Overlooked. Underestimated. Eager. Hungry. Angry. So angry.
Lost. So tired of being defined by the vision of myself that Stephanie wanted that I would never be.
Let’s see if Rachel Mackey will be the person who will help me across the finish line, and even if she isn’t it’ll be good practice for more interviews. I set it for Wednesday, to give myself time to pull myself together and actually put this business endeavor into practice. Mind spinning even though it’s running on empty, I press send before I think better of it, and then sink into a fitful sleep with all the parts of my life colliding.
I may not have had the courage to say it while I was at our old house, or at the divorce meeting where we divvied up pieces of ourselves, but this will be my last word. Damn you, Stephanie Dawson, and your idea of me. You’ll be sick at the loss of me before I’m through and when I’m done you’ll live with the regret for the rest of your life.
The best course for heartbreak and disappointment is resounding success so loud that it drowns out all the hateful words and the silence, and the empty space on the other side of the bed.
This is not where I end. There was a Bryce Dawson before Steph, and I’ll make it out on the other end—the kind of person I actually want to be.
I makeit approximately seven hours before I start freaking out. I’ve been offered an interview, in a town I don’t live in, for a job I’ve never done before.
Breathe. Just breathe.
My parents loom at the back of my mind, along with every sacrifice they’ve made. All their time, all the money they had and didn’t have that they’re still trying to help me pay loans on. Even though they’ve never outright said it, the expectation was that I would use my degree for its intended purpose in the most lucrative way I could. When you grow up without the safety of a backup plan or trust fund, there’s only one option: to succeed.
They want me to be happy—on the surface I know that—but they also want me to reach my potential and those feel like very different things. They want me to be the version of myself they’ve always envisioned, the Rachel they hoped for when picturing a child and helping that child grow into success. How do I go about this without feeling like I’m taking a step back, in pay and in prestige? Would they even understand my desire to?
Ángel doesn’t get it, and he’s said as much. The pressure to perform just doesn’t factor into his life. Rachel Mackey, as my parents and the world know me, isn’t a risk taker. Employed at Lakin-Cole since before graduation, living in the same apartment for years—I’ve built a life on being consistent and all it’s gotten me is exhaustion and misery.
Ángel doesn’t have the firsthand experience of being done dirty by Lakin-Cole but there is someone else who might get it. At least partially.
I shoot the text off before I can second-guess myself.
Hey, Sebastian. It’s Rachel. I was wondering if you had some time to discuss something work related. I wanted to pick your brain on some options outside of Lakin-Cole.
I don’t have to wait very long for a reply.
Sebastian
Finally realizing you’re better than they deserve?
A laugh bursts out between my lips and it’s a relief, knowing there might be another path for me. I’m not committing to anything. Monday is another workday and I’ll be there again, same as always if I don’t take that chance in Dulaney. But having a contingency for when I lose my patience is a good plan.
Keith got Program Manager.
Nothing else needs to be said. I know he’ll understand.
If you’re not busy tonight, you’re welcome to come join me and Farren for pizza and you can vent all you need. You know I get it.
Sounds great. Just send me the details.
* * *
Their placein Alexandria is disgustingly cute, a white townhouse with cute black shutters and a flower bed that will soon be bursting with blooms once the heat catches up.
Knocking three times, I wait. My clammy hands are wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle and I hope I’ve made the right choice in what to bring. It’s not a housewarming, it’s a “thank you for indulging an old colleague and helping her get the courage to escape a soul-sucking environment” kind of gift.
Farren answers within a few seconds, her smile welcoming and warm. She has curves that won’t quit and when the light hits her curls they glow golden. I feel overdressed in my dark jeans and blouse compared to her leggings and “You Either Catan or Catan’t” shirt and fluffy socks.
“Rachel? Hi. Please, come in.” Farren steps aside for me to enter and I try not to wonder just how they found this place in this market.
Following her lead into the kitchen, she takes the bottle of wine and pops it into the door of the fridge to chill. “This is so sweet of you. Thank you! Sebastian is just out picking up the pizzas but he’ll be home any second.”
Part of me pipes up that I should be uneasy about meeting Farren without Sebastian as a buffer. We are technically strangers, after all, but something about her calm warmth dismisses the thought before I can dwell on it.
The wood floors are pocked and scarred with age but gleam as if they’ve been polished. The interior is a mixture of cool neutrals with hints of color that brighten up the space and make it feel homey. Fairy lights strung up and wrapped around the curtain rods give the space a gentle glow that an overhead light would’ve killed. The cocoon effect is continued in the warm white of lamps next to the sofa, light blue and teal throw pillows on the seats, and a chunky-knit cream blanket folded over one of the arms.
