Chapter 8

Mariah

 

I’m feeling bold when my laundry timer goes off, so rather than putting my panties back on, I walk down the hall to the laundry room with just my long t-shirt on. It feels daring. Adventurous. Fun. Pulling my clothes out of the dryer, it hits me that those are the kind of feelings I’ve always loved having. I want to challenge people. Be daring, do things that they expect that I can’t.

That’s why I could never be with Charles, or just go along with my father’s plan for my life. Charles may be slimy, but something tells me that if he’s smart enough to exert influence over Dad to the point where he wants to give the company to him, I’d spend the rest of my life sitting in a house knitting and wake up at sixty years old with nothing but a pile of ugly scarves to show for my life.

“No fucking way.” I scoop the last of my clothes out of the dryer and into the motel hamper, then head back to my room.

My head is spinning again, but in a good way this time. This time, I have resolve. I have a plan.

Back in the room, I hang up my newly clean dress clothes, then turn my attention to my laptop. Even though the motel wifi sucks, I can still access Craigslist - so that’s what I do. Nestled in a pile of pillows (the only over-supplied item in this place), I start applying to any jobs I can find. Real estate office work comes first, but the truth is that so far, I may have been overestimating what my credentials can get me.

Obviously, as the interview with the frowning S. Goodwyn has shown me, I can’t use my real last name anymore. The only way I’m going to make it is if I do it on my own terms, without the hangups of my father and his company around my neck.

With that comes the realization that I’m probably going to have to start at the bottom. Landing a job as a full-fledged realtor isn’t easy, and even in my dad’s company, most employees worked their way up from the first floor, or even the basement, before they made names for themselves and made sales.

So, there’s no way around it. I have to be in this for the long haul. And if I’m going to survive the long haul away from home, I can’t rely on the single credit card with a rapidly approaching credit limit to keep me on my feet. I need to work, and I need to work now.

I visit the vending machine downstairs next to the hotel lobby, and return to the room with three cans of nice, cold Mountain Dew, which had always been my go-to when it came to putting in late nights at the office or in school.

Cracking open the first can, I pull up Craigslist and start clicking. As I work, the refrain in my head slowly changes from Dad can’t be right, Dad can’t be right to I know I’m right. I can do this. I can do this.

After a few hours, I’ve lost track of the number of jobs I’ve applied for: everything from coffee shop barista to secretary to typist and beyond. Anything is better than nothing to get started. I chide myself for not doing this two weeks ago, but my ambitions were larger than life, apparently. By the time I call it quits, it’s almost six o’clock in the morning, and two of my cans of Dew are empty.

“Okay.” I close my laptop, trying to ignore the first glows of sunlight coming around my shades. “There’s being a workaholic, and there’s being psychotic. Let’s stay on the former side of that line for now.”

Tossing my shirt on the floor, I curl up in the bed and, for the first time since I left home, am out almost as soon as my head hits the pillow.

When I wake up, it’s to the ringing of my cell phone and the rumbling of my stomach. Based on plenty of experience in the real estate world and a lot of long work nights, even barely awake, I have enough awareness to take a moment and plug some fake focus into my voice when I answer.

“Hello?”

“Yes, hi, is this Mariah Young?”

I sit up straight in bed, suddenly very much awake. Young is the fake last name I chose for my resume and cover letters last night. So, this call is obviously for a job.

“Yes, this is she. May I ask who’s calling, please?”

“His Mariah, this is Gary over at Gruber Realty. We received your application for our office assistant position, and you’re by far the most qualified candidate. We’re looking to hire immediately - how soon could you come in for an interview?”

I take the phone away from my ear long enough to see that it’s 4:32 p.m. “Um, any time really. How late are you in the office? I could even come in today.”

“Oh, fantastic! I’m here until six. Why don’t I end the day on a high note and have you come in to see me at 5:30?”

“Fantastic!” He gives me the address and suite number, and I scrawl it down, pulse thundering in my ears. “Got it. I will see you there. And thank you!”

The call clicks off, I fall back onto the pillow…and that’s when the enormity of what’s just happened actually hits me. My eyes fly open, and I bolt up in bed with a shout of joy somewhere between a pterodactyl victory screech and the cry of a toddler who’s just hit their mother in the face with a mouthful of mashed veggies.

“I got an interview! An actual interview!” I know I’m just talking to myself, but so what? I’m the only one here. This thought’s punctuated with the realization that I have about twenty-four minutes to get myself presentable enough to interview for the job that could turn everything around in my life.