Tender Ties

One Evelyn

Dear Dr. Sorelle,

This email serves as a reminder regarding the employment offer extended to you by Vector Line Media Company.

If additional information is required to facilitate your decision, please contact us at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

Vanessa WaltonChief Marketing OfficerVector Line Media Company

The ringing of my phone interrupted my seventh time re-reading the email. I answered automatically, needing a distraction—even if it was my mother.

“Evelyn, you're taking that job; it's not even a question,” she insisted.

Not a distraction.

Even through the phone, her threatening tone made me feel like the same little girl I’d been when I lived at home. But that was before moving away for college, and now to Seattle for stronger job opportunities.

“Maybe, but—” I began, only to be interrupted again.

“We did not raise you to make a five-digit salary. We did not pay the tuition—”

I cut her off, hoping to get in a few words of my own.

“I didn’t ask you to! I studied digital technologies and emerging media to be a professor, not to manipulate people in the corporate world of marketing.”

“Do not expect a penny from me. Do not call me crying. Do not call me until you get over this ridiculous educator phase,” she spat.

“God, when have I ever—”

The call dropped.

I understood that the offer to be Vector Line Media’s Digital Marketing Manager meant six figures a year, insane opportunities, and great connections with powerful people. Although the powerful people part only sounded half bad, marketing wasn’t what I wanted.

Slogging through my PhD, and several internships, while being a teaching assistant at Dartmouth had all been in hopes of pursuing my passion for teaching.

Up until recently, I intended to use my degree to do exactly that.

It meant less money and wasn’t considered prestigious, but it was my dream.

I wanted to change lives, instill passion in students.

Yet my mom would never see it that way, and it was starting to rub off on me.

Now, I was stuck between two offers with a week left to choose.

I couldn’t think about this anymore and desperately needed a distraction. I rarely went clubbing, but it was too late for a calming run. So, heading to my room, I untied my light brown curls, applied a neutral pink lip gloss, and slipped on a tight baby blue dress that made my eyes stand out.

I called a cab; fully aware I needed a drink—more than one—so I wouldn’t be able to drive back.

Heading into the bustling club, I scanned through the crowds of people.

For the first time since moving here, I hadn't invited my friends, though surely they were at another club. This Friday night in particular, I didn’t want them judging me for whom I chose to dance with, or how desperate I came across.

A bit disoriented from the strobe lights, I made my way to the bar to order my first drink.

Stepping between the peeling barstools to get the bartender’s attention, I nearly bumped into a man who was distracted trying to attract the attention of a woman—one who was completely out of his league, barely sparing him a glance.

The woman who had caught both his interest and now mine had wavy, dark auburn hair framing striking green eyes and lush carmine lips.

Staring longer, I noticed she seemed younger than the women I typically found myself drawn to.

Yet she had a confident air only successful women over forty seemed to have.

Taking in the details of her ethereal beauty, I admired the defined jawline that shaped her face and her flattering black dress adorned with dazzling gold necklaces. She seemed far too rich and elegant to be in a bar like this.

I started by ordering a single drink. Being a major lightweight, getting blackout drunk alone didn't seem like the best idea. As much as I longed to forget my current problems, I didn’t want to die.

Stupid overreacting alcohol receptors. At this moment, I wasn’t particularly grateful for my low tolerance, regardless of how much money it saved me.

After placing my order, I couldn’t help but watch the alluring woman interact with what seemed to be her group of friends—and the random man who was still embarrassing himself trying to get her attention.

Her friends, all laughing loudly and in outfits much more fit for clubbing, seemed to be having a much better time than her.

It made sense that her friends had dragged her here; a woman like her would more likely be spotted at an exclusive and overpriced club where every guest owned a business.

Under her spell, unable to stop watching, I was entranced by the way she tilted her head while listening or raised an eyebrow in response. Even the way she tucked a loose strand of her vibrant hair back into place was riveting.

“Your drink,” the bartender said, pulling my eyes away and ending my shameful, one-sided staring. “Gonna try? Watching man after man humiliate themselves thinking they have a shot with her has been my entertainment all night.”

The bartender’s playful smirk, paired with the way she tousled her short green hair, made her intrigue obvious.

She wasn’t judging anyone’s taste—only their pitiful attempts.

Everyone here had definitely noticed the sophisticated beauty.

She had a way of capturing people’s attention—drawing us all into her orbit.

“God, no!” I shook my head furiously, laughing with the bartender at the mere idea of being bold enough to hit on such a woman. Grabbing my fruity drink, I muttered a quick thank-you, and forced myself onto the dance floor, refusing to keep ogling at her like the other losers.

The god-awful blaring music was impossible to ignore.

Pretending to enjoy the dancing, the drinking, and the proximity of barely dressed women was easy enough—but none of it was my thing.

Given the choice, a quiet evening alone in a woman's jacuzzi with a glass of wine and her arms wrapped around me would have won every time.

Unfortunately, fantasies like that weren't realistic, and waiting around for them wasn't getting me anywhere.

Luckily, the drink slowly lowered my standards, and I could at least tolerate the sexual dancing and the feeling of bodies pressing against me without being disgusted.

Still, my mind was consumed with thoughts of my job options.

As I pushed my way through the crowd, still able to walk straight and searching for another drink, I caught another glimpse of the auburn-haired woman confidently leading her friends out of the bar.

Without much thought, I froze like a deer in headlights, watching her long, graceful legs move, and her hair sway back and forth, revealing her gold hoop earrings. Though her dress was more modest, it still hugged her curves beautifully.

One of her friends, a platinum blonde who’d seemed to be hanging onto her the most, began struggling to walk, staggering slightly.

The auburn-haired woman noticed immediately, wrapping a delicate arm around her friend’s waist, supporting her without hesitation.

My attention was drawn to the hand resting on her friend’s arm—delicate gold rings adorning her feminine fingers, red polish perfectly coating her long manicure.

She scolded her friend for getting drunk while still helping her walk carefully despite her frustration.

My thoughts drifted far beyond the scene. I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to be in that smaller woman’s shoes. I wanted to be her—whether I was being taken care of or reprimanded. Both ideas held their own distinct but irresistible appeal.

My daydreams developed as I watched her, imagining her perfume as one of those expensive fragrances in a fragile glass bottle—strong, intoxicating, unbearably addicting.

The music was too loud for me to hear her words, though that didn’t stop my imagination. In my mind, the striking woman was softly yet sternly coaxing her friend to leave, her voice velvety, maybe using terms of endearment to get her way—honey, sweetheart, darling.

With alcohol boosting my already unhinged creativity, I could practically feel her choosing to praise her friend now, since they were almost at the door.

Before I could fully sink into the fantasy, the woman abruptly turned in one smooth motion, checking that her other friends were following—clearly the matriarch of the group.

As her eyes swept through the crowd, her fierce green gaze collided with my mesmerized blue one.

I didn’t look away. I couldn’t.

After a second, she raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow before turning and walking out the door without a second glance.

At least I would never have had a chance with her anyway. We clearly ran in different circles—hers likely filled with billionaires and elite restaurants, the kind of places I would never be seen—therefore, never seeing her again.

After another few minutes of pretending to have fun, I decided to call Meghan and Blair to meet me here. When that woman left, my incentive to stay alone had gone with her.

They’d be a good distraction and potentially have some advice. Though I could already imagine them telling me to follow my dreams while completely missing the complexity of the decision, Blair's ridiculous jokes and Meghan's comforting knowledge were always appreciated nonetheless.

Maybe a small part of me could be convinced that I wanted to wear fancy attire to work, go on expensive trips, or be surrounded by sophisticated women. But all of that was so shallow, and besides, I wasn’t all that materialistic myself.

The woman at the bar had probably married some executive, which was how she ended up living that kind of affluent lifestyle. Though that was likely the more realistic explanation, I preferred imagining her success as entirely her own. Independent of any man.

It was easy to picture her successful, in a high-level corporate position, taking charge.

Extraordinarily astute, holding herself high the same way she had at the bar.

Wearing a pencil skirt, heels, and a blouse with the first few buttons undone—just enough to catch my attention while still being perfectly professional.

It was a setting she belonged in.

And I didn’t.

Even if the women at Vector Line were anything like her, I still wouldn’t be inclined to take the job. They were the type of women I wanted to be with, not be.

Someone else in those shiny heels, wanting to hold that authority, and loving every moment of playing that role.

With a lot of self-control, I stopped before my thoughts spiraled too far. It felt wrong to project my own desires onto someone I didn’t know—someone who had shown unmistakable disinterest in me. Her disapproving look when she caught my gaze had made that painfully clear.

So why did that condescending stare make me so hot?

It didn’t matter—I had a job to worry about and friends on the way.

An hour later, I was perched at the bar with Blair and Meghan as we laughed over Blair’s tipsy advice for Meghan’s dating life.

Blair was the romantic of the group, happily committed to her boyfriend, while Meghan openly preferred casual flings.

I was content with neither; my standards were too high and my patience too low.

But inevitably, the conversation shifted.

“So, one week to decide. What are you thinking?” Meghan asked, her tone somewhere between curious and stern.

I swirled my second fruity cocktail, avoiding her gaze. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I’ve gone over the pros and cons a million times, and they come out infuriatingly even.”

Blair tilted her head. “If it were me, I’d pick the professor job. But then again, I’ve never been very money minded. Meghan?”

Meghan sipped her margarita, her expression thoughtful. “It depends. Are you thinking about happiness now, or what’ll set you up for the future?”

Blair interrupted her with a loud slurp, earning a glare from Meghan. Her margarita looked delicious, but I wasn’t going to ask for a sip considering her mouth had been on the straw.

Meghan rolled her eyes and continued. “If you take the corporate job, it’ll look great when you eventually apply for a professor position. Universities love professors with real-world experience.”

The logic clicked into place instantly.

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

Meghan gave me a flat look. “Seriously? I thought you were overthinking this to death.”

Blair snorted loud enough to hear over the blaring music, clearly sharing Meghan’s disapproval for my decision-making process.

“I guess I was stuck on the decision simply being between money and happiness.” I laughed, a little embarrassed.

Blair beamed, apparently convinced as well.

“Well, now you’ve got your answer. And it’s not forever. Just a steppingstone.”

The weight on my shoulders lifted. They were right. I could do this.

The weekend flew by, and by Sunday night, I was sure of my decision. On Monday, I’d accept the corporate job.

I hadn’t told my mom yet, as if to prove to myself this wasn’t about her approval. It was my choice and my career. I’d worked too hard to let her influence me.

Blair squealed when I called her to share the news.

“I’m so happy for you! Can we all go shopping next weekend?” She paused, her tone shifting. “You’re doing this for you, right?”

“Yes,” I assured her, though I’d been asking myself the same question. “This experience will be an incredible steppingstone. I’ll learn so much that I can apply when I eventually start teaching,” I repeated, just as I’d rehearsed in my head.

“Good,” she said, her voice warm again. “Just don’t screw it up by getting involved with your boss or something. I know how you are with businesswomen.”

“Oh, please,” I shot back. “I’m not Meghan.”

Blair laughed. “Right, I forgot how boring you are.”