“Hi. I’m Christina Dominguez. I have an interview with Jim Sanders.”

I approach the woman behind the P&T reception desk, the clack of my heels echoing in the sizeable lobby. I wore the same outfit I bought for the showcase: a fitted pantsuit and striped blouse.

“With Jim Sanders?” repeats the secretary, as she stares at her computer screen with a puzzled look. “Are you sure?”

“It should be at two,” I answer.

She squints at the screen for another moment and then understanding lights up her eyes. “Oh! Are you here for the audition?”

“I mean, if it’s at two with Jim Sanders, then yes, I probably am.”

Audition is a weird choice of words, but I brush it off as corporate semantics. The secretary gives me directions to a suite, and I ride the elevator up to the ninth floor.

When I walk inside the suite, I find what looks like a waiting room, lined with chairs occupied by about a half dozen girls in their twenties. A small hallway leads to a door, and as I’m wondering if I should check the suite number to make sure I’m in the right place, a brisk looking young man in a suit and headset opens it and walks up to me.

“Name?” he asks, looking down at the clipboard he’s holding.

“Yeah, um, I’m here for an interview with Jim Sanders. Is this the right place?”

“Mr. Sanders is overseeing the auditions, yes. Name?”

“Ch-Christina. Christina Dominguez,” I stutter, more than a little confused.

“I’ll tell them you’re here.”

Without another word, he heads back through the door. I take a seat and glance around at the girls in the room. They’re all gorgeous and wearing much more casual clothes than me. None of them seem to share my confusion; every pair of eyes is either glued to a cell phone or one of the magazines available on the coffee table in the middle of the room. I sit there, drumming my fingers against my arms.

Maybe Jim is busy today and had to schedule me in the middle of whatever this is.

I try to let the thought boost my rapidly diminishing confidence. I walked into this building feeling like a badass boss ready to take on the world, and I grasp at the image again, straightening up in my seat and letting my hands lie still in my lap.

A few minutes pass, and then a girl steps out of the doorway, followed by the clipboard guy.

“You,” he says, eyes focused on me. “They’ll see you now.”

They?

I swallow and stand up, ignoring the death glares the other girls are shooting at me now that I seem to have jumped the queue. I follow clipboard guy into a large room where three men are seated along one side of a table. There’s a chair in the middle of the room, and one corner has been set up with a photography backdrop and a few reflector umbrellas. A guy with a camera is lounging on another chair beside them.

“Miss Dominguez!”

Jim Sanders stands up from the table and approaches me, hand outstretched. I give him the firm, doing-business-handshake I’ve practiced enough that it comes automatically, even when I’m feeling uncertain.

Which I definitely am right now.

“Mr. Sanders,” I greet. “Good to see you again.”

“Good to see you too.” He gives my hand a final squeeze and sits back down at the table, motioning for me to take the chair in the middle of the room.

“These are two of the team leaders I have working on the campaign, Leon Schultz and Harry Bell.” I exchange nods with the two men, who look like slightly modified carbon copies of Jim. “I was just telling them about your work at the showcase.”

“We like the sound of you,” says the one named Leon. “This isn’t a typical modelling job. We’d like someone who can work with a bit of autonomy when it comes to branding. We were intrigued to hear you’ve received some advertising training in addition to your work as a model.”

I look back and forth between them, and it all starts to fall into place.

“Jim showed us some of your shots. You have exactly the aesthetic our client is going for,” adds the man third man, his eyes raking over my body.

My suspicions are confirmed. This job has nothing to do with being part of the campaign team.

I clear my throat. “I’m very honored that you’ve asked me to be here today, but I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. I’m not a model.”

Harry and Leon both look at Jim.

“Right,” he says carefully. “Your focus right now is on advertising, which is what makes you such a strong candidate for the position. A brand rep needs the kind of skills you have. What you’d be doing here would be just like what you did for your lingerie campaign: finding the right way to present yourself to personally market the product.”

This is starting to feel more like I’m being convinced to take the job, rather than convincing them to give it to me.

“Would I work directly with the campaign team to develop those marketing strategies?” I ask.

“Most of the work would be done via correspondence. You’d create social media material and submit it for approval. You’d be involved in professional photo shoots and the like when they happen here, of course,” answers Jim.

“How much decision making influence would accompany the role?”

Without even thinking about it, I’ve slipped into full on negotiation mode. I make sure to meet all of their eyes, and speak with the precision I use when presenting a project.

“Like I said,” Jim responds, “you’d be responsible for creating your own social media material. You’d need approval for anything you post, but a lot of the idea generation would be up to you.”

I draw in a breath. “It’s a privilege to be considered for this, but as someone with little modelling experience, and a much stronger background in advertising, I think I’d be better suited to being involved with the campaign in a different way. I’d be thrilled to share my ideas and work with other team members, but personally representing the brand online isn’t the kind of job I’m looking for.”

I swear I almost hear Harry sigh as he shoots a look at Jim. “That’s not what we have available, but thank you for coming anyways.”

The sentence sounds final, but I’m not ready to give up on worming my way into a job here. “If you find a model that suits the campaign but lacks the advertising skills you’re looking for, I’d be happy to help develop social media material with her directly.”

“We want someone who will model and come up with their own materials. Not to be inconsiderate, but that’s the entire point of the position, Miss Dominguez.” Harry sounds even testier now.

“Then I thank you for considering me, but unfortunately, the role isn’t what I’m looking for.”

I stand up and approach the table, offering a handshake to each of the three men before walking out the door.

I feel the tips of my ears burning as I cross the waiting room filled with girls and step out into the hall. I don’t think models are unintelligent, and for the right kind of person this job would be a dream come true, but I can’t help feeling insulted that they offered it to me. The point of the showcase was to promote my progress in advertising, not how good I looked in lingerie. The fact that P&T doesn’t want my ideas unless they come with my body shows exactly how much they think those ideas are worth.

I almost pull out my phone to text Aaron. I know he’d come up with exactly the kind of one-liner I need to hear right now, one that would make me feel like strutting out of this place and flipping it the bird with a smile on my face. Then I remember that I can’t text Aaron, and that everything he said about this interview, everything I tried to ignore, was completely true all along.

My anger chomps at the bit, trying to escape the control I’ve bridled it with. I still hurt when I think about him, but I’ve been channelling all those emotions into my drive to make this interview a success. Without that outlet, losing whatever it is I thought we had threatens to turn me into Coach Kelsey’s raging bull analogy.

I pause in the hallway when I hear someone calling my name. Turning around, I find Jim Sanders walking up to me.

“Glad I caught you,” he says. “May I have a word?”

“Sure,” I answer, wondering what else he could have to say to me.

“My office is just to the left.”

I enter the large space with an all-glass back wall that gives an impressive view of the downtown core. Jim offers me a leather chair and takes a seat behind his dark-stained wooden desk.

“I’m hoping you’ll reconsider your decision,” he begins.

I consider telling him he’s wasting both of our time, but I decide to keep hold of my professionalism.

“As I said, I appreciate the offer, but I’m looking to be more involved in the ad development process.”

“If I can be frank with you, Miss Dominguez?” He tilts his head in question and I nod. “You aren’t yet finished with your advertising program, and you have little to no practical experience outside of that. At this point, you’d be hard pressed to find even an unpaid internship. I’m not saying you’re unskilled—quite the opposite, in fact— but this is a cutthroat industry, and you’re at the very bottom of the ladder. I’m offering a paid position at one of the most prestigious firms in the country.”

“As a model,” I can’t help but add.

“As a brand representative,” he corrects. “The job may not be exactly what you’re looking for, but it can open doors. I can open doors.” He gives me a knowing look. “If your creative work on this role is up to par, it could lead to something else in the company.”

“If I could be frank, Mr. Sanders, is the company really going to be interested in my capabilities as an advertiser if it doesn’t involve me being in front of a camera? I need to do what’s in the best interest of my career in the long run, even if it means passing up an opportunity that could help me in the short run. I can’t afford to be sidetracked by a job that might benefit me, without having some kind of surety that it will.”

“Are you asking me to guarantee you another job?”

Instead of answering, I give him a question of my own, one that’s been in the back of my mind since the first email I got from him. “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you so interested in me filling this role?”

I catch his eyes roaming over me and expect some kind of response about my ‘aesthetic,’ but his answer surprises me.

“You have the potential to do well in this industry, and I think you could be a valuable asset to Palmer & Turquot. This is the only way I can offer you an ‘in’ right now.” He must see how taken aback I am, because he leans forward and smiles. “I can’t give you the kind of surety you’re looking for at the moment, but you have my interest, and in this company that means a lot.”

I know he’s right. I also know that if I take this job, I’ll be able to kick its ass no problem. I haven’t even seen the products and I already have several strategies in mind, but there’s no guarantee those ideas will even be considered, never mind accepted.

“Are you really going to be able to asses my worth as an advertiser based on a few Instagram shots?”

“If you’re as good of an advertiser as the ones we need here at P&T, then yes. Bottom rung, Miss Dominguez. Even as an intern you wouldn’t get much more decision making power than this. I’m giving you a chance to start your climb.”

That’s more than I can say about any of the other firms I’ve contacted. I’ve tried to stay positive about it, but the fact that I’ve only gained a single opportunity so far still stings. P&T might not be what I had in mind when imagining where the showcase could get me, but they’re the only thing stopping my life from turning into a total let-down right now.

I think of Aaron and my fists clench. There’s been a lot of letting down lately.

“How many hours a week?” I ask.

Jim smiles even wider, the satisfaction of knowing he’s won etched into every line of his shark-like grin.

“Most of your work will be done from home. The campaign will run for three months. It’s not a full time commitment, so it should only be about fifteen hours. You’ll need to come in here or on location for a photo shoot about once a week.”

“And the pay?”

“Above average.”

He gives me a number and I do my best to hide my shock. If he’d mentioned the salary earlier, I might have been a bit easier to convince. I’ll have to cut back on my freelance work to do the job, but the money will more than make up for that.

I draw in a breath and let it out, counting to ten before I answer.

“Alright. I accept the position.”

Jim chuckles. “You don’t quite have the job yet. We’ll need to take a few photos and submit them to the client for approval. We’ll do that now, if you’re ready.”

I nod and we head back to the room from earlier after Jim fires off a text on his cell. When we approach, a group of dejected looking models are filing out of the room.

“You heard me,” ushers the clipboard guy. “They’ve made their choice. Sorry, ladies.”

“I didn’t even get to audition!” I hear one of the women complain to the girl next to her. “We waited for two hours. The least they could do is see everyone.”

They turn to stare as Jim leads me inside. I feel mental daggers being thrown at my back as we pass.

Inside the audition room, I’m asked to stand in the makeshift photography studio while the photographer snaps a few headshots and full body length photos. I’m glad this particular shoot doesn’t actually involve standing around in a swimsuit, but I know I’ll have to get used to the idea.

As the photographer gives me a few words of instruction on where to look and how to pose, I can’t help but picture Aaron duck-walking around in his underwear. When shooting with him, sometimes I forgot the camera was there at all. I’m painfully aware of it now, standing rigid and awkward as Jim and his two carbon copies look on.

The ordeal is over with after a few minutes, and Jim tells me he’ll set up a meeting with an HR rep sometime this week so I can complete the hiring process. He seems to think it’s guaranteed the client will approve me.

When I finally make it back to my car, I notice a voicemail alert on my phone. I check the number. It’s from Aaron.

He hasn’t contacted me since I discovered the photos, and to be honest, I didn’t expect him to. There’s not much else to say. Curiosity, combined with a longing to hear his voice that I try to convince myself I don’t feel, gets the better of me and I hold my phone up to my ear.

“Christina. Hi. Um, it’s Aaron, but you probably know that already. I’m sorry I took so long to call. I’m sorry I reacted like that when you found, uh, the pictures. You have to understand that it took me completely by surprise. Tiff—that girl, she’s not something I ever...So few people actually know...Look, I’m doing a bad job here. I care about you, though. Like, really, really care. Everything I said was true. I’ve always had a thing for you, Dominguez, but these past few weeks I just find myself thinking about you all the time. I know you had that P&T interview and I’m worried about you. Can you give me a chance to explain? This is really cliché, but the whole thing with the photos isn’t what it seems. I just need a chance to see you, to tell you the whol—”

The recording times out, cutting him off mid-sentence. I’ve never heard him sound that scattered before, so unsure of himself. I can picture him pacing around his apartment and tugging at his beanie while speaking into the phone.

The image doesn’t bring forth any sympathy in me, though. The message just shows what a douche he really is. Even in the throes of distress, the best he can come up with is telling me he’s always had a ‘thing’ for me, like some kind of smug high school heartthrob trying to score with a freshman.

And he’s ‘worried’ about me because of the interview? ‘Interested’ would have been a better choice. ‘Curious about the results’ could have worked. ‘Worried’ just implies that he doesn’t think I can make the right decision, that I’m too naive to do this on my own.

Part of me knows I’m nitpicking, that it’s easier to find reasons to be mad at him than to let the pangs of longing I felt throughout his message swallow me up. Every part of me aches to be with him, even if it was something as simple as sitting next to him in my car. The sight of Aaron Penn used to fill me with nothing but frustration, and while he never stopped making me want to pull my own hair out, I was starting to feel other things whenever he walked into the room: a rush of both excitement and confidence, an easing in my chest that meant I was safe, no matter what the world was going to throw at me.

I know what I saw, though, both in that closet and in his face when I questioned him about it. Whoever she is, he loves her. That kind of love doesn’t leave room in your life for anyone else.