Chapter 11 Mind Your Ps and Qs
Mind Your Ps and Qs
Harlee
When I agreed to meet HR at James Wilde Media Group, I thought it would be a normal amount of scary.
Not “throw-up-in-a-luxury-bathroom, get baptized in someone else’s coffee, still have to sell my future in twelve minutes” scary.
But here we are.
I stepped into the Kaplan Building with my game face on and my stomach acting like it had a personal vendetta. Marble lobby. Glass everywhere. People moving like they had destinations and self-esteem. I checked the time. Forty minutes early, because anxiety is nothing if not punctual.
I turned my music down, because apparently blasting Lizzo while you’re trying to become a functioning adult is frowned upon, and skimmed my texts like they were tarot cards.
Wynter: Good luck today, sweetie!! XoXo
Harper: Where are you? I’ve been trying to call you.
Big Momma: I have Bingo tonight but there’s fried chicken in the fridge with collards and yams.
Big Momma’s love language is food. Specifically, food that looks you dead in your eyes and says, Girl… you sure you vegan?
Then I saw Spencer’s thread and immediately felt my soul try to crawl out of my body and catch the next train home.
Spence: Come over tonight. Or are you going to forget me again?
Me: I told you I was sorry. Are you really going to keep bringing that up?
Spence: You can make it up to me tonight.
Three weeks since I bailed. Two weeks since I promised myself I’d stop doing the “let’s pretend this is fine” shuffle. And yet… my thumb hovered like the traitor it is.
Because Spencer is familiar. Predictable. A toxic little loop I can walk in blindfolded. And August…
No. Absolutely not. We are not doing that in the marble lobby. Not today. Not ever. I muted him. That chapter is sealed, stamped, and filed under STOP BEING DELUSIONAL.
I texted Spencer before my brain could intervene.
Me: Sure. I can come by after my interview.
My phone immediately felt heavier, like it was judging me. Which. Fair.
I shoved it into my bag, found the bathroom, and tried to transform into “professional woman with bright future” instead of “girl held together by lip gloss and determination.”
I was touching up my eyeliner when I pushed a stall door open too hard, like I had beef with the hinges.
The sound cracked through the bathroom.
So did my stomach.
I dropped to my knees. Coffee came back up with interest. The automatic flush went off like it was applauding.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, staring at the tile like it had answers. “Okay. New fear unlocked.”
I rinsed my mouth, splashed cold water on my face, and told my reflection, “You’re fine. You’re going to walk out of here, get the job, and pretend your body didn’t just betray you in HD.”
I swung the stall door open again and nearly collided with a auburn hair woman in a powder-blue suit carrying coffee like it was her emotional support animal.
We both froze for half a second.
Then physics said, ‘Not today, Harlee.’
Coffee poured down my front like a warm, humiliating waterfall.
“I’m so sorry,” I started, already dying.
She blinked once, looked me up and down like I was an inconvenience with legs, and said, “It’s fine. I didn’t even want it. It tasted like whole milk.”
And she tried to breeze past me.
I stared after her, drenched, blinking. “Who brings coffee into a bathroom anyway?” I muttered.
She turned. “Excuse me?”
You're excused. Because I absolutely didn't stutter.
I should’ve apologized. I should’ve been the bigger person. I should’ve remembered I was trying to get employed.
But I was soaked, shaky, and fresh off a toilet-side exorcism.
So I smiled, sweet as poison.
“I heard Starbucks was making their drinks with a little bitch in them.”
Her eyebrows jumped like they were trying to leave the building.
She didn’t respond. Just walked out with that tight, offended posture people get with that familiar audacity of being asked to consider anyone outside of themselves.
I cleaned up the spill because I’m apparently also staff now, then dug out my backup top and shoes like the paranoid genius I am. Changed. Brushed my teeth. Took one more breath.
Okay. Interview time.
At security, the guard (Eugene, warm face, granddad energy) checked me in while giving elevator instructions, as if he were passing down sacred scripture.
“Left gates,” I repeated.
“Inside the elevator,” he emphasized.
“Inside,” I promised, gripping my badge like it was a diploma.
Forty floors later, James Wilde Media hit me like a different planet.
Open concept. Color. Movement. People talking like their ideas mattered. It wasn’t stiff-corporate. It was… alive. And it made my nerves spike in a new way, because now it wasn’t just intimidating, it was tempting.
A woman at reception greeted me with a smile so polished it could cut glass.
“Harlee?” she said, already standing. “I’m Dillion. Virginia’s expecting you.”
She walked like she had places to be and nobody’s nonsense on her schedule. I followed, trying to match her pace without looking like I’d just fought for my life in a bathroom.
We stopped at a frosted glass door.
“Virginia. Your one o’clock is here.”
“Send her in.”
I stepped into Virginia Wu’s office and immediately felt the air shift.
Not cold. Not harsh. Just… precise. Like she could see the shape of my panic without me saying a word.
Virginia stood to greet me. Silver threaded through her dark hair. Cream-on-cream outfit that screamed quiet authority. Her handshake was firm but kind.
“Harlee Prince,” she said. “It’s good to finally meet you.”
I sat, ankles crossed, hands folded, pretending my heart wasn’t trying to kick a hole through my ribs.
“So,” she said, glancing at my resume like she’d already absorbed it through osmosis. “Tell me about yourself.”
I gave her the standard version. Double major. Master’s program. Clean energy dream. Florida. Backup plans. The whole “look how responsible I am” buffet.
Virginia tilted her head. “That’s all lovely. Tell me something that isn’t on your resume.”
My brain sputtered.
“I… read?” I offered, immediately wanting to evaporate.
“What are you reading?”
And that’s how I found myself admitting, “Giovanni’s Room. James Baldwin.”
Her eyes sharpened, interested for real now. “Why that book?”
I swallowed. “Because it’s honest. About identity. About love. About the part you keep in the dark until it starts making decisions for you.”
Virginia studied me for a beat, then nodded like she understood exactly what I meant.
Then she leaned back and her tone shifted. Still kind. More direct.
“I’m going to level with you,” she said. “Dr. Healy told me what happened at your last internship. I’m sorry you were put in that position. But our apprenticeship pipeline is usually undergrad. You’re… overqualified on paper.”
My stomach dropped, but I forced my spine to stay tall.
“Virginia,” I said, voice steadier than I felt, “I know I’m not your usual candidate. But I’m out of options. If I don’t secure a practicum placement that counts, I’m stuck taking more classes I can’t afford, and my graduation gets pushed.”
I paused, letting myself be honest instead of perfect.
“I’ve worked since undergrad. I’ve been the only one in rooms I wasn’t built for. I’m not asking you to save me. I’m asking you to let me work.”
Virginia didn’t interrupt. That alone felt like oxygen.
She tapped her pen once. “Have you worked in finance?”
“I balance the books at the bookstore I work at,” I said. “And I’ve always had a thing for numbers.”
A small smile tugged at her mouth. “That part, I can tell.”
She asked why I chose Chicago. I gave her the clean version: scholarships, legacy, making my own path, a support system in Aurora. No mention of heartbreak or the abortion. No mention of my father’s disappointment living in my bones like a bruise that never fully fades.
Virginia listened, quiet.
Then she nodded, like she’d made a decision.
“We have a coordinator position in accounting,” she said. “It’s not engineering. But it’s a real role. Paid. Flexible. And if you and Dr. Healy can get the university to accept it as your external partner practicum… it solves your immediate problem.”
My brain lagged. Like it needed to reboot.
“Are you serious?” I whispered.
Virginia’s eyes warmed. “Yes, Harlee. I’m serious.”
The relief hit so hard I almost laughed and cried at the same time.
“I want it,” I said fast. “I want it. Thank you.”
She went over the basics: hours, flexibility, benefits thresholds, orientation timing. I tried to look calm, but inside I was doing backflips in a church dress.
We shook hands again at the end.
“Welcome,” she said.
I walked out of that office lighter than air. Like I’d been holding my breath for months and didn’t realize it until I could finally inhale.
Later that evening, I find myself standing outside Spencer's apartment, my phone clutched in my hand like a lifeline. The screen glows softly in the twilight, a sad little beacon of hope that's quickly fading. I check the time again. Ninety minutes.
The numbers mock me, each minute a reminder of my own stupidity.
I shake my head, disbelief mixing with frustration. What kind of person makes someone wait this long?
Oh. Right.
Spencer.
With a sigh that feels like it comes from the depths of my soul, I text him.
Me: Hey, where are you?
I hit send and watch my battery dip lower. Great. At this rate, I’m not even going to have enough juice to order a ride home, and my bladder is staging a protest after two coffees and a full bottle of water. I bounce on my toes, trying not to focus on the growing discomfort in my lower abdomen.
The cool night air whispers against my skin, carrying the faint scent of somebody’s dinner.
Probably pizza from that place down the street.
My stomach growls, a reminder that I haven’t eaten since…
honestly, I don’t even know. Anxiety doesn’t count as a food group, but my body keeps trying to prove me wrong.
A few more minutes pass. Nothing.