On Second Thought. Kristan Higgins
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Aaron chuckled, and I put my worries aside and waited for a marriage proposal. Kept waiting. Waited some more. Started volunteering at the local senior housing complex where Gram-Gram lived, bringing Ollie in for pet therapy. Planted tulip bulbs. Painted rooms, refurbished a table, bought furniture.
Two months after we moved, Eric got another promotion. He apologized, saying he really, really wanted to tie the knot and spend more time at home but this job would put us over the top. I tried not to feel glum. His career was on fire; I was an anomaly in Cambry-on-Hudson—a stay-at-home person. Like a shut-in, Kate mused, or a kept woman. She smiled when she said it, but I knew she meant it.
I missed my old job more than I ever would’ve guessed.
That was when Candy got me an interview for features editor at Hudson Lifestyle. “Don’t mess this up,” she said over the phone as I stood in front of the fridge, eating Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, Eric in Dallas yet again.
“Thanks for your faith in me, Candy,” I said. “I’ll try not to blow it.”
“It’s just that I have a professional reputation there. I recommended you for this job. If you don’t make a good impression, it will reflect badly on me, and let me tell you, I worked very hard to get where I am. It wasn’t easy, especially having a toddler thrust on me when I was forty years old.”
Lest we forget. “Got it, Candy. And really, thank you.” I hung up and polished off the entire pint of ice cream like any good American.
The offices of Hudson Lifestyle were in a brick building in the old part of downtown. There were six people on the staff, most in cubicles, most dealing with advertising and bookkeeping.
A secret about print journalism—the writers are often the least valued people on the job. Advertisers keep any paper afloat, and the graphics people have to set the thing up, and someone makes those irritating calls to see if you want to subscribe, and someone has to empty the trash and clean the bathrooms, but writers? Pah. A dime a dozen. There’s always some college intern who can do what you do. Besides, everyone reads only the Huffington Post and BuzzFeed.
I waited in the reception area, which was small but nicely furnished. The glossy magazine was spread out on the coffee table—a picture of a farmhouse on one cover; a head of lettuce on another; a sailboat on another. Headlines such as Best Plastic Surgeons in Westchester! and Farm to Table Dining and Area’s Top Garden Centers! told me all I needed to know about the magazine, which I’d never read before. The receptionist told me to have a seat, then disappeared (probably to clean the bathrooms and empty the trash).
I missed my old job. I missed Rockefeller Center. I missed Ryan. I missed being important.
Tears filled my eyes, and my nose prickled. Did I have a tissue? No, I did not. It’s just that this job...after my other job...it was such a step down. It was humiliating. I’d produced news stories on rebels in Afghanistan. I’d met the leader of the free world. Now I’d have to write about lettuce. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, leaving a smear of eyeliner and mascara. Great.
A man came out to greet me, already seeming pissed off, as if he could read my mind. “Ashley?” he said.
“Ainsley. Ainsley O’Leary. A pleasure.” I stood up and stuck out my hand, which he looked at and didn’t shake.
“Are you crying?”
“Oh... I just... I’m a little, uh, premenstrual.” Shit.
He gave me a long, unblinking look. Strange, pale blue eyes, like an alien. “Will that be a problem during this interview?” he asked.
“Let’s hope not. But those first two days can be murder.” I smiled. He did not. I felt my uterus shriveling, as if his disapproving gaze was bringing on menopause.
Finally, he blinked. “I’m Jonathan Kent. This way.” I followed him into a big, sunny room divided into cubicles. One of the men gave me a half smile and, unless I was wrong, an eye roll.
“You have an appointment at eleven, Mr. Kent,” the receptionist said.
Mr. Kent, huh? He couldn’t be past forty, but he sure didn’t give off that easygoing Mark Zuckerberg vibe.
There was only one office on the floor—his. It was scary-neat, a clean desk (sign of a sick mind), one photo facing him. On the wall, a painting of, you guessed it, the Hudson River. A bookcase that contained books only, no statues, no photos, nothing personal at all.
“Remind me why you’re here,” he said, sitting behind the desk. “You want an internship, your mother says?”
“No, and she’s my stepmother. Not my mother. Candy, that is. Um, you’re looking for a features editor?”
Another long, pained, uterus-shriveling glance. “How old are you?”
“I believe it’s against the law to ask that question.” He stared. “Thirty,” I added.
“You look younger.” It wasn’t a compliment.
He stared at my résumé, glanced up at me. I smiled, or continued to smile, as the case was. He didn’t smile back. Looked at the papers again. My smile felt stiff. The left corner of my mouth was twitching.
People usually liked me right away.
Jonathan Kent wore a suit, and his tie was not loosened. He was clean-shaven, which was kind of rare these days. Dark hair combed back severely. Cheekbones like dorsal fins, and those pale eyes. He was neither attractive nor ugly. Generic Caucasian male with potential to be a serial killer, please. Back when I was the receptionist at NBC, I’d made calls for the casting director.
“Do you really want to work here?” he asked, looking up at me.
“Yes! I’m here for an interview, after all.”
He blinked. Finally. “Why?”
Because I’m bored didn’t seem like a great answer, though it would be honest. “Well, I really, uh, respect what you do and think I could positively contribute to the content of the magazine.” Ta-da! The perfect answer.
“What do we do?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“What is it you think we do?”
“Is that a trick question?” No answer. “You publish a regional magazine.”
“And why would we do that?”
Because it’s a cash cow. “To showcase the beauty and vibrancy of life in the Hudson River Valley,” I said with my best Girl Scout smile.
“Your résumé says you graduated from Wagner College. I assume you have a degree in journalism?”
“Uh, no.”
“English?”
“Nope.”
“Do I have to keep guessing, Ms. O’Leary?”
I winced, then smiled to cover. “Philosophy.” Another stare. “It’s one of those degrees that can be used for anything,” I said, echoing the duplicitous guidance counselor at Wagner.
“Is it?” Mr. Kent said. I couldn’t argue that point. “You worked for Ryan Roberts.” He waited, expressionless.
“Yes.”
“Who was fired for an egregious breach of professional ethics.”
“And rehired by another network. But yes. That’s correct.”
“Putting aside your possible complicity in his journalistic deception, do you have any actual skills or education to recommend you?”
I felt a sudden rush of anger. What a rude man. Ryan had not been my fault. (Okay, fine, a little bit my fault, but mostly not.)
“Wow, Jonathan,” I said. “Those are a lot of big words. I’m not sure I follow you.” Clearly, I wasn’t going