The insistent buzz of my phone vibrated against my hip, snapping me out of my pre-interview pep talk. With a sigh, I glanced at the screen, the name "Mom" flashing brightly. Another interview, another shot at finally landing a decent job, and another phone call I wasn't sure I had the energy for. I paused in the doorway, the hallway dim and smelling vaguely of mold, a stark distinction from the sleek Manhattan dream I was desperately chasing.
"Hey, Mom," I answered, my voice a touch more lighter than how I truly felt. My blonde hair, hastily twisted into a messy bun, poked out around my head in a way that always made me think of college dorm rooms and ramen noodles, not the polished author I envisioned myself becoming.
"Evelyn," Mom's voice came through the line, laced with a concern I couldn't mask. "How'd that interview go last week?"
"Oh, you know," I said breezily, trying to sound nonchalant. "Good, good. They seemed to like me."
A long pause followed, filled with the crackle of a bad phone connection. I knew the unspoken question hanging there: was "good" good enough to pay the rent this month? "They'll let me know in a few days," I added quickly, hoping to steer the conversation away from my shaky financial situation.
"But honey," Mom's voice dropped, the worry now clear. "You haven't landed anything concrete yet. When was the last time you had a full-time job?"
I winced, glancing around the cramped apartment. Bills, both new and old, were stacked on my tiny desk, a visual representation of the mountain of debt I was drowning in. "Mom, I'm working on it," I insisted, the lie heavy on my tongue. "It's just... a competitive market out there."
There was another pause, and then a sigh that echoed deep in my soul. "Evelyn, you know you can always come home." Her voice softened. "You could even work at Mrs. Henderson's diner again while you get back on your feet."
My stomach clenched. Mrs. Henderson's diner. The greasy spoon in the town square, filled with the scent of burnt coffee and locals who never blinked an eye at a grown woman slinging hash browns. It was where I spent my teenage summers, a million miles away from the world of publishing houses and high-powered executives I envisioned working with.
Leaving Harmony Ridge, New Jersey, had been a rebellion. A desperate escape from the stifling expectations of a small town and a dead-end life. I'd promised myself then that I would be a success, a published author with a name on a shiny book jacket. Mrs. Henderson's diner wasn't part of that dream.
"Mom," I said gently, "I appreciate it, really. But I can't go back there. Not now."
"Don't be stubborn, Evie," she said, her voice gaining a hint of frustration. "You're barely scraping by in that city. You know your Dad would have never wanted this for you."
I closed my eyes for a moment, the picture of my father vivid in my mind. A man with calloused hands and an easy smile, always telling me I could achieve anything I set my mind to. His belief in me was what had driven me to chase my writing dream, to the very apartment I now desperately wanted to escape.
"I know, Mom," I said finally. "I miss Dad too. But I'm close, I promise." A hollow promise, even to my own ears.
"Close to what, honey? That apartment that's probably falling apart and costs an arm and a leg?"
I opened my eyes, the dingy hallway suddenly suffocating. "It's not that bad," I mumbled, more to myself than to her.
"Evelyn," Mom's voice softened again. "Listen to your mother. Come home. We'll figure something out together."
The truth was, I didn't want to figure things out "together." I craved independence, the freedom to chase my dreams, even if they felt frustratingly out of reach at times. "Seriously, Mom, I'm fine," I lied again, the bitterness of it clinging to my tongue. "I'll call you when I have news about the interview."
"Alright, honey," she said reluctantly. "But don't forget... you're always welcome home."
Before I could respond, she hung up, leaving me staring at the phone in my hand. A wave of guilt washed over me. My mother, had worked long hours as a nurse to keep a roof over our heads after Dad passed, and all I did was lie and add to her worry.
But self-pity wasn't going to pay the bills. Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and forced a smile into the reflection in the hallway mirror. "Okay, Evie," I muttered to myself. "Another interview, another chance. Maybe this one will be the one."
My interview today was with Westcott Enterprises, a prestigious firm with a reputation for being cutthroat and demanding. It wasn't exactly where I pictured myself starting my career – I envisioned cozy editorial offices filled with books and passionate discussions, not a glass-and-steel behemoth buzzing with stressed-out executives. However, their job listing for a temporary assistant had mentioned "strong organizational skills" and "ability to work under pressure," both of which were second nature to me after juggling three part-time jobs and a relentless writing schedule. Besides, temporary could lead to permanent, and that was all I needed – a foot in the door, a chance to prove myself.
The most interesting part was the pay; bagging this job would not only pay my bills but ensure that I didn't need to do part-time jobs anymore and even though I was sure that I wasn't as qualified as the other applicants who had probably gotten their masters and were more skilled, I was pleasantly surprised that my application had been considered and that I was granted an opportunity to proceed to the next stage. It had to mean I was doing something right.
Westcott Enterprises occupied a towering skyscraper that made me feel like an ant staring up at a mountain. As I entered the grand lobby, my worn leather purse suddenly felt impossibly out of place amidst the gleaming marble floors and designer-clad receptionists.
"Evie Moore for the assistant interview," I announced, trying to project a confidence I didn't entirely feel.
The receptionist, a woman with a perfectly sculpted bob and a smile that didn't reach her eyes, barely glanced at me. "Sign in," she said curtly, gesturing toward a digital tablet.
The following minutes were spent in a waiting area filled with equally nervous applicants.
Finally, a woman with sharp features and a severe bun emerged from an inner office. "Evelyn Moore?" she asked, her voice clipped and efficient.
"Yes, that's me," I said, trying to match her no-nonsense demeanor.
She nodded curtly. "Follow me."
She led me through a maze of sleek corridors, the air thick with the scent of expensive cologne and ambition. Finally, we reached a doorway with a polished brass nameplate: Nicola Westcott-Grey.
My stomach lurched. Nicola Westcott-Grey, sister and COO to CEO Alexander Westcott Was she going to be the one interviewing us?
My hand trembled slightly as the assistant pushed the door open.
