Wildest Dreams: Chapter 12

“Oh, I love your outfit! It’s gorgeous,” I gasped breathlessly, palms sweaty, cheeks flushed, delirious with the need to impress.

The subject of my admiration glanced at her colleague, who sat by her side, the two exchanging the sly look of Siamese cats that were about to swallow a canary whole.

I was the canary. I knew that before I even sat down for the interview. But I truly thought kindness had the power to change the trajectory of one’s day. Not in this case, clearly.

“Ew.” Cute Outfit, who was only a few years older than me, twisted her contoured nose. “How adorable that you think I’d take that as a compliment.”

What?

“My name is Stassia, and this here is Tara.”

Her colleague, whose hair held the same blond hue of champagne, pouted at my printed CV.

“So what made you think you could work at Beaufort, Miss Casablancas?”

“Well, I—”

“Is it really true that you’ve worked at a diner your whole life?” Tara burst out before I could answer the first question, a snide giggle tugging at her lips.

My gaze skidded between them uncertainly. Panic flared, pressing against my rib cage. This wasn’t an interview. This was a bored mean-girl setup. A way for them to pass the time during lunch break. And I’d walked right into it.

“I, uh, I think on my feet…”

“See, that’s gonna be an issue, because we’re looking for someone who can think with their brain.” Stassia tapped her temple with a shellacked fingernail.

I curled my own beat-up, short fingernails into my palms, hiding them. I wished I could hide myself. “It’s a turn of phrase,” I said flatly.

“How lovely you know those, considering you didn’t even go to college.” Tara’s put-on sugary tone was faker than her lips.

The next ten minutes were extremely painful. I pushed myself through the interview, determined not to stand up and leave halfway through. My heart sank lower, like an abandoned ship, drowning deeper with each cutting word and patronizing joke.

This was the only interview I’d been invited to after sending more than three hundred applications. I’d thrown a wide net too, applying for positions in marketing, sales, and administration. This was beyond bad. It was catastrophic. How was I supposed to pay for my life once my deal with Rhyland was over?

And yet I didn’t stand up and walk away. Didn’t give them the pleasure of seeing me break. I sat through the whole thing, even tossing a few quips their way myself.

“Well, this was fun.” Tara and Stassia stood up in unison, smoothing down their preppy dresses with seamless choreography. “Don’t call us—we’ll call you.”

“Doubt it,” I murmured under my breath, inwardly furious with myself for thinking I’d stood a chance at getting this job.

They obviously heard me, because they exchanged amused looks, pressing their hands to their mouths and giggling as they turned their backs on me.

I stumbled out of the gorgeous building to the Manhattan sun and the pulse of the city—cars, tourists, businesspeople, food carts— beating against my skin.

I couldn’t breathe.

I’d never had a panic attack before, so I couldn’t tell if I was having one now. I just knew the world was spinning out of focus, blurring at the edges, like a photo being devoured by fire.

Snap out of it. You can’t afford to be weak. You have Gravity to think about.

I grabbed my phone and texted Rhyland. I didn’t want to call. I knew there was a good chance I’d burst into tears if I heard another human voice.

Dylan: Is Grav okay?

Rhyland: She is fine. I, however, want to fling myself out the window. She talks constantly. About the dumbest shit. Extorted me twice before noon. Threw three public tantrums. Chased after a dog instead of vice versa. I’m 99.5% sure I got all my cardio for the week running after her.

A smile tugged at my lips. Maybe having him as a neighbor wasn’t the worst thing to happen to me.

Dylan: Welcome to toddlerhood.

Rhyland: Forget welcome. When am I seeing the farewell sign?

Dylan: So…this is probably not the right time to ask you this. I just got out of the job interview, but I need a little time to clear my head. Can you stay for another hour?

Rhyland: $%^^$#@@#%&&

Rhyland: Everything okay?

Dylan: Yeah. I just need a second to collect my thoughts.

Rhyland: Do you need a dick pic to brighten up your day? Just because we can’t hook up doesn’t mean I’m not charitable.

Dylan: Drop dead.

Rhyland: It was worth a try.

Rhyland: Stay safe.

Dylan: What do you care?

Rhyland: If something happens to you, I won’t survive taking care of this kid until a family member comes to pick it up.

Did he just refer to my daughter as “it”? All the same, I knew I couldn’t face my child right now without her seeing the defeat and utter desperation on my face.

In the end, I didn’t take an hour. I took three.

Walking aimlessly through the city. Weaving in and out of crowds. Disappearing in the mass of human bodies. New York made me feel anonymous and small, and for a fraction of time, I wasn’t Dylan—single mom, waitress, the second, problem child of Zeta Casablancas—I was just another face. Storiless and enigmatic. Someone who wasn’t invited to an interview across town just to get humiliated. Someone who maybe had her shit together. Someone who could’ve had a degree and a job and maybe even a boyfriend.

At around three thirty, I called Kieran. He answered with his usual greeting of, “Have you changed your mind about marrying me?”

“Kieran…”

He ignored me. “My agent just told me he’s fixing me up with a Hollyoaks actress who was a contestant on The Weakest Link for charity and got kicked out in the first round for thinking Australia had a border with Slovakia and Switzerland. Should I kill myself?”

I sighed, slumping against a building. “Kieran.”

“That’s a yes.”

I said nothing.

“Oh shit, you’re quiet. You’re never quiet.” His tone changed. “I know what this means. Who am I killing?”

I told him about the interview. About my aimless wandering. About how I now knew my place was not in an office doing marketing or an admin job. I wouldn’t be able to handle it. The fakeness. The politics. Spending my entire day in an air-conditioned box just to keep the capitalistic blaze burning.

“I feel so bad for Grav,” I groaned. “She has a clueless mom and a father she’s never met because he’s too much of an asshole to care about her.” The words rushed out of me. “She’s never going to have anyone to fall back on if I don’t pull myself together.”

Thick silence came from the other end of the line before Kieran spoke. “You need a drink.”

“No shit,” I scoffed.

“No, like, you need to restart your brain. You are obviously going through a small panic attack.”

“I knew it,” I cried out. “My skin is breaking out in hives. What do I do, Kieran? I’m five seconds from taking you up on your fake-marriage offer I’m so stressed.”

“First of all, thank you,” he said sarcastically. “Second, there’s a bar not far from your new building. The Alchemist. They make the best cocktails. Listen to me carefully now, Dyl. I want you to go there, order yourself the Roku Koori Negroni with a piece of carrot cake, meditate for a few minutes, and think about what you want to do with your life. Nothing is off the table. Don’t be practical. Be passionate. Even if you think it’s too late. Even if you think it’s too hard. Then call me and let me know what it is, okay?”

“Okay,” I panted. “Okay.”