Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
W ith two months left of school, it’s paramount that I find a job.
I graduate in May along with Jas and Kit, and all three of us are figuring out our next steps.
Mr. and Mrs. Singh, Jas’s parents, plan to keep the condo as an investment, but depending on where we all land, housing is yet another item on the list of unknowns.
One fact crystalizes: I sure as hell do not want to move back in with my parents.
I’m certain they don’t want that either if the way my father continues pressuring me about my future is any indication.
He’s always been great at adding to my pressures, and lately, his micromanagement suffocates with laser accuracy, even from sixty miles away.
It’s been a while since I’ve had to deal with his bullshit.
He largely—blissfully—left me alone once I moved to San Jose, but here we are.
A smart girl would apply to magazines and newspapers in Los Angeles, which is vast and brimming with opportunities, but the thought of smog, fake Hollywood, and high crime doesn’t appeal—aside from providing distance from the Bay Area.
My first choice is San Francisco (despite its proximity to Mr. He Who Decimated My Heart) but I stay openminded about working anywhere in the region.
Every weekend, I drive to the public library and research publications up and down the peninsula, scouring want ads and copying down contact information.
Armed with portfolio samples and a letter of recommendation from my advisor, I type personalized cover letters and assemble packages to potential employers, even the loftier ones—aiming high. I’ve got nothing to lose.
More than anything, the excitement brewing in my chest shows me I’m healing. I’m not whole, but I’m not a sixteenth of the pie anymore either.
Fly —right, Mick?
I’m trying.
Jas and Kit continue to push me out of my comfort zone. We go to restaurants and bars together. I let myself have fun. Sometimes I flirt or dance with random guys. The days—and nights—get easier. The sting of rejection fades. Genuine smiles cross my face.
Do I want to date anyone? Nope.
Do I want a one-night stand? Nope.
Do I need a man? Nope.
Maybe never again.
In late April, I read a want ad for San Francisco Life .
The rush washes over me. This. It’s the one.
Even though it’s an editorial assistant position—so, not a writer exactly—a foot in the door seems like half the battle.
I pounce, desperate for the opportunity to work at this popular— and beautiful—lifestyle magazine in the heart of downtown. The heavens practically part.
When I share about it with my advisor on Monday, he offers to call the editor, a former colleague-turned-friend, on my behalf.
By the time I get home, there’s a message on our answering machine granting me an interview.
I phone the administrative assistant back and set it up, crowing loudly after hanging up.
Two days later, Jas lands a spot at the San Jose Mercury News as a junior reporter—an incredible opportunity—and Kit has applications with advertising agencies along the peninsula, plus two impending interviews. They’re both desperate to stay roommates but also pursue their dreams.
Regardless of how it shakes out, there’s no question Jas and Kit will always be friends, and I hope we’ll all keep in touch.
My track record’s not stupendous in that area, but for them, I’ll do better.
My only other real friend remains Kendra, whom I met through Mick, Remy, and their core group of friends.
Despite our hectic schedules and physical distance, Kendra and I still squeeze in monthly phone calls.
All three of them have solidified permanent alcoves in my battered heart.
My appearance for my interview warrants special attention. Thankfully, my parents gave me five hundred dollars to invest in a professional wardrobe.
I pair a crisp black button-down with an ivory pencil skirt, sheer nylons, and low heels.
After carefully blow-drying my hair and curling the ends, I scoop the honey-blond swaths framing my face into a tiger-patterned comb and leave my feathered bangs loose, along with the rest. I apply conservative makeup and a coat of gloss.
A final glance in the mirror pulls my lips into a smile.
I’m almost unrecognizable…in a good way.
Making my way downstairs, all that’s left is to collect my chic leather messenger bag containing a notepad, pen and extra portfolio samples, my purse, and the directions I transcribed when we set the appointment.
It’s early afternoon when I crank up the VW and head up the peninsula, steeling myself for those mile markers of a love lost. I’ve got a lineup of cassettes at the ready to keep my mind occupied: Rush’s Grace Under Pressure , The Pretenders’ Learning to Crawl , Purple Rain (one of the best movie soundtracks ever), and Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble’s live album, which I push into the tape deck first. It’s one of my favorites and will amp me up…
even though I’m already jumping out of my skin.
When I get to Menlo Park, I sing ridiculously loud…and even more deafeningly as I pass the heart-piercing sign for Half Moon Bay. Shriek-singing is the only way to keep my tears from breaking the dam.
The future is ahead. The future is ahead. The future is ahead.
An hour later I’m in San Francisco, exiting on Market Street and heading toward the Embarcadero Center downtown. It’s sensory overload with taxis and cars, bike messengers and BART kiosks, skyscrapers and hotels, and hordes of busy people crowding the streets and crosswalks.
I arrive at the parking garage and steer my car down the ramp and into a vacant visitor space.
An elevator whisks me to the twenty-first floor.
Please let this work out. This girl needs a fresh start.
I suck in a fortifying breath as my destination nears.
I’m ready to give it my best shot. The bell dings and metal doors open. ..like an offering to the gods.