Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 76984 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76984 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
On lonely nights, I would almost call my mother and tell her that I was coming back home. I didn’t know how long I could survive here if things didn’t change. I hated being a quitter, but my dreams were fading fast.
After applying for countless entry-level positions online, all I had to show for it was an email folder full of rejections. My psychology major, with a minor in business, from a small Alabama university didn’t appear to be in high demand in the city of hedge funds, startups, and Ivy League degrees.
No one wanted me, and the disappointment hurt like hell, especially when friends saw Tessa’s success. I couldn’t help but wonder what was the matter with me. Maybe in the end, Manhattan and I weren’t a good fit and the universe was trying to send me a sign, like get the hell out of dodge.
“What’s your schedule like tonight?” Tessa asked. “Barclay has a dinner meeting with clients. I thought maybe we could order Thai and watch something on Netflix.”
“I wish I could, but I’m babysitting the Wilsons’ kid while they attend some school fundraiser. It’s for preschool, and Mrs. Wilson is going all glam with a full-length gown. She said this school puts her toddler on track for Harvard. Between you and me, they need to break the munchkin’s habit of eating crayons first.”
“They sound so intense.”
“You have no idea. I actually like the kid and may be the only fun little Andrew has in his life”
I met the Wilsons the old-fashioned way in a city of eight million people.
Fate.
I was walking down the sidewalk near our apartment, contemplating my lack of job prospects and wondering how I was going to pay my half of the rent when I’d noticed a panicked woman chasing a toddler. She was waving her arms in the air, screaming, “Andrew! Andrew!” The little tike was closer to me than his mother and ready to dash into Manhattan traffic.
Without hesitation, I ran toward him, scooping the wild child up in my arms before he hit the street. I pulled him to my chest, with his little legs motoring in circles like they were still touching solid ground. The kid had gusto and wore a bratty smile. His mother was visibly shaken with tears welling up in her eyes when I handed the tiny delinquent over to her.
Mrs. Wilson introduced herself and thanked me over and over again for saving her “headstrong” son from running into the street. One thing led to another, and until I found a permanent position, I agreed to work for them as an interim nanny. Mrs. Wilson didn’t work outside the home, so I could take time off for job interviews, which sadly had been few and far between.
Finally ready to head to my interview, I followed Tessa into the living room slash kitchen of our small apartment—and by small, I meant we lived in a modified hotel size room someone converted into a two-bedroom apartment.
I grabbed two water bottles out of our fridge and added them to my tote. The August heat transformed the subways into underground saunas, so I needed to stay hydrated.
“Okay, I’m out of here.” I waved at Tessa over my shoulder before pulling the front door open.
“Break a leg,” Tessa called out to me.
“Will do.”
I pushed the down button on the elevator and waited for the car to ascend to our floor. I turned toward the large mirror on the wall next to the bank of elevators and assessed my appearance.
I’d chosen my linen, boring as fuck black suit with a white lace camisole beneath the jacket, which I kept tugging at in hopes it would magically become comfortable. I looked professional, but it felt like a straitjacket squeezing the last bit of originality out of me. I conformed for one reason: I needed a damn job.
My hair was twisted and pinned high into a tight bun. A fake leather tote hung from my bended elbow. Thanks to the knock-off vendors on Canal Street, it resembled a real Prada. Tessa’s perfect strand of pearls lying just below my collarbone replaced my usual crystal necklace. When I touched the cool ivory beads, my skin tingled. Nerves.
Desperate to rebel in an acceptable way, I swiped my favorite lipstick, Golly That’s Red, across my full lips. It was a silent scream against my pale skin. I entered the elevator praying I wouldn’t bomb the interview.
Thirty minutes later, slightly wilted from the steamy subway, I stood in front of a towering building on Wall Street with the letters IG glowing from a marquee above the stately steel and glass entrance. My palms were sweating—and not just from the heat. My stomach knotted knowing how much was at stake with this interview. This opportunity was either a beginning or a dead end.