Page 17 of Julian

This cannot be real. Can it? No, it can’t be… or is it?

That’s what I keep thinking as I walk down Julian Langley’s block the next morning, noting with dismay that my heart hasn’t stopped pounding since yesterday evening.

No more than thirty seconds after Percy hung up, my phone lit up with an email from Julian Langley’s executive assistant, Tracey Collins. Six attachments. Official letterhead. A salary number that made me so dizzy I had to sit down at the kitchen table.

A salary three times what I was making. Three.

All my adult life, I’ve been a hustler. I tried college after high school, but it wasn’t for me. I found some of the classes interesting, but most of it was boring. Without a solid education, good-paying jobs were scarce and there started my career of juggling multiple gigs. I’ve always held at least two jobs at the same time, sometimes three to live the life I wanted. Once Dylan came to live with me, that meant I tightened my budget and cut out things like getting my nails done and going out for sushi once a week with Abby.

Now with a job paying this much, I don’t have to have a second one anymore. I can have more time with Dylan and… well, I don’t know what I’ll do with myself, but I’ll figure it out.

I’d stared at the direct deposit form like it might vanish if I blinked too hard. Then the 401(k) paperwork—with company matching. Matching. As in, they put money in because I put money in. I’d never even considered retirement beyond Don’t think about it and hope you’re not homeless at seventy.

Then the health insurance packet.

I swallow as I stop at a red light, Manhattan buzzing around me.

Not bare-minimum coverage. Not catastrophic, cross-your-fingers-and-pray coverage. Real insurance. The kind of insurance that lists networks and specialists and preventive care, like those are normal, accessible things.

Eligible dependents like Dylan Hawthorne.

I typed his name in myself. Double-checked the spelling, even though I’ve been writing it since I was fourteen and forging permission slips because Mom was at another “show.” I chose the plan with the lower deductible. I didn’t even hesitate.

There’s even a supplemental pet policy through one of the team sponsors. I laughed when I saw that. A hysterical, slightly unhinged sound that startled Beau off the couch. It’s the sound of when life borders on the feeling of How did this just happen to me?

I enrolled in everything and I don’t think I’ll quite believe it’s real until I get confirmation emails.

And even now, as I stand before Julian Langley’s townhouse that looks like it belongs in a period drama about robber barons, part of me is waiting for someone to step out and say there’s been a mistake.

The street is quieter here. It’s the type of block where the trees are evenly spaced and the brownstones look like they’ve never known financial panic. I picked him up here just yesterday, but now I’m noticing things.

I glance at my watch. Seven forty a.m. I’m twenty minutes early.

Historically, I’m not nervous pulling up to someone’s home. I’ve driven CEOs, visiting diplomats, a washed-up sitcom actor who insisted on playing his own theme song through the car speakers. I’ve never cared about the door I’m stopping in front of.

Today is different.

This isn’t a work shift. It’s… a life shift.

Is it too early to ring the bell? Too late to walk around the block to kill some time?

Do I just stand here? Do wealthy people appreciate punctuality or find it too aggressive?

I exhale slowly and smooth the sides of my hair to make sure there are no flyaways under my cap. I felt a little ridiculous, taking the subway in my chauffeur’s uniform, but I have no clue what I’ll be driving today or what the dress code is. When I work for the limo companies, I pick up and return the cars, but the uniform of black pants and black jacket in a cheap polyester was bought with my own money when I landed that job. I thought it was appropriate to wear it this morning, and I glance down at it, noting that it fits the same as it did yesterday and yet it’s not quite as comfortable for some reason..

My phone buzzes in the small pocket of my backpack. It’s from Dylan. All good on first day of the new job?

I smile despite myself and type back quickly. So far. Early arrival to pick up the billionaire.

I lock my phone and glance at the house again.

Seven forty-four.

Okay. Fine. I’ll wait.

I smooth my hands down the front of my jacket, check that my hair is secured at the nape of my neck, and take one more steadying breath.

The front door opens and I freeze.