Authors: Winter Renshaw
BELLAMY
“I’m sorry. Your interview was yesterday.”
“No, no.” I yank my planner from my bag and slap it across
the marble reception desk, my cheeks burning behind the blanket of hair that
falls into my face. I refuse to believe this is happening. “It’s today. My
professor set this up last week. The first Tuesday in April.”
The receptionist’s desk phone rings shrill and intrusive.
She points a finger straight up in the air and takes the call. I’m flipping
through the pages of my planner like a crazy person, page after page of March
dates finally bring me to the current month, and several pages later, I’m
staring at today’s date.
The page is blank.
I blink as if my eyes are the ones who have deceived me.
It’s
all
their
fault.
“No.” I run my palm across the smooth, traitorous page,
dragging in a haggard breath before I flip backward to Monday.
Monday, April 6
th
– 10:30 AM, Interview with Randy Mutchler, RJM Corporation
“This has got to be a mistake. This is not like me at all.
I’ve never been late for so much as a doctor’s appointment.” I’m rambling,
words
flowing straight from my frazzled brain to my tingling
lips. The stale lobby air nearly suffocates me. “I’m sorry about this. Is there
any way at all he could maybe still see me today?”
I flash the kind of benign smile you might see in a stock
photo of a business professional lugging a briefcase, hoping to God this
receptionist is the merciful type who just might have a soft spot in her heart
for interviewees with a nervous streak.
“I’m sure these things happen all the time.” My words are
half chuckle and
one-hundred
percent an attempt not to
break down and cry. My master plan is crumbling like ashes to dust. I slide my
hand down a shiny tendril of blonde hair that spills over my shoulder. The
softness against my skin is comforting.
Distracting really.
It pulls me out of the present moment and gives me something
to focus on when the entirety of myself is threatening to unravel.
“I’m so sorry.” The receptionist’s words slam into my attention
with brick-wall intensity.
“Professor Stan
MacAbee
recommended me. They’re friends. Tell him. I’m sure he’ll change his mind. Can
you ask him?” I didn’t drive almost an hour from Whispering Hills to Salt Lake
City to give up this easily. My gaze falls toward the phone. Her hand isn’t
anywhere near it. She’s not going to even attempt to entertain my suggestion.
“Just tell him Bellamy Miller is here to see him.”
A line of people waits behind me. I’m not sure how long
they’ve been standing there, but now I’m all too aware of the fact that I’m
causing a scene. The collective weight of their stares is like a silent push,
urging me to walk out of this building and pretend like none of this happened.
This job was supposed to be a sure thing. RJM Corporation is
hiring a whole slew of entry-level college grads. No experience necessary. It’s
grunt work, but it beats flipping burgers and it pays better too.
Besides, it’s almost impossible to find a job when your
resume consists of nothing but a community college education. I’ve never held a
job before. I have no references. All I have is my 4.0 GPA and a called-in favor
from my marketing instructor.
I lean in, closing the gap
between myself
and a receptionist who doesn’t appear to be much older than me
. She
seems nice enough, and I know she’s only doing her job, but I’m not ready to
walk away yet.
“Look, I came all the way here.” There’s a quiver in my
words that I make no point in trying to hide. “I
need
this interview.”
“I understand
that, Miss…”
“Miller. Bellamy Miller.”
“Yes, I understand that, Miss Miller.” Her lips widen into a
pained wince while her eyes attempt to hold sympathy and fail miserably. “I’m
terribly sorry. There’s nothing I can do. Anyway, Mr. Mutchler is out on
business today. I can ask him when he returns tomorrow, and if he agrees, our
H.R. department can get in touch with you.”
“Is there someone else who might be available to for an
interview?”
Her eyes glide over my shoulder and land on the gentleman
behind me. She’s offering him a silent apology. Her winced face screams, “
This girl is crazy. I’m sorry. Be patient.
She’ll be out of here soon enough.
”
I collect the shattered remnants of my dignity off the floor
and sling my bag over my shoulder.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
My head hangs as I avoid the intrusive stares of the people
lined up behind me. I don’t know what they look like. I don’t know if their gapes
are laced with pity or packed full of amusement.
I don’t want to know.
I want to get out of here, regroup, and come up with a plan
B.
My watch reads ten ‘til eleven, and the sign on a local bar
and lounge claims it’ll be opening soon for the lunch crowd. I’ve never been a
drinker, but today feels like a pretty good day to start.
People drown their problems with alcohol for a reason. It
must work.
My mothers aren’t expecting me until this afternoon. They
think I’ll be in the city all day, filling out hiring paperwork and getting a
tour of my new office. I told them I was all but hired when they wished me luck
that morning after breakfast.
As far as I’m concerned, I have a hall-pass today.
Never mind the fact that I’m twenty-two.
A grown woman.
A full-blown adult, even if I’m still living under my
parents’ roof like a baby bird who never learned how to fly away from the nest.
It was never that I couldn’t fly, just that I was never allowed.
Until now.
I spend the better part of ten minutes convincing myself
it’s perfectly okay to enjoy an adult beverage at eleven on a Tuesday all by
myself, and the second the proprietor flips the window sign to “open,” I show
myself in and take the first bar stool on the left.
The inside of the place is dark, and it almost feels like
night. I suspect there’s a glaze on the windows, tinting them to give off just
enough of a dusky ambiance to make people want to stay a while. I’m beginning
to forget what all transpired just a little while ago, but I’m quite certain
I’ll forget even more once I’m face to face with a stiff drink.
Rows upon rows of glass liquor bottles in every shade from
clear to brown to cobalt are backlit on shelves that span from the ceiling to
the back of the bar. I glance around for a drink menu and find none. Maybe
they’re not out yet?
I suppose most drinkers don’t need menus. They know what
they like. They know what’s good.
“What can I get you, ma’am?” A gray-bearded bartender tucks
a white rag into the back of his apron and rests his hands on his hips,
studying me. “Are we having a drink today? Lunch? Both?”
“I’d like a drink.” My words are slow and unnatural. I cringe
on the inside. Hard. I sound like a foreigner in a strange new land, uttering
an unfamiliar phrase, trying to blend in, yet making
herself
stand out even more. “What would you recommend?”
His round head cocks sideways, and he chews on his lower lip
before smacking the top of the bar with an open palm. “I know. A Manhattan.”
“What’s in that?” Now I sound like a child afraid to try a
new food their mother has laid out before them.
“Whiskey, sweet vermouth, and bitters.”
“I look like a Manhattan girl to you?”
His head cocks and his lips curl into a slow grin. “Not at
all. You look like a girl who’s never had a drink in her life.”
I resent that, as true as it may be. “You’re wrong.”
My father always said once a person starts lying, they never
stop, and in the last week, I’ve proven him to be correct. I can’t get over how
easy it feels to be in the company of this stranger, this Salt Lake City
bartender,
look
him in the eye, and make him believe
anything I want him to believe about me.
I’ve been given a blank slate.
No one knows me here.
I can be anyone I want to be, even if it’s just for an hour
or so.
It’s a lot of power to place in the hands of a
twenty-two-year-old girl who, her whole life, has never been allowed to spread
her wings. Not once.
“I’ll take champagne,” I declare, straightening my posture
and crossing my legs.
“Ah. A celebratory beverage.” He’s either making a statement
or subtly hinting that he still doesn’t believe me.
“Was just offered a new job.” I force a smile on my face,
the one that would’ve been placed by an actual job offer.
“We don’t sell by the glass,” he says. “But since you’re a
champagne drinker, you should know that.”
“Well aware,” I lie. That makes number three for the day and
probably number sixteen for the week.
My father was right.
The bartender releases his grip on the ledge and his gaze
from mine in one fluid whoosh and disappears in the back, emerging with a dark
green bottle dripping with condensation. I squint from my perch at the end of
the bar, failing to read the elaborate script font on the cream label.
Jingle bells on the door slice through the quiet bar. My
fingers rap against the marble counter as I stare ahead at a mounted T.V.
screen.
Today, I’m celebrating.
A silent toast to my impending freedom.
Even if I have to fight for that freedom.
Even if I’ll do
anything
to obtain it.
My mother’s words echo in my head as the bartender pops the
cork. We were standing around the kitchen last week peeling carrots for a stew
and discussing how it was Dad and Kath’s seventh anniversary when she turned to
me and said, “
You’re going to make a
great first wife, Bellamy. Heaven help us if you’re ever a second or third wife
like poor Kath
.”
She thought she was being cute, and she meant it in jest,
but all it did was ignite a fire so deep in my soul all the water in the world
won’t put it out.
The new patron takes the stool two spots down from me. We’re
separated by one seat. I resist the urge to huff or give them a single look.
Eight other spots and this person
has
to sit close to
me.
“Here we are.” I glance at the bartender’s nametag, which
reads Matt.
I take the champagne glass by the stem like I’ve seen classy
women do in movies and lift it in his direction. Today I’m fancy. Today I’m
free.
“Thank you, Matt.” The glass rim presses against my bottom
lip.
“Manhattan.” The customer two
spots down
has
a voice smooth as velvet and laced with palpable virility. It
commands my attention, dissolving my previous disinterest in two seconds flat.
My God.
My breath catches in my throat. I tilt the flute and take a
small mouthful, letting the tiny bubbles dance on my tongue before quickly
swallowing them. The last thing I want to do is choke them down like some
amateur.
The champagne is sweet, but not too sweet. The crispness is
refreshing in a way I’m sure I’d appreciate much more if I weren’t so
distracted by the suit sitting mere feet away from me. He’s sucked all the air
from the room, I’m sure of it, because now I can’t seem to catch my breath.
“If you’re going to stare, at least introduce yourself.” He
speaks to me though he looks straight ahead.
My jaw slacks, my brain racking itself to come up with the
appropriate comeback that doesn’t make me sound like a love-struck teenager
noticing boys for the first time. I noticed boys a long time ago; I’d just
never noticed anyone like
him
before.
His elbows rest lightly against the bar, his hands gripping
the shiny glass Matt just placed in front of him. Not a single spec of fuzz or
stray hair clings to the impeccable fabric of his navy suit. Lush, dark hair
covers his head, and his jaw hollows just below his cheekbone.
They certainly don’t make them like him back in Whispering
Hills.
“She doesn’t speak English?” he asks Matt.
“Bellamy Miller.” I don’t extend my hand; instead it rests
firmly at the base of my champagne glass. I hold my head up high. If he’s going
to sit there like some arrogant businessman, two can play that game. “And you
would be…?”
The curiously handsome and intensely haughty stranger turns
my way, clearing his throat and tensing his jaw as his unyielding stare sharpens
in my direction. The hollows of his cheekbones release and flex not once but
twice. “Dane Townsend.”
I expect him to smile or nod, and I wait in vain for his
expression to soften.