“I’m okay,” I assure him, still chuckling with my hand cupped over my eye. “I think you may have blinded me, but other than that, I’m okay.”
“I just wanted to give you some protein for your interview,” he says sheepishly, his hands still hovering over my shoulders.
I look directly into his face and realize he’s standing much closer than I thought. His grey t-shirt is stretched tight by his broad shoulders. He smells like laundry drying out in the sun. Maybe it’s just to steady myself in my partially blinded state, but in the next second, I’m pressing a hand against his chest. His heartbeat throbs beneath my fingers. Neither of us is laughing anymore.
A few breaths from each of us fill the silence.
“I don’t think I’m going to the interview,” I find myself murmuring.
“I really think you should.” His thumb brushes the collar of my sweater. “Are you nervous?”
I just nod.
“Everybody gets nervous.”
I take my hand away from injured eye so I can meet both of his with both of mine.
“You don’t get nervous.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah, but I’m basically a superhero, so...”
My laugh is breathless. I drop my gaze to where I’m still touching his chest and try to make out the words printed on his shirt.
“Were you really a...champion grill master at the Great Northampton Cook-Off of 2001?”
I don’t know why, but I whisper the question like it’s a secret, like if we continue this conversation in normal voices, the moment will shatter around us.
“No.” He’s whispering too, his thumbs now resting against my collarbones. “I got this at the thrift store. But would you find it sexy if I was?”
I draw in a breath. “Yes, I would. Very sexy.”
He snorts. The air that’s crystallized between us smashes like a wine glass on the floor.
Time starts moving again. Our hands fall away from each other. We stand there shuffling our feet and chuckling nervously, as if we’re two strangers who’ve been tossed up against each other on a train.
* * *
“Watch your step.We’re neck deep in renovations right now. I’m thinking about making all the staff wear hardhats.”
I follow Shayla McDougal’s leather jacket-clad back through the disaster zone that is the Metro Records office. Bare light bulbs hang down from the ceiling, and there are piles of building supplies all over the floor. Very hip-looking twenty and thirty-somethings sit at desks that are like islands of order amongst all the mess. They hunch over laptop and phone screens, lifting their eyes to flash distracted smiles at us before getting back to work.
They’re all so cool. I am not this level of cool.
I do my best to keep from hyperventilating as I notice all their tattoos and trendy haircuts. I thought my black skinny pants and slouchy sweater were ‘edgy chic’ enough, but right now I feel like a Mennonite walking into Coachella.
Shayla ushers me to a partitioned-off space at the very back of the room. “Come inside my office, Molly. You’re in luck; you get to see it on a day when it actually has walls.”
She sits down behind a desk made of two sawhorses with a sheet of wood on top and motions for me to take the other chair.
“Still waiting on my desk to arrive, I’m afraid.”
I let out a laugh that I hope doesn’t make me sound like I’m being strangled.
Ifeellike I’m being strangled. This place is full of professionals who actually know what they’re doing. I’m sure they can practically sniff out the imposter in me. I’ve taken one free graphic design course online, and here I am, sitting in front of Shayla Freaking McDougal and hoping for a job at a label that signed the biggest rock band in Montreal.
I’m embarrassed to even give her my resume.
She takes the piece of paper from my visibly shaking hands and scans over my meagre accomplishments. I focus on my breathing, and on what JP said to me once he’d finally convinced me to walk out the door.
