I squeeze into the backseat, which smells like a blend of fast food and discount air freshener. “The KSLA Network building, please.”
“Know where it is,” she grunts, pulling away from the curb with the kind of acceleration that makes internal organs rearrange themselves.
The landscape of LA unfurls outside my window—a sprawling concrete beast that seems to stretch forever, nothing like the compact charm of Dickens. Buildings rise like mountains, highways snake between them like rivers of metal and exhaust. It’s beautiful in its way, I suppose, if you’re into bright lights and big cities. It hits me that I may not be.
“First time in LA?” my driver says, catching my wide-eyed tourist gaze in the rearview mirror.
“That obvious?”
“You have that ‘holy shit this place is big’ look. Everyone gets it their first time.” She swerves around a Tesla, earning a honk. “What brings you? Acting? Music? Please don’t say influencer.”
“Job interview. Sports broadcasting.” The words feel both exciting and terrifying when I say them out loud. This is real. I’m really here, pursuing the dream I’ve had since I was reporting on Dickens High football games for the school paper.
“Sports, huh? Cool. My son plays soccer.” She gestures vaguely at a photo taped to her dashboard of a kid in a uniform.
“I played in college,” I say, and it reminds me to brush up on LA sports culture. This is going to be a whole different animal from Dickens, Idaho.
We turn onto a main thoroughfare, and traffic immediately grinds to a halt. Like, complete standstill. The kind where people start turning off their engines and settling in for the long haul.
“What’s happening?” Anxiety spikes as I check the time. My interview is in ninety minutes, and the station is still a half-hour away according to the app—and that’s without whatever this traffic situation is.
My driver cranes her neck, then laughs. “Oh, you’re gonna love this. Pure LA bullshit.”
She’s not wrong. After ten minutes of incremental movement, we finally see the cause of the backup: a group of what can only be described as professionally attractive people are conducting a photoshoot. In the middle of the street. With a llama. Wearing sunglasses and a tiny sombrero.
I blink, certain I’m hallucinating. “Is that—”
“A fucking llama? Yes, it is.” My driver sounds more resigned than angry, like this is just another Thursday in LA. “Influencers. They’ll block traffic for hours for the right shot. See the blond one? She’s got like five million followers or something. Makes more money than God posting pictures of her ass next to exotic animals.”
The blond in question is currently pouting next to the llama, while a photographer snaps away. Two bored-looking police officers are halfheartedly trying to move them along, but they seem more interested in getting selfies with the “celebrities” than clearing the road.
“Can’t we go around?”
“Working on it.” She honks, which does absolutely nothing except make me jump.
By the time we escape the llama-induced traffic jam, I’m down to fifty minutes before my interview. My carefully planned buffer time—because I’m Sydney Holt, and Sydney Holt is always early—has evaporated like Brooks’ commitment.
Okay, that was a low blow, even in my own head. He didn’t exactly evaporate. He just... very explicitly told me to leave. To pursue my dreams. To get as far from him as possible.
So why does it still feel like a ghosting?
The KSLA network building is housed in a gleaming glass tower that makes the Dickens station look like a high school AV club. I tip my driver—probably too much, but small-town guilt dies hard—and wheel my sad suitcase through the lobby, hyperaware of my travel-rumpled appearance. Security is tight—I have to present ID, get a visitor badge, and wait for an escort just to get past the lobby. The receptionist eyes me with barely concealed judgment.
Five minutes later, I emerge from the lobby bathroom having performed a dry shower, complete with paper towel pit checks and a desperate application of fresh makeup and hairspray. My interview outfit—a navy blazer, cream blouse, and tailored pants that I painstakingly ironed last night before packing—looks like it’s been crumpled into aball and used as a pillow. Which, given airplane seating, isn’t far from the truth.
I need to calm the familiar tightening in my chest. Deep breaths, Sydney. This is what you wanted. This is what you’ve worked for.
So why does it feel like I’m making the biggest mistake of my life?
That rideshare to the station cost more than I’d budgeted for the entire day’s transportation. LA prices are giving me heart palpitations, and I haven’t even started looking at apartments yet.
“Ms. Holt?” A voice calls just as I’m contemplating making a run for it. “I’m Parker Wilcox, VP of Talent Acquisition.”
Parker is exactly what I picture when I imagine LA television executives—expensive suit, perfect teeth, handshake that’s just a bit too firm. He’s probably my age but carries himself like he’s been running the place for decades.
“Nice to meet you.” My voice comes out higher than intended. “Thank you for the opportunity to interview.”
“Our pleasure. Though I have to say, we were surprised by your application. Dickens isn’t exactly a major market.”
