Chapter 15
Miriam
Father knows best is a guaranteed way to freeze to death.
Buffalo is disrespectfully cold during winter. It’s the kind of chill that makes leaving the house a life decision. Every day I say it won’t get worse, and every day the weather shows me how low it can go.
Outside is a Silent Hill simulation of cloudy skies and a barely visible sun. It’s enough to summon seasonal depression. There is no reason for me to be away from the comfort of my weighted blanket and wool socks, which brings me back to my first statement.
Father knows best is a whole lie.
I knew the job my father pleaded for me to check out wasn’t a good fit the minute I stumbled to the front door of the stone-and-brick building. He’s the personal headhunter I never asked for, who would use LinkedIn as a matchmaking service for my career and my malnourished love life if he could.
The slightest hint of anything technical means a call or email in non-yelling caps to “GIVE IT A LOOK.” He means well but still hasn’t grasped the concept of specializations.
You wouldn’t ask a podiatrist to do open-heart surgery, but I’m expected to know every facet of engineering.
My bachelor’s, master’s, and PhD—all in mechanical engineering—are forgotten alongside my requests to stop meddling.
Maple King is a juggernaut in the engineering industry. My father was correct to assume this consultancy focuses on engineering projects. Civil engineering. Not mechanical, like my degrees.
It shouldn’t bother me how easily my parents forget what I’ve spent a decade studying and testing. Pardon my saltiness at the tiny fact that academia was my life. I never pledged a sorority, played soccer, or danced like Marcela, unless you count dancing alone in my dorm.
I did one thing, and it’s not memorable enough to remember.
M is for Miriam.
Mechanical engineering starts with M.
Miriam is a mechanical engineer.
Simple, if you ask me.
In fairness, it’s my fault I stuffed these hips and this waist into the suit.
It was one size too small before I left the house, and I still forced myself to perform the magic trick of breathing without collapsing a lung or popping a button.
It’s not vulgar, though the ruffles exploding from my chest scream, Check out these titties if you can find them!
The shoes? Another fail. My heels caught every crack and patch of ice on the sidewalk.
The way I slipped and slid across the floor of this fancy lobby, I’m walking evidence that some people should enjoy a life of flats.
I was too busy fighting for my life to let humiliation to sink in, and I couldn’t quite care about my yelps bouncing off the panes of glass.
But this potential job could fund a home lab in my second bedroom, which is the only reason I came downtown.
I can’t afford CAD software for design and simulations yet, but I want a dedicated space for skill development and personal projects.
I also want an annual subscription for a program I used the student version of in grad school.
The license alone is thirty grand I don’t have, unless I show off my toes on a fetish website.
Software and prototyping materials cost money. I need a high-paying job to make money. Hence the ruffles, sausage suit, and heels.
The receptionist, who’s in stilettos and not playing tag with her shadow, helped escort me to a chair. To her credit, she wasn’t too disturbed by someone dressed like Prince and the Revolution doing a James Brown impression with half the coordination.
“Someone will be with you shortly.” The brunette offers a smile mixed with a frown before she struts back to her desk. On its front is “Maple King” in gold bold letters, a reminder that my future, if I work here, means controlled pantyhose and practiced runway walks.
A knot forms in my throat.
I can wear high heels for software, I tell myself. It might mean relying on the company workers’ comp, but I’ll become a Top Model contestant if it means full access to technology.
Don’t think about a future of blistered feet.
I cringe at the beads of sweat gathering across my forehead, streaking the liquid foundation I misapplied because I don’t wear makeup.
Contouring and blending aren’t a skillset.
At best, I’ll mimic a five-year-old’s fingerpainting project instead of the Bob Ross masterpiece that women with more patience have mastered.
Heat, conduction, and gravity are much more intriguing to me than face glue. I prioritized safety over fashion in labs, but something tells me Maple King will require shopping trips to stores that don’t sell eggs or tires.
Is it too late to leave?
The slippery trek through the Antarctic I battled to get here is a cautionary tale to stay put.
Jarvis, my trusty hybrid sedan, is parked down the opposite end of the street, which means more figure skating for me.
If I take off the patent leather choking my feet now, I’ll at least have a fighting chance of making it to the elevator.
“Miriam.”
I push down the compulsion to jump into one of the trees outside and face the gravelly baritone. The owner of said voice’s lips ribbon from a trimmed beard under deep cheekbones. He’s in a cream dress shirt that’s missing a tie and tucked into olive slacks over a long, lean figure.
I adjust my glasses and recoil. If he’s an engineer, I want a list of who else is on staff…for research purposes.
He’s still waiting.
“Coming.” My scoot off the leather chair comes with the bonus of quick grunts to prevent a Basic Instinct moment.
My steps are a calculation of weight distribution from the balls of my feet to my heels, but I reach him without injury.
“Hi,” I say through a heavy breath, careful not to swallow the jasmine and spice cologne that’s emanating from the man in front of me. My heels add four inches to my five-four height, but I’m still half a foot from meeting his eyeline.
His eyes crinkle under a fan of dark lashes. He extends a hand. “I’m Kieran, nice to meet you. Can I get you anything? Coffee. Water.”
“Have any ventilators lying around?”
His brows kiss against his caramel hue. “Excuse me?”
“It was a joke. These heels are a self-inflicted accident waiting to happen. I probably need another PhD to walk in them.”
Don’t ramble.
I adjust the grip on my briefcase and follow Kieran down a long hall. My father swears every professional needs one. This overpriced display of Italian leather and brass hardware holds my résumé, my old dentist’s pen, and an emergency stash of Twizzlers.
“Funny” is all he says, with the slightest trace of humor. “This way.”
He motions for me to enter an office with a desk and an executive chair in front of a long strip of cabinets. There are floor plants near a side chair in the corner, reaching for strips of the gray daylight coming in through the window.
“May I?” Kieran nods to my peacoat.
“Yes, thank you.” I shrug it off and frown at the pit marks soaking my blouse. This is why you don’t wear dark colors in the daytime!
“Have a seat,” he calls from the coat rack near the door. I use the opportunity to stuff tissues from a box on his desk under my arms and plop into the chair. Sweat is trickling down my back, but one problem at a time.
I don’t know why I’m so nervous. Defending my dissertation involved more people and less sweating. Then again, no one on the panel looked like Ghost from Power.
The crispy fade is there. So are the big brown eyes that played in Tasha’s face. The muscles aren’t the same—not that they need to be. Just an observation.
“Mr. Fils apologizes for his absence.” Kieran takes his seat behind his desk and pulls out what I assume is a folder on my academic career.
If it’s a folder on my life, he’s in for a disappointment.
“Your father spoke very highly of you and your accomplishments.”
Unforgiving leather assaults my butt, pushing an uncomfortable thong farther into my crack. I wince and shift in my seat. “My father called?”
Kieran smiles. “Just to tell me that we’d be fools not to hire you.
I must say, you are impressive.” He peels his eyes away from the folder and scans the blouse that has so many ruffles I look like I sat at the signing of the Constitution.
Assuming I wasn’t Black, or a woman. He clears his throat.
“Our primary focus at Maple King is civil engineering projects. However, your research and designs are intriguing. What was your dissertation topic?”
I sit straighter and adjust my glasses. “The hierarchical organization of multiscale material systems. It was a follow-up to my thesis on an optimum maintenance model based on a Markov chain.”
Silence.
“Need me to explain?”
“Wow.” His eyes widen before taking another casual stroll over my face. Is my makeup running again?
“Do you have an interest in research and design, or are you looking for a research-only position?”
“Are you kidding? I’d love to develop new products.
Troubleshoot too, but if there’s an opportunity for prototyping, I’ll take it.
Some engineers excel at application. Others thrive creating designs.
I’m the rare unicorn who does both,” I say with a giggle.
“What software do you use here? I’ve been trying to get my hands on one I used in school for structural stress analyses.
The student version had limitations, but I assume a place like this can afford it, no? ”
My long exhale is met with silence. Too much?
“I mean”—I fix my glasses—“I appreciate data, evaluation, and conceiving design plans. A good portion of my time in the lab was spent analyzing failures to make recommendations on how to fix them. Concept and creation are fine. Design, I mean. Do you design?” I try again, glancing at the lone degree on an otherwise blank beige wall.
A bachelor’s of science in civil engineering from Buffalo College.
“Oh no, I don’t,” Kieran chuckles. “I am good at deals and negotiations.” His gaze shifts.
He mirrors my frown and shakes his head.
“We’d be a team. You would oversee the data and analysis, testing equipment for implementation and evaluating its performance.
You’d also have access to the lab for any useful designs.
I handle the boring stuff—the goals, budget, permits, and navigating regulations.
Client satisfaction. We’re wrapping up a lead line replacement program and working on a design-build project to expand Toronto’s subway system. ”
“Toronto, as in Canada?”
“The one and only. Travel is part of the job, but only to touch base with our clients and partners.” He tilts his head. “Does any of this interest you?”
Does it?
I never asked myself what I wanted to do after my PhD.
I love analyzing how materials operate under different stressors.
The professor life doesn’t interest me. I also don’t want to exclusively confine myself to the four walls of a lab until my eternal slumber.
I want to be around people—not enough to overwhelm me—and be part of projects that make a difference. Not just a bottom line.
I want my work to mean something.
“I might have an interest based on the information I have thus far,” I say.
Kieran flashes a smile that I’m sure electrocutes and causes third-degree burns. He’s handsome, with a nice set of teeth. But that zing is missing. Not that I’m trying to rub materials with anyone at a potential place of work.
An image of Antonio pulls me back to this past weekend at my house. The softness of his hands and his hard body during our paint fight. That forehead kiss before he left.
I draw in a deep breath and try to forget the smirk on Lisa’s face at brunch.
Who lies about sex with someone who’s running off to be with his mother in the hospital?
Technically, he flew, but her audacity must have frequent flyer miles.
Unless they hooked up before he went home to DC.
That’s an image I don’t want roaming around in my head.
We don’t fantasize about friends who sleep with your sister’s friend, least of all in a job interview.
“Miriam?”
“Yes?” I swing my gaze up from the name plate on Kieran’s desk. I never understood the redundancy of having one inside an office if there’s one on the door. Focus. “Sorry. You were saying?”
A ghost of a smile appears. “I was wondering if I could answer any questions you might have about the position over dinner.”
Is he…no. Right?
I’m an overheated puffer fish sitting in his office, and he’s thinking about dinner. With me. Why is he thinking about dinner with me?
“You mean just the two of us?” Why do we need dinner plates to fill in the blanks?
Maybe he thinks you’re pretty.
“Sorry. I’m not good at this. Engineering, yes. I didn’t mean to imply any unprofessional behavior on your part. Potential colleagues share meals all the time. Fraternization policy or not.”
In case it wasn’t clear, I never miss my daily dose of putting my size ten in my mouth.
I die from embarrassment three times. Once from the verbal diarrhea I spilled all over Kieran’s unnecessary name plate. Another from my pits, which are reactivating sweat stains through the tissue clumping to my skin. The third is from the beads of sweat between my toes, of all places.
“It was nice meeting you.” I stand and retract the hand I offer because of the sweaty tissue pits. “Best of luck with your projects.”
“Is that a no on dinner?” Kieran asks my back.
The look I aim over my shoulder inquires what the hell is wrong with him. I’m a mess with questionable common sense. He should be calling security, not confirming a meal.
“Does tomorrow at six work? I’ll make reservations at The Boathouse.”
I’ll need to cancel the friendship event. Not that I’m in any shape to meet new people if I can’t get through an interview my father set up. “Sure, sounds good,” I say. “Okay, bye.”
I swear I hear a rumble of laughter on my way out of his office.