And then he's gone, leaving me alone in the dark with my racing heart.
I'm hungover for my first day of work. Hungover! I'm the girl who used to show up to class ten minutes early so I could organize my pens before the lecture began. The girl who color-coordinated her notes. How did I end up here?
My head is pounding and there is only one thing I can think about, my sweet release from this misery—coffee. I've spent the past hour in a no food, no drink new employee orientation, and as I make my way to the elevator with the rest of the horde, all I can think is that this city is truly out to get me.
I passed five coffee shops on my way to work. Five! Could I stop and buy anything? No, of course not. Why you ask? Let me explain.
The plan this morning? Wake up early. Take a shower. Eat a nutritious breakfast. Brew a cup of coffee to go. Pick out a fabulous outfit. Leave the apartment with twenty minutes to spare just in case my commute went awry.
The reality? Roll out of bed after pressing the snooze button three times. Chug a gallon of water. Realize you now feel bloated and your headache hasn't dissipated at all. Splash water on your face when you look at the time and realize you are already five minutes late. Throw on the first thing you find. Grab a handful of pretzels from the open bag on the counter, quickly realize they're stale…eat them anyway. Run down the streets like a maniac until you get on the subway. Notice you are sweating profusely. Cry inside because you can't do anything about it.
Yup. That about explains my morning.
And now, I'm waiting on the elevator, creepily stalking the wondrously delicious smelling cups in other people's hands. A gentle waft of mocha teases my nose. Then a hint of vanilla. Is that caramel?
I lean in.
Oh god, yes it is.
I want one.
So much.
When the door opens, I flinch, pulled from my cravings just in time. It’s my floor.
"Excuse me," I mumble as I squeeze through people, wincing when the full force of the newsroom's fluorescent lighting hits my fragile eyes.
It’s going to be a very long day.
My gaze slides longingly to my former home—a cubicle in the far corner of the room, barely visible behind the mounds of books piled around it. The shelf against the wall is overflowing, and I itch to open the packages resting unopened on the floor, wondering what new books were sent in for review. The seat is open, waiting for me. And I almost give in, running as fast as my feet will take me to where I know I belong.
But I can't.
Instead, I tear my eyes away and look in the opposite direction to the lifestyle section. The wall is covered in fashion spreads, the latest looks from the runway. And next to them is the bright red door—the one the rest of the women in the office talk about only in hushed voices—the fashion closet. There are office legends about what sorts of designer items wait behind that door. And the closer and closer I walk, the more and more I feel as though I've stepped into some sort of alternate newsroom universe. Everyone here is a woman. Everyone is uniquely beautiful. Perfect hair. Perfect makeup. And the clothes…
My breath catches, looking around. There are no muted colors to be found. I could be naked and be less out of place here than I am now in my navy suit and white button down shirt. I see neon yellow pants, an evergreen jacket complete with magenta cuffs, a bright blue dress under an oversized cable-knit sweater—and is that a jumpsuit? Prints and bold colors surround me. One girl is wearing a bright red and pink polka-dotted blouse paired with an orange beaded necklace—and it actually looks good!
I stop in the middle of the hallway, unable to move any closer as my eyes sink lower and lower, dread mounting. And yes. There they are. Heels. A sea of them. And not comfortable heels, as if such a thing really exists, but four-inch stilettos that give me vertigo just looking at them. The longer I stare the dizzier I become.
Will I have to wear those?
My toes ache, crying out—no, no, don’t do that to us!
I lean against the wall, off-balance in my plain nude flats. Suddenly the room is spinning. Or am I spinning?
I need coffee.
No, I need a brain-transplant.
Okay, that might be a little drastic, but I need something and fast, because there is no way I'll ever be able to fit in here. Ever.
"Skylar?" a voice calls.
I swallow my terror and turn toward the sound. An office door is open, and waiting just inside is the woman I can only assume is my new boss.
"Good morning," I manage to say in a surprisingly strong voice.
"Skylar, come in." She stands, walking over to greet me. "How was orientation? Let's talk before I show you where your desk is."
All I can do is nod dumbly as she leads me inside.
"I'm Victoria Neives," she says after sitting down and folding her hands on top of her amazingly neat desk. "I first want to apologize for how unorthodox this whole situation was. Normally, we would have met at the interview and you would have had a few days to adjust to the whole idea of working here, but you came so highly recommended that I decided to act fast."
Ooh, highly recommended? I like the sound of that, so I sit up a little higher and smile. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," she replies, leaning back in her chair, looking at me with a somewhat sorry expression.
Oh god, am I getting fired? After only an hour? That's got to be a record or something. But they wouldn’t. Not yet. Not before I've even had a chance.
"You've probably noticed that you're not the typical girl we might hire for the style section…"
Crap! I am getting fired.
I nod politely, trying to keep my jaw from dropping too noticeably while I search for a solution. Is it the heels? I'll wear the heels, I swear. Or the color thing? I can buy a neon blouse. Okay, maybe not neon exactly, but something not black or tan or navy. I can be fun. I am fun.
"But that's the exact reason we hired you. You’re a normal, everyday girl. Not a socialite. Not a model. Not a fashionista. Just an average girl."
Okay…so I'm not fired.
I'm average, normal, and not at all unique or special in any way, but I'm not fired. That's good…right? In a backhanded, no I'm not going to go cry in the bathroom I swear, sort of way?
"The newspaper thought that the lifestyle section was getting too lofty, too untouchable. Everything was celebrity parties, high society, couture fashion, and they don’t want to change that. After all, people love to live vicariously. But market research showed that we were losing touch with younger demographics, women your age who have become used to finding all of this and more online. So they wanted us to bring something new to the mix, a human-interest angle that would hook a younger market and perhaps pull on the nostalgia of our older readers. And that's when we came up with the idea of your column—a small snippet each week about the sex and dating life of your everyday, college graduate. Something every woman could relate to. And we chose you because you were already working for the paper, the book editors couldn't stop raving about how wonderful your writing was, and the few pieces I did read were witty, funny, and the exact sort of thing our section needs."
Is it actually possible to be stunned speechless? Because I think I am. She likes my writing? She read my writing? She picked me because of my writing?