As I slide into my chair, my fingers drift over the familiar red-and-white checkerboard tablecloth, the pattern as ingrained in me as any childhood rule. The napkins are folded into perfect triangles, just the way Mom likes them, and the silverware sits prim beside gleaming plates like we’re about to host a banquet in the eighteenth century. Around me, the soundtrack of home hums to life: dishes clattering against countertops, the microwave timer chirping its victory, the sharp hiss and pop of Dad cracking open his nightly soda.
Mom bustles around the kitchen in her vintage rooster apron, the one I mocked relentlessly in my teenage years and now find endearing. With a little flourish to her step, she sets a steaming plate of meatball spaghetti in front of me, the red sauce glistening under the warm kitchen lights.
“Here you go, honey,” she announces, pride evident in her voice. “I made your favorite.”
My mouth waters on instinct, garlic and basil curling up with the steam, beckoning me to dig in. Four years of Manhattan’s best restaurants couldn’t replace this. Those chefs have technique, sure, and menus that read like poetry, but Mom has what they never will. Recipes passed down through generations, cooked by feel, by memory, by love. I’ve never had a spaghetti sauce that tasted better than hers, and one bite is enough to make me squirm with pleasure.
That first bite floods my tastebuds, and I make another embarrassing noise. The sauce is tangy and bright, the meatballs seasoned just right, the pasta firm yet soft. It’s perfect. Pure delight. Not new, not improved, not reinvented—exactly as I remembered.
“So, tomorrow is the big day?” Dad asks, twirling pasta around his fork with surprising dexterity.
A boulder forms in my throat at the mention of tomorrow’s interview. My fingers tighten around my fork until my grip feels clumsy. “Don’t remind me, Dad,” I manage, forcing a thin smile. “I’m super nervous.”
“You will do great tomorrow,” Mom says, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “They know how creative you are. That’s why they asked you to interview.” Her eyes hold mine, unwavering. “If you ask me, the interview is just a formality.”
Her words settle over me like balm, smoothing the churn in my stomach until I can breathe a little easier. But the image of tomorrow still snaps bright in my mind, me standing before a panel of judging faces, and my pulse rockets all over again.
“Go get ’em, tiger!” Dad chimes in, his booming voice filling the entire kitchen.
With encouragement like that, how can you not believe in yourself. “I will do my best,” I say.
“I found your brown lipstick in the bathroom,” Mom says, changing subjects with whiplash-inducing speed. “Do you want it?”
“Did you not see my graduation picture?” I ask. “That color did nothing for me.”
“You looked like you’d smeared chocolate all over your lips,” Dad adds, eyes twinkling gleefully.
We dissolve into laughter, and I duck my head toward my plate to hide the sudden glimmer in my eyes. After countless solitary meals in my tiny New York apartment, sitting at this table with my parents feels like stepping into warmth I didn’t realize I’d been missing. It fills a hollow place in me, a void I hadn’t fully acknowledged until this moment. These tears aren’t heartbreak. They’re happiness, bright and stinging and good. The best kind.
After dinner, I help Mom with the dishes, then head upstairs, bone-deep exhaustion rolling over me from my travels. I yawn and flop onto my old bed, and the springs creak beneath me in a familiar, lullaby rhythm. Let my beauty sleep commence. Tomorrow isn’t just an interview. Tomorrow will decide the trajectory of my career.
***
The next morning, sunlight slips through the curtains in slender golden bars.
I swing my legs over the edge and pad to the bathroom, still half asleep. The shower bursts over my skin, cold at first, then hot, steam curling around me as it washes away the post-slumber drowsiness. Not the jitters, though. Those stay put, humming through my veins like live wires.
My black pencil skirt hugs my hips as I button my crisp white shirt with fingers that won’t stop trembling. Black tights. Heels.If I assemble the outfit correctly, maybe it will transform me into a marketing professional instead of nervous wreck.
After I apply makeup, I drift downstairs, and Mom hands me buttered toast on my favorite blue plate, a childhood comfort served up like a charm. My body doesn’t care as the butter melts into the bread. Nerves twist my stomach tight, and after two bites, I’m full, as if anxiety has taken up all the space meant for hunger.
“You’ll do amazing,” Dad says, squeezing my shoulder.
Mom nods firmly. “Show them what you’re made of.”
I clutch my leather portfolio to my chest before stepping out the door, holding it like it can keep my heart from vaulting clean out of my ribcage. The morning air meets me, earthy and crips, and I force my feet onward. This is it, the culmination of everything I’ve worked for these past four years.
Chapter 3
Lantern Bridge Agency. The white letters gleam against the glass façade like a spotlight, bright enough to expose my every flaw, every insecurity, every trembling breath as I stand rooted to the concrete. Four years of grinding have brought me here, four years of pushing pixels until 3 a.m., of saying yes to projects no one else would touch, of clawing for every inch. And now my entire marketing career hangs in the balance of the next hour.
The building rises over downtown Maplewood Springs, tall enough to feel almost arrogant against the smaller storefronts. It took forty-five minutes in my mother’s Volvo to get here. If I get the job, I’ll need an apartment closer. If New York taught me anything, it’s that commuting is a special brand of misery I will never, ever agree to again.
I inhale, slow and deep, and run through my answers one more time, like saying them enough times might magically transform my nerves into confidence. I didn’t come here empty-handed. I came with ideas; I came with something to offer, and I refuse to let fear make me forget it.
The glass doors part with a soft whoosh, and a blast of chilled air kisses my face, raising goosebumps along my arms. Inside, the lobby unfolds in clean lines and minimalist restraint, the marble floor polished to a mirror sheen that reflects every step, every hesitation. My heels click against it, sharp and unapologetic, announcing my arrival to a few turning heads. Would it kill them to put down a carpet?
The scent in this place is pure department store beauty counter, that rich, aggressive perfume fog where salespeople armed with atomizers prowl unsuspecting shoppers like highly motivated, well-moisturized predators. Around me, three conversations swirl at once, overlapping and relentless, executives with Bluetooth earpieces gesturing emphatically as they stride past like the world can’t keep up with them.
