9. Jess
Jess
“Could you keep it on file in case something does come up?” I smile tightly.
The fresh-faced receptionist, who looks like she’s barely out of diapers, shoots me a sympathetic smile.
“Sure,” she says, her voice colored with doubt. I glance around the hot pink and chrome foyer of Blend Creative, already knowing that I will never hear from anyone at this company.
“Thank you for your time.” I turn on my heel and stride away. I’ll show myself out gracefully. I may not have the experience any of these fancy design companies are looking for, but at least I still have my dignity.
Well, I do until I try to pull the front door open. It’s a push door, so I end up face planting into the spotless glass.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” the receptionist calls after me, and I’m not sure if it’s the goose egg forming on my forehead or the sting of the hundredth rejection of the week, but my eyes begin to smart.
Not needing to be humiliated any further, I pretend I’ve gone temporarily deaf and scuttle out onto the street.
Once I’m safely out of that nightmare of an office and back in the inferno that is downtown Atlanta, I use all my restraint to avoid having a full-blown meltdown.
It’s been almost a week of pounding pavements and giving out resumes, speaking with snooty receptionists who refuse to connect me with the people I actually want to speak to.
Let’s face it, who wants to hire a washed up wannabe artist whose last experience in her field was working at a gallery right out of college?
It was a good job, but after I moved to New York with Johnny, I was never able to find anything else comparable.
The sad thing is, it’s not like I didn’t try. I applied for a million jobs at art galleries and design firms in New York. I eventually got a volunteer position at the Museum of Modern Art two mornings a week, conducting tours with groups of students.
Middle school students, not art students.
Seeing as the rent on my cockroach-infested walk-up cost more than a mortgage payment every month, that didn’t exactly pay the bills.
So, I spent the last few years working long nights at Cirque!
—an “avant garde experimental concept restaurant” that was basically a circus restaurant.
Complete with waitress uniforms that featured top hats and red dinner jackets.
Yup. Nothing looks as good on a resume as four years spent as a calamari-delivering circus freak.
My long nights at work clashed with Johnny’s nine-to-five so thoroughly that we were often ships in the night. And, apparently, we missed each other so many times that I ended up drifting out to sea aimlessly, while he docked in Sarah’s welcoming port.
Ew. There’s a mental image I never wanted.
I shake my head vigorously, attempting to expel all thoughts of Johnny and his mistress. But all it does is give me a headache and earn me a concerned look from a mother passing me on the sidewalk. She takes her toddler’s hand and moves away from me, pulling him into the safety of a Baby Gap.
Better run away before the crazy lady gets us!
What has my life become?
I check my watch. It’s 3pm. On a Thursday afternoon. I’ve already wasted over forty hours this week being told I’m a failure, and now, I’m tired, sweaty and defeated. Plus, I’m pretty sure there’s a blister forming on my big toe.
It’s time for the only things that can help after a week like this one: wine and ice cream.
It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?
I yank off my heels and stride barefoot to my car, calories calling my name.
* * *
After a quick stop at the grocery store for a whole pint of Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked (okay, and a pint of Cherry Garcia, because everybody knows that variety is the spice of life), I pull up outside Aiden’s house in a much better mood.
On the way home, I picked myself up and got my head in gear.
Instead of collapsing on the couch with ice cream and wine, I decided that maybe I should start painting again (after I eat my ice cream, of course).
If people aren’t going to hire me to work at their companies, then maybe plan B is to start creating art again. In the hope that somebody might buy it.
Pigs do, occasionally, fly. Right?
Let’s forget about the fact that I haven’t painted in years.
Johnny wasn’t exactly encouraging of my art when we moved to New York, so, bit by bit, the little studio space I’d set up in my apartment slowly disappeared.
My paint brushes were packed away to make room for my circus uniform, and my easel was replaced with a bike.
Because Johnny insisted we both buy bikes, so we could visit each other without taking the subway.
Only we never biked together once. I kept on taking the subway to Johnny’s place (paying for parking in NYC is enough to bankrupt anyone), and Johnny continued to never visit me at my apartment, and upgraded to using taxis to get everywhere else.
But that was Past Jess. I want to be New Jess now. And, seeing as Conor won’t be home for at least a few hours, I’m going to make the most of my time alone and do some painting.
Speaking of Conor, I’ve barely seen him in the past few days. He comes home from work every night later and later, looking more and more stressed. When I ask him if there’s anything wrong, though, he just shakes his head. Then, he usually cleans the first thing in his path.
We haven’t eaten dinner together since last weekend, when I cooked him waffles. Let me rephrase that—since I tried to cook him waffles. Turns out you can’t make waffles without a waffle maker. Which Aiden did not have. Because, let’s face it, who owns a freaking waffle maker?
And just a helpful Domestic Goddess tip—no matter how much Google may tell you otherwise, you cannot use a George Foreman Lean Mean Grilling Machine thingy as a substitute waffle maker.
Especially if said Grilling Machine was found stashed at the back of a cupboard, coated in a thin sheen of stale grease.
My brother does not share Conor’s neat freak, deep cleaning tendencies.
Honestly, I’m beginning to wonder if Conor’s purposefully coming home late in an attempt to avoid my cooking.
To give credit where credit is due, Conor tried to eat the waffles.
Even after his eyes widened in horror while he took in the batter-splattered kitchen and burger-scented smoke billowing from Big George.
He sat down at the island, plopped a “waffle” (read: soggy pile of slop) onto his plate, and took a bite.
Gagged. Politely pretended he wasn’t gagging.
He even went to take a second bite before I put him out of his misery and tossed the entire plate of waffles into the trash.
We laughed together, he helped me clean the kitchen, and then, we drove to the nearest Waffle House. There, Conor (the weirdo) forewent the smothered, covered hash browns and syrup-drenched chocolate chip waffles, and ordered a grilled chicken melt instead. I mean, who does that?
Guess Conor really doesn't do breakfast.
We sat in a sticky, pleather booth, drinking lukewarm decaf and chatting.
Before I knew it, hours had gone by and, to my dismay, it turns out that Conor really does seem to be a good guy.
With a pretty solid personality. We didn’t touch on anything deep or personal, of course, but talking to him felt strangely comfortable—like there was an unspoken understanding between us to keep our conversation topics light and surface-level. Away from what may lie beneath.
It was pretty much a perfect evening. The kind of evening I’m sure is enjoyed by normal, non-flirty roommates everywhere.
So, why is it that, every day since, I find myself hoping that we’ll spend another evening together? In a casual, not-a-date setting of course.
I shake myself off and turn off the car. The places my mind goes after a long week. In any case, Conor will probably be working late tonight, meaning that nobody will be here to see my wine and sugar coma.
Eager to get the show on the road, I jump out of my car, pint of ice cream in each hand. I’m practically skipping towards the front door when—
“HEY!”
“Hey Court.” I wave, then set my ice cream on the ground so I can pet the golden brothers, who are pulling on their leashes in a mad attempt to get to me.
Over the past week, Courtney and I have fallen into a bit of a routine—one where she basically accosts me whenever she sees me outside the house, and then we chat for a while.
I’ve learned that she’s a year older than me, an Atlanta native, her last name is Turner, and she has a dog-walking business called Life is Ruff.
It doesn’t pay the bills yet, so she works nights as a hostess at a fancy French restaurant.
To be honest, she’s growing on me like a weed. A very pretty weed, though... like a dandelion—bright and unashamedly, unabashedly herself. I’m at the point where I look forward to seeing her, leashes in hand, blond ponytail and backpack bobbing behind her.
She’s sweet. And kind. Plus, I don’t have many friends in Atlanta anymore.
So, I could use a friend.
I just wish that she’d stop baking me cupcakes. My garbage is currently full to the brim with an array of rainbow-colored, entirely inedible treats.
Don’t look at me like that—I appreciate the gesture, I really do. Unfortunately, I had to stop trying to consume the food after I nearly broke a tooth on what appeared to be an olive pit. In a chocolate chip cookie.
I can’t afford a trip to the dentist right now.
Courtney, who’s dressed in a paisley-print romper today and carrying her usual black backpack, eyes my ice cream. “Big plans for tonight?”
“No,” I say decisively. “Its just me, Ben, and Jerry.”
I’m not brave enough to tell her my real plan—to take out my paint brushes and get something on canvas.
“No luck on the job hunt?”
I shake my head.