LUNA
Stress eating had been a veryreal thing in recent months, and the navy pencil skirt I’d chosen for my interview was tighter than I remembered it being. It still worked, just barely, and hadn’t quite reached obscene. The creamy silk blouse in the palest baby blue stretched tighter across my breasts than it had before. Fortunately, it had a bow neckline, the tails draping down to cover my chest that had grown more ample over the past few months thanks to Little Debbie and her sisters, Hostess and Mrs. Baird.
The outfit was one of the few leftovers from my old life, the one in which I ran my own business and had stylish, classy outfits to wear to client meetings and such. Now I had to pray the seams didn’t bust when I sat down during my interview for a job as someone else’s assistant.
When things had been particularly bad money-wise, I’d taken most all my other frilly duds and designer heels to a local consignment shop. The owner, a sweet woman in her mid-fifties, had taken the whole lot off my hands, whether she felt she had the clientele for it or not, and had done her best to push my wares on her customers. Thanks to her, I’d been able to keep my A/C going during an unseasonably hot month.
I’d taken the time to blow my hair out so it was as smooth and shiny as the undisturbed surface of a lake. I kept my makeup subtle, lighter than I usually wore it. Just a few swipes of mascara to bring out my eyes, a soft pink blusher on the apples of my cheeks with just a hint of shimmer, and a tinted gloss to give my lips a rosy hue. It had been so damn long since I had a job interview, I felt like a fish out of water. Nerves fluttered around in my belly like a whole swarm of butterflies jacked up on Mountain Dew.
I closed my eyes and pulled in a long, steadying breath before looking at my reflection in the mirror. “You can do this,” I said, hoping to amp myself up before the interview. “You’re a hard worker, you’re a fast learner, and this guy’d be lucky to have you.”
My pep-talk was cut short when my cellphone rang, startling a yelp out of me. “Jeez, Lu, get your shit together. It’s just a phone, for God’s sake.”
Cheyanne’s face popped up on my screen when I accepted the FaceTime call. “Oh, good. I was worried I’d miss you. I wanted to wish you good luck on your interview.”
My cheeks puffed out on an exaggerated breath that turned into a loud, obnoxious raspberry, and that was all it took for my best friend to read my mood.
“Uh-oh. What’s wrong?”
“I’m nervous as hell is what’s wrong. I haven’t had a job interview in years. What if I suck and he shoots me down?”
“He won’t,” she insisted.
“You don’t know that. And all my business-y clothes are too tight. Things are going to be pretty dicey if I have to sit down.”
Cheyanne curled her lips between her teeth to keep from laughing. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“Oh yeah?” I hit the little button on my screen to flip it around so she could see my whole body in the mirror I was standing in front of. I twisted this way and that so she could get a look at me from every angle.
“Okay, I might see your point,” she said on a snort. “The skirt’s a little snug, but it still works. You’ll just have to be careful, is all. Or hey! Maybe you can borrow something of mine,” she offered.
“I appreciate that, babe. Just two problems. First: we aren’t anywhere near the same size, even before my stress binge added some additional poundage to my ass. Second: even if I could wear your clothes, there’s no time for me to get to you and change.” I turned to look at the alarm clock sitting on my bedside table. “Actually, I need to get going, or I’ll be late.”
“All right, hon. Good luck. You’re going to do great, and he’s going to hire you on the spot.”
I could only hope.
* * *
Only a few blocksfrom the heart of downtown Whitecap, Warren Law Firm sat in a tidy little two-story house with board and batten siding painted a soft yellow, crisp white trim, and windows so spotlessly clean they shimmered like crystals in the sunlight. Like all the other houses on this street, it had been converted into a business sometime in the late eighties. To the left of the firm was a hair and nail salon and dentist’s office. A few buildings down on the right was the daycare Cheyanne’s daughter, Renee, frequented. There was also a therapist’s office, a bakery, and an accounting firm all along the same road.
The anxiety that had been churning in my belly gave way as I started up the walkway. The tiny postage stamp yard, remaining from the building’s days as a home, was surrounded on three sides by the most adorable picket fence and covered in a thick blanket of deep, vibrant emerald green grass with a small bed of brightly colored petunias and an azalea bush near the front entrance.
I felt I was being welcomed by the adorable entryway, like the flowers and everything else were inviting me in. For the first time since I’d started getting ready, I actually felt good about this interview.
“I’ve got this,” I mumbled under my breath as I reached for the handle of the glass door. “I’m fabulous. I’m going to blow this guy away, and he won’t be able to hire me fast enough.”
The door glided open on well-oiled hinges without so much as a squeak, and I stepped across the threshold onto the restored parquet wood floors. The place had gone through a massive gutting at some point, changing the entire layout of the first floor from what I could tell. To the left of the entryway was a huge open space that looked to be a waiting area. Two large brown sofas were pushed against the walls to form an L with an end table tucked into the corner of the wall where they met. A nice, relatively new lamp sat on that table, along with a stack of magazines that had been fanned out across the surface. A matching coffee table sat in the center of the seating area with a choice of newspapers to read, a decorative bowl of iridescent stones, and tapered pillar candles of different sizes.
At the very back of the large, open room was the kitchen, or what used to be the kitchen, at least, now set up as a breakroom with a small, round table and four chairs like you’d expect to see if most breakrooms or mall food courts. Off the right of the break area was a set of open stairs that led to the second level loft area. Against the far-right wall, between one door marked ‘Restroom’ and another with a name plate that read ‘Nathanial Warren, Attorney at Law’ was a long white desk, bare of anything but a flat silver computer monitor and a gray mesh ergonomic office chair. That had to be where the assistant would sit.
The whole place would have felt rather utilitarian had it not been for the sunlight streaming through the large, gridded windows on the opposite wall. It wasn’t a bad view. Nothing particularly scenic, but a side view of the street stretching off into the distance. If I got the job, it would be nice to see people milling about, traveling up and down the sidewalks, during the day. If I got the job. Damn, I really hoped I got the job. I’d have been happy staring at a cinderblock wall all damn day if it meant I was working at that desk.
But in order for that to happen, I needed to actually interview first, which meant I needed to find the guy in charge. “Uh...” I cleared the croak out of my throat and tried again. “H-hello? Mr. Warren?”
“Sorry. Sorry,” I heard a disembodied voice call from the loft area above. “Be right down.”
I pasted a smile on my face so it would come through in my voice as I assured, “Oh, no worries. Take your time.”