It’s flattering to have somebody recognize me for a hard worker, but don’t assistants get paid very little? Even less than bartenders? “Thank you. I’d love to, but I didn’t finish college.” Most people round-file my résumé when they see that I dropped out. I wish I could’ve finished my education, but too many things happened.
“Not a problem,” Emmett says. “We hire people who can do the job, not people with a certain degree. Can you use a computer and draft a memo?”
“Sure, but…” I sigh, then gather myself. It may be TMI, but I don’t want to waste our time. “To be frank, I need a job that can pay well enough for me to keep my grandfather in a nursing home. He needs help that I can’t give.”
“We have a benefit that pays something like two grand a month toward eldercare for our full-time employees. HR will have the details.”
The rest of his explanation fades away as my mind latches on to the fact that his company pays two thousand dollars a month for nursing homes.That’s almost half the bill I get every month.
Even if the regular pay is crappy, that benefit would make up for it. And I can work at the bar on weekends for extra cash, and I might—might—just be able to keep Grandpa in the Orange Care Center, where he feels most at home.
Jenna finally brings two credit card transaction slips for Emmett to sign.
As he scrawls his name on the sheets, I say, “When and where do I need to go?”
* * *
I have nothing to lose,I tell myself as I get dressed for the interview the next day. Emmett is clearly a man of action—he asked me to come in immediately. He actually looked like he wanted to conduct the interview at the bar.
My wardrobe is rather lacking. Hell, everything about my situation is lacking, and it’d be weird to see a closet full of fancy office outfits in my drab studio apartment with its dingy brown carpet—a carpet that’s probably older than I am. But I manage to put together something that looks acceptable. A white button-down top and black pants. A pair of black Mary Janes with two-inch heels. I pull my hair back and put on mascara and lipstick, something I almost never bother with unless I’m working at the bar. But I want to look as presentable as possible, even if I’m not going to have the polished swagger of the venture capitalists at his firm. It’s almost enough to make me laugh. Mascara and lipstick won’t improve my situation if Emmett’s changed his mind since last night. And he might well have, once he’s really absorbed the fact that I’m a college dropout.
I fold my hands together and close my eyes in a quick prayer.
I drive to the address, which turns out to be a glossy high-rise. My twenty-four-year-old Mazda3 still runs, and please God let that continue, because I can’t afford to replace it. Every time I look at the car, I tell myself I’m lucky. It could’ve died an ignoble death any time, leaving me stuck and SOL.
The lobby is glitzy, all smooth marble and chrome and a tall ceiling that begs you to crane your neck as you enter. Lots of tinted glass. Underneath the slick gloss is a confidence that only wealth and success can bring about.
I stamp down on the sadness welling inside me. Belonging at a place like this used to be my dream when I was younger and more naïve. But real life has a way of swatting you down until your vision fades away.
At the security desk, I sign in. One of the guards in a dark navy uniform makes a call, then gives me a visitor’s pass.
“GrantEm Capital, thirty-fifth floor,” he says with a small grunt. He runs a hand over his head, which is covered with platinum fuzz like a summer peach.
“Got it.” I smile, noting his name on his uniform. “Thanks, Otto.”
He looks slightly surprised, then smiles back.
I slip into a waiting elevator, then exhale softly. My heart hammers, and sweat slickens my palms.It’s no big deal if I blow it,I tell myself to settle my nerves, but that’s a lie. Of course it’s a big effing deal. It’s going to allow me to keep Grandpa in the Orange Care Center. And that means everything. I’d sell a kidney if it were possible.
When I step out onto the work floor, the bustle and hustle slam into me like a physical force. The people who were cheerfully relaxed and having fun yesterday are gone. In their place are VC sharks, on their phones, on their computers, rifling through papers. Asking for clarifications and information. They throw out numbers likea hundred millionas if it were something they could dig up by sticking their hands into their pants pockets. A steady stream of people marches out of a breakroom like ants, everyone holding energy drinks or coffee.
A pretty blonde coming out with a fresh mug pauses and turns to me. I remember seeing her at the bar a few times. Her intelligent blue eyes and kindness toward the staff were always noticed.
“Hey, you’re the bartender from yesterday, right?” she says, all friendly.
“Yeah. Hi. I’m Aspen.”
“Amy.” She smiles.
“Nice to meet you. Um, I’m actually here to talk with Emmett Lasker. He’s expecting me.”
“He is?”
“Yeah. He wanted me to interview for an assistant position…?”
“Oh.” Her face lights up. “Perfect! Right this way.”
I follow her, wondering what it takes to work as a venture capitalist here. I know they move a lot of money—the kind of sums most people can’t imagine. She probably has a really impressive résumé…
