It sounds like something a Thompson would say before they write a tax-deductible check and go to a gala. Mike winces. It’s a small movement, but it feels like a slap. Because if I heard it, then he definitely heard it.
“Give back,” he says, his voice flat. “That’s a nice phrase. Tell me, what’s your experience working with diverse populations?People who aren’t on a board of directors? People who might be one paycheck away from being on the street?”
I think of Harley’s clients. Ones like Mrs. Delgado. It’s then that I realize I’ve never actually talked to a client who worried about anything more than the shade of their kitchen tile. I’ve lived in a bubble made of bulletproof glass and silken manners.
“I’m . . . I’m a quick learner,” I stumble. “I’ve worked with contractors of all backgrounds. I understand the importance of clear communication.”
“Contractors aren’t families,” Mike says. He’s not being mean. He’s doing a structural assessment, and I’m failing the load-bearing test. “Our site supervisors have to manage people who’ve never held a hammer. They have to explain building codes to grandmothers. And they have to do it on a salary that doesn’t leave room for the kind of car you have parked outside.”
I glance at my hands. They’re too clean. I’m a fraud in a blue tie.
“Speaking of which,” Mike says, “what are your salary expectations? We have it listed in the posting, but I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”
I haven’t looked at the posting. Not really. I just saw the name ‘Habitat’ and the word ‘Supervisor.’ I think of my salary at the firm. One hundred fifty thousand. Plus bonuses. Plus the trust dividends.
“Well,” I say, trying to sound reasonable, “given my experience and my master’s degree, I was thinking maybe one hundred and ten? I’m willing to take a significant cut for the cause.”
The silence that follows is so loud it feels like a physical weight. Mike just stares at me. A slow, incredulous look dawns on his face. He doesn’t laugh, which is almost worse.
“One hundred and ten thousand dollars,” he says.
“Is that too high? I could go to ninety. I’m really more focused on the work.”
“Skyler,” Mike says, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of pity in his eyes. “This position pays fifty. Fifty thousand. Total. That’s for forty-plus hours a week, usually in the mud, usually on weekends. We’re a charity.”
Heat burns my face at a rate that likely clashes with my tie. Fifty thousand. I spent more than that on the catering for a wedding that didn’t happen. Yup. Definitely should have listened to Harley on that.
I’ve never lived on fifty thousand in my life. I don’t even know if I can pay for my Audi on fifty thousand.
“Right,” I whisper. “Fifty. Of course. Fifty. I knew that. I was just…I was thinking of a different metric.”
Mike gives me a look like he’s heard enough. “There is no metric here but the houses.”
Realizing I’m losing it, I’m about to miss out on the only real thing I’ve reached for since I walked out of the mansion. I’m about to go back to Steven’s couch as a man who can’t even get a job building ranch houses for people who need them. I’m a Thompson who can’t even sell himself.
“I can do it!” I say, my voice cracking. “I don’t care about the money. I just need…I need to build something that isn’t for a billionaire. Please. Just let me explain.”
As I look at Mike’s skeptical face, I realize I’ve already failed the first impression.
“Okay. Tell me about a challenging situation you’ve overcome. A time you had to pivot under pressure.”
I sit up straighter. This is my territory. I’ve faced high-stakes deadlines and irate clients. I can do this.
“Last year,” I start, leaning into my ‘associate’ voice, “we were working on a coastal villa project for a client in Lake Geneva. There was a major supply chain disruption with the imported Italian marble for the kitchen. My father, Robert Thompson”—Stop saying his name, idiot!—“insisted we wait for the originalsupplier, but the client was demanding we finish on time. I negotiated with a small supplier in Spain, leveraging our firm’s prestige to prioritize our crate. It was a high-pressure situation, requiring significant logistical synergy and a commitment to aesthetic integrity. In the end, we delivered the marble three days early, and the project stayed under the thirty-five-million-dollar cap.”
I finish with a small, self-satisfied nod. Great story. It shows initiative and resourcefulness.
But Mike stares at me. He blinks slowly. “Marble,” he says. “You pivoted…for marble.”
“It was a critical component of the design,” I say, though my heart is sinking. “The synergy between the stone and the natural light was—”
“Skyler, stop,” Mike says, sounding exhausted. “Listen to yourself. ‘Synergy.’ ‘Aesthetic integrity.’ ‘My father’s firm.’ You’ve mentioned your father or the firm in every other sentence. You’re telling me about a challenge involving a luxury villa while our waiting room is full of people who haven’t had a functioning bathroom in three weeks. Do you see the disconnect here? Do you understand why this isn’t working? Why this won’t work?”
The sweat is a cold river down my spine now. I’m a joke. The punchline to a story people like Mike tell over beers and peanuts. Did I tell you about the Thompson kid who wanted to build ranch houses? He talked about marble.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and for the first time, it’s not a polite reflex. It’s a confession. “I’m just used to a certain language. I didn’t mean to be tone-deaf.”
“It’s not just the language,” Mike says. He stands up and walks to the small window behind him. He looks out at the parking lot, where my Audi R8 is gleaming like a middle finger in a gravel lot. “You have every advantage. You’ve got the degree, the name, thebank account. You could walk into any high-end firm in Chicago and be a partner by forty. So why are you here, sweating, trying to get a job that involves cleaning port-a-potties and arguing with zoning boards?”
