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Melissa must know what she’s talking about. After all, only someone with guts, courage, and faith in themselves moves halfway across the world for a job. She chose to set up her own life and thrive in her own way, and with no family for assistance.
If someone like Melissa can do that, then so can I. I can go in for this interview and give it my best. I can conduct myself with confidence and clarity, knowing I’ve worked hard, I’ve studied hard, and it’s my time to shine.
If someone like Melissa can move her own way through the world, then I can certainly move up in this one. I can take this promotion, and I can run with it. I can fulfill my dreams and goals of being more than just your average legal assistant.
“Thanks.” I clear my throat, choked by the bit of tenderness I am feeling for Melissa. “Thanks for your help and your support,” I say, extending my hand for her to shake it.
“You’re welcome,” Melissa says, extending her hand.
I take it and give one firm shake. The moment I do, electricity feels like it courses through my body — warm, bubbly electricity. I’m not sure, but it seems like something similar goes through Melissa. She blinks up at me in surprise. For a moment, there is a look of terror and joy on her face, as if she’s feeling the same thing I am, that we’re connected somehow, and not just by our hands.
I let go quickly, feeling my heart begin to race.
Melissa clears her throat and balls up the hand that was holding mine.
“Better hurry, Tommy. I think that interview of yours is about to happen without you.”
I quickly look at my watch — an old Velcro carryover from my teenage years that I haven’t been able to get rid of. It’s almost 10 o’clock, almost time.
“Shit!” I hurry to the door. “Thanks for the help, Melissa!”
As I leave, I hear her sigh. She shakes her head and murmurs something under her breath. I don’t hear it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was something along the lines of, “There he goes, messing up all my good work! And after I went to all that trouble!”
Not a minute into being fixed up, I’m running again. I’m living life by the seat of my pants, probably looking like the King of Frump.
I’ll probably never look like anything less in this damn suit and tie. Not unless my interview goes the way it needs to go, and I get transferred out of the legal assistants’ floor, or as I like to call it, the unknown eighth level of hell.
Chapter Six
Tommy
I make it to Conference Room 103 with less than a minute to spare. I slow down my pace, take a minute to gather my wits and my breath, and then I push through the door.
As I do so, I mentally Pep talk myself. I remind myself not to ramble too much and not to make too many unnecessary, anxious moves. Otherwise, I’m going to mess up Melissa’s handiwork and the good impression she’s trying to help me make. I don’t want to do that.
The moment I’m all the way in the conference room, I see three people seated at a large twenty-person conference table. One person at the table I recognize is Joan Vanacore, the successful lawyer from Mississippi. She’s got long, white hair, perfectly-tanned skin, and the chiseled features that would give someone like Meryl Streep or Robin Wright a run for their money.
The other two people present I don’t recognize — one woman and one man. The woman has short hair, olive-colored skin, and a feisty personality. The moment she sees me, she invites me in.
“Tommy Radner, I assume?”
I nod, holding my file folder of resumes and letters of recommendation close to me.
The woman smiles pleasantly.
“Excellent! I’m Charlotte, head of HR.”
She gestures to one of the many chairs across from her and Vanacore and the unknown male.
“Please. Have a seat, Tommy.”
The unknown male next to her gives me the barest of eye contact as I take a seat. He looks bored. I have a feeling he’s also with HR. And I have a feeling that he’s not going to be doing much talking. He’s got way too many papers in front of him for that.
The moment I sit down, I have to remind myself to breathe.
“Bit of a difficult morning for you, young man?”
The voice that addresses me sounds like an aged whiskey or bourbon — deep, a little jagged and rough, but also musical. It’s also got that southern charm to it.
Following the voice, my eyes immediately lock with those of Joan Vanacore. They are light gray, like spun, slightly dirtied cotton. Not the kind you could lose yourself in necessarily, but definitely the kind that will leave you disarmed.
