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Followed very closely by reason number two (which maybe should be reason number one, but denial is my medicine of choice): Mom.
I’m not qualified for this job.
I’m not even qualified to look at the qualifications for this job.
But the benefits are amazing, and landing this gig—as impossible as it may seem—would change everything for us.
“Get it together, Laila,” I scold under my breath, just as someone clears their throat behind me.
A man wearing a bespoke suit and a worried frown is waiting for his turn at the water cooler. I step out of his way with an awkward apology.
Once he’s poured his drink and quickly put as much distance as possible between himself and the crazy woman in the corner, I facepalm hard enough to knock myself out.
Unfortunately, I remain conscious.
I’m not cut out for this. I’m an embarrassment. I heap shame upon my family name, which is already buried under mountains of the stuff.
Dairy Queen is starting to look real good when my phone buzzes in my purse.
Because no illness could ever dampen my mother’s unending ability to know exactly when I need her, I’m not even surprised to read her message.
MOM:You just concentrate on that job interview. Don’t worry about me.
Fat chance of that.
I text back, reminding her I left a casserole in the fridge along with instructions for warming it up. She hasn’t had much of an appetite lately. I swear she gets thinner every day.
As soon as I’ve sent the text, my phone buzzes again, this time with a call.
Deadbeat Dadflashes across the lockscreen.
Not a chance in hell am I takingthatright now.
Resisting the urge to fling my phone across the room and cause even more of a scene than I already have, I decline the call and slink back to the waiting room. The room has thinned out. Only three of the prim-and-proper Ivy Leaguers await now, including little Miss Oxford-Upon-Asshole.
As I take a seat, the brass double doors of Mr. Adamov’s office open and one of the hopefuls exits.
Except she doesn’t look very hopeful anymore. Her face is pale and she’s on the verge of tears.
Miss Oxford sits up. “How was it?”
The woman shakes her head miserably. “Apparently, I’m not ‘Adamov Liquor material.’” Her lip quivers. “He told me to ‘come back once I’ve grown a personality.’”
The poor woman flees the waiting room, and it’s Miss Oxford’s turn now. She stands, her skin somewhere between green and chalky white.
“He sounds like an asshole,” I declare. “You don’t want to work for someone like that.”
She whips around, eyes narrowed. “You don’t become the CEO of a multi-billion dollar company at twenty-eight without being an asshole. It comes with the territory.”
I wince, shiver, gulp, and crumble all at the same time. I heard he was young, but there’s young and then there’syoung.I tryto imagine myself as a CEO in four years’ time, and I have to disguise my bitter laugh with a cough.
She glares at me again, and I pretend to be looking for something in my purse just so I can look away. Maybe if I dig deep enough, I’ll find the higher education and internships I should’ve been pursuing instead of a half-finished yoga certification.
But as she leaves, I actually find something I’ve been looking for. Behind my bottle of pain pills is something sleek and purple…
“There you are!” I exclaim. Partly in horror, but mostly in relief.
Just in time, I stop myself from pulling it out in full view of Mr. Cufflinks. He would certainly not approve of me waving around a purple vibrator in the middle of his pristine waiting room.
