Page 92 of Saved By the CEO

By the time I make my way down to Communications, I have mentally apologized for overstepping in three different ways and considered which fruit basket to buy in case an apology isn’t enough.

The Communications floor is louder than the executive floor, and messier too. Colorful Post-it notes cover the walls, coffee cups sit on almost every surface, and as I pass an open door, I hear someone say, “We cannot describe angry residents as ‘highly engaged stakeholders.’ That is how people end up on the news.”

I slow down, smiling to myself.

It’s like a whole other world from the floors I usually tiptoe through, where everything gleams and murmurs and even the plants seem prissy.

Marissa waves me into a small meeting room with glass walls. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course.” I sit down and fold my hands in my lap. “If this is about the phrasing I used for Westbrook, I can explain my thought process. I know some of it was probably a little blunt, but?—”

“Carly,” she says.

I stop talking.

“This isn’t a disciplinary meeting.”

“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Okay.”

Her mouth twitches. “I’ve been thinking about your notes. They’ve been very useful. So have some of the other things you’ve contributed in the past.” She leans back in her chair. “You have an eye for this.”

I feel my face getting warm.

“We’re going to post an opening soon,” she continues. “Communications Coordinator. It’s not senior, but you’d be helping with press materials, talking points, resident concerns, that kind of thing. Westbrook would be a big part of it.”

My heart starts beating loudly in my chest.

“Oh,” I say, eloquently.

“I can’t offer you anything,” she says quickly. “You’d have to apply, and there would be a proper interview with me, HR, and someone else from the department. But I think you should.”

I will apply so hard to that job. I will apply the shit out of it.

“Thanks for letting me know,” I say, trying very hard to sound like a normal, balanced professional woman. “I’ll consider it.”

“So you haveto write a cover letter and everything?”

“Yep,” I say, opening my laptop. “I have to apply like everyone else.”

Annie pretends to gag, and I chuckle, even though I secretly agree with her. I hate applying for jobs. I hate the whole performance of it. The pretending that I am a sleek, professional product that can be summarized in three bullet points and a few confident sentences. It feels icky. It’s the same reason I neverpost on LinkedIn. Writing about myself in that way gives me the heebie-jeebies, like I’m supposed to sit there and say, Look at me and my success. I’m driven, passionate, and whatever other fancy adjectives people use when they want strangers to believe they sail through life and tackle every challenge with a smile.

I literally have a stress rash on my neck.

“But they know you,” Annie argues, curling her legs underneath her on the couch. “You already work there.”

“I’m not getting any special treatment,” I explain with deep sorrow. “She was very clear about that.”

I would not have objected to special treatment.

Annie leans in, squinting at the document on my screen. “What have you written so far?”

“My name.”

“Good. Strong start,” she says, nodding, and pops a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “What are you writing now?”

“The date.”

“Girl, you’re going to get hired on the spot.”