Thirty-four
Bri
Today is my birthday, and I’m about to lose my shit.
Scheduling an interview on a day as emotional as today was a stupid idea, but I was paranoid that I’d ask them for a different date and lose my opportunity altogether.
So, here I am on my self-imposed death day, trying to be on for the interview of my life.
I’m not sure I’ve ever been this nervous.
If I have, it’s been years. My birthday wish should have been to wake up today a younger version of myself who hasn’t been through a life’s worth of rejections and failures.
I recognize that my nerves come from the pressure I’ve put on this opportunity.
I’ve needed jobs most of my life, but this is the first one I’ve wanted.
After years of mourning, health problems, and other reasons to press pause on my life, here on this Le Corbusier couch, staring through the window at the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance, I’m looking my dream in the face, and it terrifies me.
My phone buzzes in my hand. When I look at it, I grin.
Liem: Good luck! You’re going to kill it!
My stomach calms seeing his name on my screen. I can’t think about not being able to see him today or how getting this job might allow me to see him every day. Maybe I want this job for us as much as I want this job for me.
“Bri?”
I shove my phone back into my purse. “Yes!”
“We’re ready for you.”
Let’s fucking go.
~
“I love creating spaces that make you feel them as much as you see them,” I continue. “My background may be a little unorthodox, but I believe the combination of my passion and my experience makes me an ideal fit for the work you do here.”
Finishing my introductory speech, I sit with my hands folded in my lap, making sure I don’t fidget in the squeaky conference room chair I unknowingly picked.
The quiet that lingers while Jace reads over my résumé again makes it a battle not to squirm. Finally, she breaks the silence. “Is there a reason you didn’t pursue a master’s degree in architecture or design? That’s the usual path we see for those with a BSID looking to do exhibit work.”
If advice and experience have taught me anything, it’s that every question is an opportunity to twist a negative into a hirable work talent. Sadly, I still haven’t learned how to twist my mother’s death and a debilitating disease into positives.
“I’ve had some personal and medical complications that superseded pursuing a secondary degree.”
“Medical?” Lisa asks. She may be nosy, but I like nosy. Not necessarily in this context, though. “Are you still in treatment? Have you recovered?”
Her words are a spring breeze, and true to my nature, I sneeze out the truth. “I’ve received some treatments that have helped significantly, but I have endometriosis, so as of now, there’s not a way for me to ever recover completely.”
Both of their eyebrows rise, and I fear I may have fucked up. “My daughter was just diagnosed with that last year,” Jace says. “And Lisa . . .”
“I have PCOS,” she fills in the end of the sentence. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through that.”
“It’s life,” I say. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through that too. And if your daughter has any questions or wants suggestions, I’m happy to be a resource.”
That brings a rare smile to Jace’s lips. It almost feels like I shouldn’t have seen it—like I’m catching her in a vulnerable state. “I appreciate that. Did it take you years to get your diagnosis as well?”
“About ten.”
The two exchange disappointed murmurs about the medical system and its failures. “Sorry to get off track. What we mean to say is we completely understand that physical and emotional health will sometimes take precedence over work,” Jace explains.
“That’s why we pride ourselves on our flexible schedules and medical coverage,” Lisa adds.
“Yes,” Jace agrees amusedly. “Looking at your résumé, your educational background is perfect for the position. Can you tell us more about what isn’t on paper? Perhaps what exhibits you’ve visited recently that you enjoyed and why.”
I don’t think I could want this job more. “I would love to. How much time do we have?”
~
The second the interview was over, I booked it out of the building and down the street to my parking spot. On the way, I called Liem, hoping he would answer even though it’s the middle of his workday.
Liem: Call you soon
Without Liem to calm down my thoughts, I feel ill by the time I make it to the car. A six-hour drive back to LA just in time to celebrate the milestone I’ve been dreading for months. I need a distraction, and my audiobook isn’t going to do the trick.
Liem’s “soon” goes from a few minutes to an hour.
In that amount of time, I think through every sentence I said during the interview, marking every mistake in my mind with red lines and question marks.
Did I say something wrong? Should I have said more?
Less? Over an hour means a good interview, right?
Right as the audiobook’s heroine figures out how to get out of the time loop, my phone rings. Finally.
“Hey, Hoodie,” I answer, too deep in my anxiety to sound chipper.
“Hey! Sorry, that took forever. The meeting ran long, and now I’m running to something else.” I hear shuffling and something smacking his phone. It really does sound like he’s hustling. No wonder he couldn’t make it here. “How did it go?”
“I’m not sure. It went well in some ways but not in others. There were a few questions I feel like I should have stretched the truth on, but overall, I think I did okay. I was honest about my issues during school and about my health concerns. Probably should have kept that to myself.”
“No, that’s great.”
Why does he sound like he’s running?
“How do you feel about it? Deep down past the nerves?”
I take a moment to breathe, assessing what lies beneath all the birthday fears and my desperation to land an opportunity as idyllic as this one. Underneath it all, I’m still me. Hoping for the best when the world is set on giving me the worst. “I feel good. But maybe it’s because I want it so bad.”
“I want it for you,” he says. Now he sounds short of breath. “If you feel good, the vibes must have been good when you left.”
“I hope so.”
“Sorry, I have to let you go. But Bri . . .”
“Yeah?”
He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a huff as if hopping off a treadmill. “Happy birthday. I hope you have the best day of your life.”
How can that be possible if you’re not here? “Thank you, Hoodie. I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll be there before you know it.”
His promise brings a smile to my quivering lips. “And I’ll be counting the seconds.”
“Me too. I love—uh . . .”
My heart squeezes hearing it slip out of him again. I want to hear him say the words he shouldn’t. We’ll call it my birthday gift. “Say it.”
“I love you.”
The amount of fluttering in my chest would frighten a medical professional. “I love you too.”
~
Hours later, I’m back at Keisha’s house, wanting a nap but not wanting to ruin the makeup I managed to apply this morning at the hotel. Depending on Keisha’s secret plans, I’ll either add some layers for bad girl activities or keep it classy like the mature woman I will be in less than two hours.
“There’s my birthday girl!” Keisha cheers when I enter the house. “How was the interview?”
“It was . . . good? I’m not sure, but I need a drink sooner rather than later. Are we getting cocktails?”
“We’re going to celebrate big. I told you I have it all planned.”
“You do?”
She nods. “Yes. All your faves. We’re getting the full sushi experience. What’s it called?”
Pregnancy brain is weird. She knows what it’s called. “Omakase?”
“Yeah, that. I got you a cake from that bougie-ass bakery you and Junie love. Then we’re going to that new lounge on Rodeo that’s all over the socials.”
Those truly are most of my favorites. “Really? Thank you!”
“You deserve it and more. I love being thirty. I don’t know why you’ve been dreading it like it’s not going to be the first chapter of the best part of your life.”
There are plenty of reasons to dread this day. Emotional reasons aside, I still need to be out of this house in two weeks. As much as Keisha wants extra help with the baby in the first few months, I will be a better village if I am up the road, not up the hall.
“Then I’m sure Liem will give you birthday sex.”
My mood sinks like the Titanic. “He’s not coming. They have a big push before the holidays so he couldn’t get time off.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right. So sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
She shoots me a look of annoyance. “If ‘fine’ doesn’t stand for Fucking in New Environments, I am not interested in hearing you lie. Whether you want to admit you’re in love with that man or not, you deserve birthday shots and birthday back shots.”
“I do.”
“You do . . . realize you love him?”
“No. I do deserve birthday sex.”
“Whatever you—ooh.” She grips her stomach, teeth clenched in pain.
I rush to her side. “Are you okay? What hurts?”
“It’s fine, this has been going on all day. I stopped by the doctor’s office this morning, and they said it’s Braxton Hicks—going through the motions a few weeks ahead of time to prepare for vagina doomsday.”
“Are you sure? That looked painful.”
“Don’t remind me. Everyone says real labor pains are twice as bad. I’m going to need you to make them give me the drugs expeditiously when the time comes.”
“I got you.”
“Thank you. Now tell your niece to stop sitting on my bladder.” She waddles down the hall, grumbling to herself. “Gotta pee for the twentieth time today. This is some bullshit.”
The front door swings open. Junie lets herself in, gift bag in hand, smiling wide when she sees me. “Hi!” she cheers, arms in the air. “This is for you, my birthday baby!”
“You didn’t have to do that. but thank you.”
“Of course. Open it at dinner.”
“Junie!” Keisha returns to the room, her hand still on her stomach, forehead sweat glistening against the edge of her lace. Ain’t no way that is a Toni or a Tamar.
“Are you sure this is a drill?” I ask her again.
“What do you mean drill?” Junie asks.
“She said she’s been having contractions for a while.”