I flash the kind of benign smile you might see in a stock photo of a business professional lugging a briefcase, hoping to God this receptionist is the merciful type who just might have a soft spot in her heart for interviewees with a nervous streak.
“I’m sure these things happen all the time.” My words are half chuckle and one-hundred percent an attempt not to break down and cry. My master plan is crumbling like ashes to dust. I slide my hand down a shiny tendril of blonde hair that spills over my shoulder. The softness against my skin is comforting.
Distracting really.
It pulls me out of the present moment and gives me something to focus on when the entirety of myself is threatening to unravel.
“I’m so sorry.” The receptionist’s words slam into my attention with brick-wall intensity.
“Professor Stan MacAbee recommended me. They’re friends. Tell him. I’m sure he’ll change his mind. Can you ask him?” I didn’t drive almost an hour from Whispering Hills to Salt Lake City to give up this easily. My gaze falls toward the phone. Her hand isn’t anywhere near it. She’s not going to even attempt to entertain my suggestion. “Just tell him Bellamy Miller is here to see him.”
A line of people waits behind me. I’m not sure how long they’ve been standing there, but now I’m all too aware of the fact that I’m causing a scene. The collective weight of their stares is like a silent push, urging me to walk out of this building and pretend like none of this happened.
This job was supposed to be a sure thing. RJM Corporation is hiring a whole slew of entry-level college grads. No experience necessary. It’s grunt work, but it beats flipping burgers and it pays better too.
Besides, it’s almost impossible to find a job when your resume consists of nothing but a community college education. I’ve never held a job before. I have no references. All I have is my 4.0 GPA and a called-in favor from my marketing instructor.
I lean in, closing the gap between myself and a receptionist who doesn’t appear to be much older than me. She seems nice enough, and I know she’s only doing her job, but I’m not ready to walk away yet.
“Look, I came all the way here.” There’s a quiver in my words that I make no point in trying to hide. “I need this interview.”
“I understand that, Miss…”
“Miller. Bellamy Miller.”
“Yes, I understand that, Miss Miller.” Her lips widen into a pained wince while her eyes attempt to hold sympathy and fail miserably. “I’m terribly sorry. There’s nothing I can do. Anyway, Mr. Mutchler is out on business today. I can ask him when he returns tomorrow, and if he agrees, our H.R. department can get in touch with you.”
“Is there someone else who might be available for an interview?”
Her eyes glide over my shoulder and land on the gentleman behind me. She’s offering him a silent apology. Her winced face screams, “This girl is crazy. I’m sorry. Be patient. She’ll be out of here soon enough.”
I collect the shattered remnants of my dignity off the floor and sling my bag over my shoulder.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
My head hangs as I avoid the intrusive stares of the people lined up behind me. I don’t know what they look like. I don’t know if their gapes are laced with pity or packed full of amusement.
I don’t want to know.
I want to get out of here, regroup, and come up with a plan B.
My watch reads ten ‘til eleven, and the sign on a local bar and lounge claims it’ll be opening soon for the lunch crowd. I’ve never been a drinker, but today feels like a pretty good day to start.
People drown their problems with alcohol for a reason. It must work.
My mothers aren’t expecting me until this afternoon. They think I’ll be in the city all day, filling out hiring paperwork and getting a tour of my new office. I told them I was all but hired when they wished me luck that morning after breakfast.
As far as I’m concerned, I have a hall-pass today.
Never mind the fact that I’m twenty-two.
A grown woman.
A full-blown adult, even if I’m still living under my parents’ roof like a baby bird who never learned how to fly away from the nest. It was never that I couldn’t fly, just that I was never allowed.
Until now.
I spend the better part of ten minutes convincing myself it’s perfectly okay to enjoy an adult beverage at eleven on a Tuesday all by myself, and the second the proprietor flips the window sign to “open,” I show myself in and take the first bar stool on the left.
The inside of the place is dark, and it almost feels like night. I suspect there’s a glaze on the windows, tinting them to give off just enough of a dusky ambiance to make people want to stay a while. I’m beginning to forget what all transpired just a little while ago, but I’m quite certain I’ll forget even more once I’m face to face with a stiff drink.
Rows upon rows of glass liquor bottles in every shade from clear to brown to cobalt are backlit on shelves that span from the ceiling to the back of the bar. I glance around for a drink menu and find none. Maybe they’re not out yet?
I suppose most drinkers don’t need menus. They know what they like. They know what’s good.
“What can I get you, ma’am?” A gray-bearded bartender tucks a white rag into the back of his apron and rests his hands on his hips, studying me. “Are we having a drink today? Lunch? Both?”
“I’d like a drink.” My words are slow and unnatural. I cringe on the inside. Hard. I sound like a foreigner in a strange new land, uttering an unfamiliar phrase, trying to blend in, yet making herself stand out even more. “What would you recommend?”
His round head cocks sideways, and he chews on his lower lip before smacking the top of the bar with an open palm. “I know. A Manhattan.”
“What’s in that?” Now I sound like a child afraid to try a new food their mother has laid out before them.
“Whiskey, sweet vermouth, and bitters.”
“I look like a Manhattan girl to you?”
His head cocks and his lips curl into a slow grin. “Not at all. You look like a girl who’s never had a drink in her life.”
I resent that, as true as it may be. “You’re wrong.”
My father always said once a person starts lying, they never stop, and in the last week, I’ve proven him to be correct. I can’t get over how easy it feels to be in the company of this stranger, this Salt Lake City bartender, look him in the eye, and make him believe anything I want him to believe about me.
I’ve been given a blank slate.
No one knows me here.
I can be anyone I want to be, even if it’s just for an hour or so.
It’s a lot of power to place in the hands of a twenty-two-year-old girl who, her whole life, has never been allowed to spread her wings. Not once.
“I’ll take champagne,” I declare, straightening my posture and crossing my legs.
“Ah. A celebratory beverage.” He’s either making a statement or subtly hinting that he still doesn’t believe me.
“Was just offered a new job.” I force a smile on my face, the one that would’ve been placed by an actual job offer.
“We don’t sell by the glass,” he says. “But since you’re a champagne drinker, you should know that.”
“Well aware,” I lie. That makes number three for the day and probably number sixteen for the week.
My father was right.
The bartender releases his grip on the ledge and his gaze from mine in one fluid whoosh and disappears in the back, emerging with a dark green bottle dripping with condensation. I squint from my perch at the end of the bar, failing to read the elaborate script font on the cream label.
Jingle bells on the door slice through the quiet bar. My fingers rap against the marble counter as I stare ahead at a mounted T.V. screen.
Today, I’m celebrating.
A silent toast to my impending freedom.
Even if I have to fight for that freedom.
Even if I’ll do anything to obtain it.
My mother’s words echo in my head as the bartender pops the cork. We were standing around the kitchen last week peeling carrots for a stew and discussing how it was Dad and Kath’s seventh anniversary when she turned to me and said, “You’re going to make a great first wife, Bellamy. Heaven help us if you’re ever a second or third wife like poor Kath.”