"Here." Izzy's voice cuts through my existential crisis as she shoves a bowl of popcorn at me. "Eat your feelings. I've added extra butter and shame."
I grunt in response but make no move to take the bowl.
"Come on, Cami. You've been marinating in misery for two days now. The popcorn's getting cold and my sympathy's getting stale."
"Your sympathy has an expiration date?" I finally move my arm, squinting up at her.
"Forty-eight hours for career setbacks. Seventy-two for breakups. A full week for deaths, but only immediate family." She plops down on the couch beside me, forcing me to pull my legs back to make room. "I don't make the rules."
"It wasn't just a career setback," I mumble, finally accepting the popcorn bowl. "I showed Alexander Kingsley a website full of dildos, spilled coffee on his white shirt, and then grabbed his dick. I think that qualifies as a career cremation."
"You didn't grab his dick," Izzy corrects, reaching for the wine bottle on the coffee table. "You fell and your hand landed in his general crotch region. Totally different."
"Oh my god." I cover my face with both hands, the popcorn bowl wobbling precariously on my stomach. "I touched his?—"
"Penis-adjacent area," Izzy supplies helpfully, pouring wine into two glasses that definitely weren't meant for wine. "And hey, at least you made an impression. Bet none of the other candidates can say that."
"That's not the kind of impression you want to make on Alexander Kingsley." I peek at her through my fingers. "He's probably still sanitizing his conference room. Probably burned the chair I sat in."
Izzy snorts, handing me a too-full glass. "Please. Men like that don't care about a little awkwardness. They're too busy counting their money and plotting world domination."
"It wasn't a little awkwardness, Izz. It was a category five disaster." I take a generous gulp of wine, not caring that it's some cheap brand that tastes like it was fermented in a college dorm room. "And now I haven't heard anything, which obviously means I didn't get the job."
"So dramatic." Izzy rolls her eyes, settling deeper into the couch cushions. "Rich people don't have time for revenge campaigns against random job applicants. They're busy doing... I don't know, whatever rich people do. Buying islands. Racing yachts. Avoiding taxes."
"You don't understand." I set my glass down. "This industry runs on reputation and connections. One word from AlexanderKingsley that I'm unprofessional, and I might as well change careers."
"So change careers." Izzy shrugs, her mouth full of popcorn. "Become a... I don't know, a professional dog walker. A tarot card reader. Ooh, you could design sex toys since you're already so familiar with the product."
I throw a handful of popcorn at her face. "Not helping."
"What? You'd be great at it. 'This vibrator features ergonomic curves and a sleek, minimalist aesthetic,'" she mimics, gesturing grandly with her wine glass. "'The perfect statement piece for your bedside table.'"
Despite myself, a laugh bubbles out. "You're the worst."
"And yet, you love me." She grins, victorious at having made me smile.
My phone chimes with an email notification, and I lunge for it like a starving wolf offered a feast, nearly upending the popcorn bowl in the process. It's just a promotional email from a furniture store, and my face falls.
"Still nothing?" Izzy asks, her voice softening.
"Still nothing." I toss the phone back onto the coffee table. "Not even a courtesy 'thanks but no thanks' email. Just... silence."
"His loss." Izzy settles back, patting my knee. "Seriously, Cami. You're talented as hell. This isn't the only project out there."
"But it was the perfect project." I stare at the ceiling, following a hairline crack that’s been growing for months. "Designing a Kingsley resort from the ground up? That's the kind of project that makes a career. I'd have been able to pick and choose my clients after that."
"There will be other perfect opportunities," Izzy insists. "Maybe even better ones. Ones that don't involve working with some asshole billionaire with a superiority complex."
"You’ve never even met him," I protest weakly, though I'm not sure why I'm defending a man who has probably already forgotten my name.
"I know the type." Izzy tops off our glasses. "Besides, would you really want to work with someone who can't laugh off an honest mistake? Who holds a little tech mishap against you?"
I sigh, reaching for my wine. "I guess not. But still... those resorts are legendary. The budgets are unlimited. The creative freedom..." I trail off, the familiar ache of wanting something beyond my reach settling in my chest.
"Tell you what." Izzy grabs the remote. "If that email doesn't come in the next twenty-four hours, we're going to make a voodoo doll of Alexander Kingsley and stick pins in very specific areas."
"You mean his crotch."
