Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
The view from the executive floor is always breathtaking, but after sunset it becomes almost unfair.
The city spreads out beneath the windows in sharp little pieces of light, yellow and red and blue and green against the dark buildings. Cars move like glowing beads along the streets below. Office windows blink on and off in the distance. Everything looks quieter from up here. Smaller.
I think we’re the only ones left on the floor now. Most people have already gone home for the day. But not me, and not Andrew.
He’s been in a conference call with someone overseas for most of the late afternoon, and I’ve been buried in the kind of work that somehow multiplies when you look away from it. Meeting requests, travel updates, revised documents.
Every few minutes, my eyes flick to my inbox.
Nothing from Marissa.
I could go home, technically. My hours are over. But unless I have a reason to, I tend not to leave before Andrew does. Not because he makes me stay. He doesn’t. I just know how his days go. If he asks for something at seven thirty, it usually needs to be done by seven thirty-one.
So I wait for him to finish his call while I contemplate whether I should order dinner to the office or pick something up on my way home.
I want to get something really greasy and terrible to make me forget the awful interview.
Maybe a cheeseburger with bacon. And onion rings.
And a huge side of fries. And a crispy Coke.
I smile as my mouth starts to water.
Is this… arousal?
The door to Andrew’s office opens and he steps out. He’s taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, exposing those lovely forearms.
No, this is arousal.
“Do you have a copy of the plans for the Rivera project?”
“Yes.” I reach for the folder on my desk and hand it to him.
Our hands touch as he takes it. Just the brush of his fingers against mine, but his eyes flick to my face for one brief second, and it feels like there’s a current between us. Something electric and alive.
I search for something to say. Something that will prolong this moment. Something that will stop him from taking the plans and returning to his office.
I want him to stay here, leaning against my desk.
I want to talk to him the way we did for that brief stretch of time when we allowed ourselves to relax around each other.
I want to laugh when he spills on his shirt.
I want to joke with him. I want to ask him for advice.
I want to tell him that I admire him, and that maybe I always have, even if it’s been buried under mountains of stress and impossible expectations.
I want to tell him about the interview and have him say it’s okay.
I want him to say he loves me anyway.
Oh my god.
No.
Stop.
“How did the interview go?”
I scream loudly in my head. I think about dead squirrels and porn. He doesn’t react to any of it.
“I think I blew it, honestly.”
His brow furrows. “Why do you think that?”
“I rambled and made stupid jokes.”
“You did that during your interview with me.”
“I did?”
“You talked very fast.” He glances down at the folder in his hand. “And, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, did an impression of Yoda.”
I immediately bury my face in my hands, mortified. “Oh my god.”
“I still hired you.”
I peek out from between my fingers. “Why?”
He shrugs. “You were competent, and I didn’t see having a personality as an issue.”
I narrow my eyes. “You once told me that I talk too much, so obviously it was a problem.”
He looks down at the plans. His thumb drags once over the edge of the folder, bending the corner slightly before he seems to notice and stops. Then he looks up at me again.
“Yeah, it was distracting.” His grip tightens around the folder. “Thank you for the plans.” The words are clipped. “You should go home.”
I nod. “Right. Good night.”
He doesn’t answer until he’s halfway back to his office.
“Good night, Carly.”
The next day passes under the shadow of a rejection that hasn’t arrived yet. I work. I answer questions, reschedule meetings, find documents, make calls, and do all the small, invisible things that keep the day from collapsing in on itself.
And beneath it all, the rejection waits.
Any minute now, someone will thank me for my time and say they’ve decided to move forward with another candidate—and I’ll have to be normal about it.
By the time I get home, my feet hurt, my eyes feel dry, and I have spent the entire day bracing for a door to slam shut. I kick off my shoes and walk into the kitchen, where I find Annie sitting at the counter, eating pasta straight from a pot.
She looks up. “Anything?”
“No.”
Her face falls a little. “Oh.”
“It’s fine.” I open the fridge and stare inside. “They probably need time to write the email. You know, find ways to sugarcoat it.”
“Or they’re still deciding.”
I grab a thing of yogurt, then close the fridge. As I look for a spoon in one of our very unorganized drawers, my phone starts ringing on the counter. I freeze.
Annie leans over to look at the screen. “It’s Marissa Kane.”
My stomach drops so hard I swear it lands somewhere near my knees.
“Answer it.”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t be a wuss,” she bullies me.
I grab the phone with a hand that no longer feels like mine and swipe to answer.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Carly. It’s Marissa.”
“Hi,” I say in a surprisingly normal voice, considering I’m currently having an out-of-body experience.
“I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”
I look at Annie, who is now standing directly in front of me, wide-eyed, with pasta sauce on her chin.
“No,” I say. “Not at all.”
“Good. I wanted to call personally and let you know that we’d like to offer you the Communications Coordinator position.”
The kitchen goes silent as I try to process what she just said.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “What?”
Annie grabs my arm.
“We’d like to offer you the position.”
I stare at the wall.
Marissa continues. “The panel was unanimous. We were very impressed with your interview, and HR felt you handled yourself professionally. You brought relevant experience, strong internal knowledge of BenCo, and a perspective we think would be very valuable on the team.”
My eyes fill up immediately. Annie’s practically jumping in place, sounding like a kettle about to explode.
“HR will send over the formal offer and transition details tomorrow. We’ll coordinate timing with Mr. Bennett, of course, but assuming everything works on your end, we’d like you to join us as soon as possible.”
“Yes,” I say, almost a little too quickly. “Yes, that sounds great. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
The rest of the call is a blur. I’m pretty sure I say thank you four more times. Possibly five. Marissa says congratulations again, and then the line goes dead.
I lower the phone. Annie stares at me. I stare back.
“I got it,” I say, almost breathlessly.
Her face breaks into a grin. “You got it?”
“I got the job.”
She screams. It’s a full-blown, neighbors-might-call-someone scream.
“You got the fucking job,” she yells, throwing her arms around my neck and jumping up and down.
I hug her back, mumbling into her hair. “The panel was unanimous.”
“Well, duh.” She pulls back and grips my shoulders. “They’re not idiots.”
I laugh, but it comes out broken, and then I’m crying. Properly crying. Ugly and sudden and completely impossible to stop.
I got the job.
I got the job.
I let go of Annie. “I have to go,” I say, and grab my coat. “I have to tell him.”