He shoots me a grin, “I keep telling you, body weight exercises are all you need. It would
improve your muscle tone and flexibility.”
I rise to my feet, straightening my shirt. “The ladies like all my muscles just fine,” I say as I aim a
punch to his stomach. He dances back with a laugh, and just like that, we’re back on familiar
ground.“Let’s go. We’ll wait for her downstairs.”
3
MAYA
I should have worn my work clothes. As I tug my t-shirt down under my heavy parka, I wish I’d
thrown on something different. Something less casual than my Hello Kitty tee and leggings. But the
idea of being stuck on a plane for any length of time in anything but my cozy clothes made me
itchy. Not that I’ve actually been on a plane before today, but I did a lot of research. All the travel
blogs suggest dressing for comfort.
Staring up at the high rise in front of me, nearly tipping backward trying to see the top, I realize I
might be in over my head. I was so sure, after my video interview, that this was the right choice. It
seemed like the kind of company that would let me work the way I wanted and would accommodate
my quirks, but now I’m not so sure.
Because people who live in places like this, or who can afford to put employees up for free in a
place like this, are not my kind of people. I’m not stuffy or formal. I don’t care about designer labels,
and I’ve never lived in a place that had a doorman.
My apartment back in Manhattan was a tiny one-bedroom with worn floors and radiant heaters.
My windows looked at the building next door. This place has views for days. And it’s right on the
water.
The driver that picked me up is staring at me quizzically, trying to wave me through the huge glass
doors. I shake off my anxiousness and follow him in, nodding and mumbling a ‘thanks’ to the man in
the suit holding the lobby doors open for me.
Everything in here is shiny and expensive. I make sure to rub my boots really carefully on the mat.
I don’t want to be that person. The one tracking in the mud. That’s all I need, a reputation as a mud
tracker-inner. I would get glared at by the doorman each time I walked through. They’d talk about me
behind my back, whispering and pointing. No, thank you. I’ll be the obsessive foot wiper instead.
That’s a label I can live with.
