There’s a tiny pause when everything slows down for a minute and I can hear the distinct sound of my pulse in my ears.
“Really?”
It’s an overwhelming richness of opportunity. A gluttony of choice. A management role could change my life—open doors and roles at every tech company in the world if I ever want to move on and help me prove to my family that even if I haven’t mastered relationships, in business, at least, I’m doing something right.
“Really,” David says. “Of course, we have to do our due diligence, so you’re not the only candidate in the running. But with your background and experience directly at WanderWell, I think you’ll have a good chance.”
I blow out a breath. “What would it mean for me?”
“You’d oversee a team of about twelve direct reports, some writers, some UX designers, everyone focused on user experience in WanderWell products. You’d work closely with the Design manager in the Seattle office.” David pulls one of his hands off of the couch and rakes it through his hair. “I’d strongly consider it, Locke. This could be a partner-level role in a few years. You’d even have your own office—a little more privacy.”
I swallow hard. “My own office?”
“Right down the hall.”
The realization settles over my shoulders like heavy sand. I’d have to move here. Live here. Ever since my dad got sick a little over five years ago, I’ve stayed close to Seattle to take care of my family. The Locke from before my dad’s illness would have crawled all over this San Francisco position. The Locke today has more to consider.
David misreads my expression for one of interest. “I can show you the place if you’d like.” There’s a soft knock at the door, and he grins at me as he rises to answer it. “After lunch, of course.”
“Right.”
I stare at the city just outside the window as David takes a tray of sandwiches and salads from the receptionist and deposits them on the table between us. My mind offers up a thousand thoughts, but my body feels sluggish and numb, and a knot grows in my stomach.
It’s an impossible choice—take my career to the next level but leave everyone I love behind. My life’s in Seattle. Other than the few years I traveled post-college, it’s been my home for my whole life.
Ever since my dad died, I’ve tried to spend more time with my family to make up for his absence. And Greer? It’s been a day and I already miss her. Imagine a lifetime of living apart.
David and Curt don’t know what they’re asking.
They don’t know just how much I’d have to give up.
7 Greer
Nerves. Everywhere.
I lean over the container of homemade cranberry sauce I just pulled off the stove, and the sweet smell of cranberries, oranges, and cinnamon wafts over my face, along with a draft of steam that’s probably melting off my carefully-applied makeup and curling my hair.
Crap.
The sauce isn’t cooling fast enough and Locke’s picking me up in ten minutes, but there’s no way I’m going to let a glamorized condiment get the best of me.
I flick on the ventilation fan over my stove and shove the container under the blast of air. Then I grab a dishtowel and start fanning.
Molly wanders into the kitchen in a pair of pajama bottoms printed with tiny scoops of ice cream. “Greer.” She has to raise her voice over the noise of the fan before I hear her.
“Huh?” I turn to her, still fanning. Keanu Reeves’s face is emblazoned on the dishtowel, which Molly got me as a gag gift for my birthday last spring, and even Keanu looks like he’s frowning at me right now.
Maybe it’s just because cranberry sauce is beneath him.
Molly leans a hip against the kitchen counter and crosses her arms over her chest. “Calm down.”
Easy for her to say. She plans to order in Chinese food and watch Love Actually to offset what she calls “the impending emotional turmoil of the Christmas season.” Really, it’s a joke to her, because Molly’s super tight with her family and has been itching for a visit with them for ages. Meanwhile, I’m working up a literal sweat over the sauce, which means I’m going to have to race the ticking clock to reapply deodorant under my fitted sweater dress.
“I can’t put the lid on the container yet,” I say.
“Who cares? It’ll still taste good.” Molly leans past me to turn off the fan so we don’t have to shout anymore.
“Everything has to be perfect,” I whisper into the silence.
I haven’t seen Locke in a few days, and I didn’t realize until now just how much I’ve missed him. And just how much I care about impressing his family with our fake whatever-it-is.
“Everything’s already perfect,” Molly says. My best friend swings two ways—sarcastic as heck or super empathetic, and for some reason, today her woo-woo chill vibe sets my teeth on edge. I want to wallow in my nervousness right now. I want to be allowed to feel weird about tonight. Locke and I don’t do this kind of thing, and my nerves are more than justified. Locke is one of my best friends in the world, but our hangouts outside of work have been limited to the occasional group happy hours and movies. Even though we’ve laughed over a million memes and talked about everything from grief to consciousness to orphaned baby elephants and blockbuster movies, there are parts of our lives that we don’t share with each other, and tonight everything’s blurring together. Or maybe that’s just the steam in my eyes.
Molly gently takes the dish towel from my hands. “Go get ready.”
The doorbell rings, and I swear under my breath.
I’m going to be late.
A pulse of adrenaline floods through my veins, and I rush toward my bedroom. “Cover for me?”
