“That bitch,” I whisper, but I can’t help smiling. Not only did she buy my art, she stole my line.
When we finally get to the ground floor, Lincoln holds the doors open for me but doesn’t follow. I stop in the middle of the foyer, confused. “What are you doing?”
He pulls his hand out of his pocket to swipe a keycard on a scanner I’ve never noticed before. Wait, what? “I’m going up to my apartment.”
“Upstairs?” I squeak. Avoiding him just got a hundred times harder.
Don’t lie. You’re not upset about that.
“Ivy, I want to be honest with you, but you might be mad.”
The elevator chimes, but we ignore it. “Well, that’s a sure-fire way to get me there.”
He steps back, cocking a smile. “I own the building.”
The doors close.
The shock doesn’t wear off until a mile into my run, when I have to stop to laugh so hard it scares off a woman with a stroller who was jogging behind me.
He owns the building. Fuck. Of course he does.
CHAPTER13
WHAT BEST FRIENDS ARE FOR
IVY
For the record, this whole job search thing? It really, really sucks.
Look, I’m not sticking my head in the sand. I know I can’t keep putting it off, but can anyone blame me for not wanting to run with open arms toward a nine-to-five desk job that I’ll be stuck in until I’m seventy? (Probably eighty, at this rate).
I like working (well, I like having a paycheck), and I know how to work my (absolutely juicy) ass off. But every day and every week was nothing but routine. Bland, boiled chicken. No seasoning. No flavor.
Life should be more exciting than a one-woman show on health reform.
I used to have hobbies. I used to be interesting.
Then I turned into someone who woke up on a Monday morning, already counting down until the weekend.
But what other choice do I have? We’re all out here making the most of the time we have. Well. Other people are.
I don’t think I’ve made the most of anything in years.
Every time Mom calls, I want to cry. I haven’t updated my résumé. I can’t bring myself to open it, even though I need to. Time’s a-wasting, and my savings won’t last forever. Then I remember the emails, and endless pressure, and I have to ask, is this it? Is this all I’ll be for the rest of my life?
When I got offered the internship, I said yes immediately. I’d heard the horror stories about the job market. How hard it was to find anything in my field— or even out of my field. The hundreds of applications that went rejected or unanswered. The long, complicated interview process.
Even the lucky ones who got hired talked about the shitty work conditions. Being judged for a terrible work ethic if you didn’t devote every second of your life outside of your working hours to the job or had the audacity to not come in early because you had— gasp— personal obligations.
I knew I was being offered a privilege few had. So I took it. And the permanent job offer that followed. I thought I was making a mature decision.
I thought I’d be happier.
* * *
“I can’t believe it’s been a week already,” Emma pouts prettily, her long legs curled up under her where she’s draped elegantly on the end of my olive two-seater. Usually, after Pilates, we lunch, but until I get another job, the only reservations I’ll be making are atChez Ivy.
Emma clasps her hands together, stretching them above her head. “I hate not seeing you in the office. First Charlie, and now you. It’s awful not seeing my favorite people every day.”
