turning, but I know the truth.
Once I tell people I want a doctorate before my thirtieth birthday, it’s met with skepticism.
Backhanded comments about my health, that really imply I’m incapable of achieving my goal because it’s too hard.
Sometimes people will straight out tell me it’s not possible.
They never say it’s because of time, though.
Always leaving the lingering implication that it’s because of skill.
The worst response of all, though, is when people tell me not to be ridiculous.
That my husband won’t wait that long for me to produce children, and my biological clock will be ticking.
Those comments hurt the most. They disregard my strength and intelligence, boiling me down to the mother of my husband’s children, and nothing else.
Thirty is young. Young enough to be a mother and a doctor. Even if I wanted kids before that, it wouldn’t make my goal impossible. I could watch over little heads of blonde while studying trading strategies for an exam if I wanted it bad enough.
I do want it bad enough.
Mr. Fitz’ mouth draws into a sickly familiar thin line. I’ve seen it precede doubting remarks too many times.
Opening his mouth, he says, “At least you acknowledge it’s ambitious. Good luck.”
The question of, “How old were you when you got your doctorate?” coats my tongue. It swirls around in my mouth, souring the interview, the day, my week, even. He makes a show of circling another handful of things on his forsaken paper, and I find something behind him to focus on.
If I keep looking at him, and his somehow extremely uninterested yet condescending expression, I’ll lose my cool. Rosie Mendoza will never be taken seriously; Not by the boys inevitably murmuring about me in the hallway, or by the person carelessly tossing around my future in their hands.
Eventually, after a too-long stretch of silence, Mr. Fitz sighs.
“Well, one thing I can’t argue is that you have the best qualifications out of everyone, by far. On that alone, I would say you can expect us to contact you for your next steps. Expect an email in the next few weeks.”
That’s it. I don’t experience the grueling process of being interrogated about my past curriculums. He doesn’t stare me down while throwing out hypothetical situations to test my quick-thinking.
I’m not forced to second-guess my answers to questions about work-life balance and why they should choose me over everyone else.
I’m so irrelevant to him, he doesn’t even bother to screen me properly. It’s the easiest thing I’ve experienced during this program, and the most insulting.
I spit out a thank you while leaving my seat. It tastes worse than what I really want to say to him.
When I get led out of the room, it isn’t lost on me that I never get that handshake—and Jeremiah gets one before he even makes it through the office door.
My dark brown blazer is drenched by the time I rush into the dorm building, through the hallway, and to our front door.
It’s storming outside. The first rainfall of November occurring while I’m heading home can’t be a coincidence. It’s too aligned with my cold and dreary mood to be happening by chance.
At least it’s a reminder that the year is coming to a close. This is when people cling to the promises of holidays and family get-togethers, because this weather feels like sadness and heartbreak.
I cling to that small light now. I remind myself there’s warmth on the other side of the door, while desperately fumbling with my keys.
Today sucked. Realizing that silence in the face of adversity doesn’t equate to success, hurts. Doing that once with my peers, then another during my interview, makes everything ten times worse. I’m disappointed, annoyed, and—most of all—unsatisfied.
It feels too much to hold at once—until I’m able to swing the front door open and Locke is there. Standing in the kitchen with tongs in hand and a shy grin on his face.
“Welcome home, Princess.”
The weight lightens. It’s still pressing down on my chest, but I can only be so upset with life when coming home to green eyes and a heart of gold.
“Hi, love.”
My shoes are kicked off and coat tossed over my forearm. Ghost starts to patter his way to me until he sees the raindrops and runs back into the hallway. It brings a small smile to my face, at least.
I finally take more than three steps into the apartment when the smell hits me.
The distinct scent of soy sauce and vinegar is unmistakable.
There’s no food more comforting to me. In my favorite memories growing up, during a random weekday dinner, or at a huge family gathering, it was always there.
A more soothing or nostalgic food doesn’t exist for me.
I know chicken adobo almost as well as I know my own name.
“Is that…”
Locke is in front of me before I can finish the sentence. My bag is taken from my grasp, an arm wrapped around my waist, and a soft kiss gets pressed onto my forehead.
His free hand messes with his glasses and the ice around my heart melts. “I just wanted to try. It’s probably not good. Grant has a blog he really likes, and they had an adobo recipe, so I thought…”
He shuffles around awkwardly in his anime pajamas and life doesn’t feel as unfair anymore.
I still have reasons to be angry. I still am angry, in a section of my heart, where I keep my lifelong hopes and dreams.
In the part of my soul where Locke has manifested, though, warmth spreads again. Defrosting the distress of the day and reminding me that within the four walls of our home, my worries can float a million miles away.
Wrapping my arms tight around him, I mumble into Locke’s chest, “I had a bad day.”
“What happened? Was it Jeremiah?”
There’s a tilt to his tone. The usual, gentle concern for me is still there. It’s just partnered with a directness that only emerged during at the bar.
“It’s just life. It’s a lot to explain.” I will explain. Later. When I’ve let myself fall completely into the comfort of my safe space. “You just need to know that I’m onto the next round.”
“Rosie! That’s great!” His hand finds a spot under my chin, turning my head up to meet his gaze. The excited glint in his eyes is so adorable, it breaks my heart to see it disappear so fast. “Why aren’t we cheering and celebrating?”
“Life.” I huff. “It’ll be okay, though. I’m sure. I just kind of want to stand here with you for a bit, if that’s okay?”
“Of course. Whatever you need.”
Drenched from the rain, and definitely transferring water to his shirt, Locke doesn’t let go of me. He holds me to his body and keeps me warm.
I can hear the rain rattling against our windows. The storm is picking up. The steady drop in temperature in our poorly insulated dorm doesn’t go unnoticed, either.
Yet, in his arms, I never feel cold.
The heartbreak weather that soaked me on the way home is counteracted by the love swirling around us. That’s all I can describe it as. Coming home and wanting to be around Locke, because even with negative things weighing on my mind, he grounds me again.
He holds me without questioning. Doesn’t complain about the silence around us. Even before I arrived, it was like he knew what I needed—preparing a dish that brings me comfort. From my culture. One that feels like nostalgia and home.
It can’t be anything but love.
I love you is right there. I could say it right now. I know Locke loves me too. I hope, at least, he knows I love him with my actions.
I decide not to say it. I let the silence speak for me, instead. In the quiet, I hold him tighter, lean into him fully, and trust him to catch me if I fall. When it’s time for our love to be spoken in dialogue, we will—but right now, I don’t need it.
All I need is him. If I have that, at least, I know the day won’t always be so cold.