I wanted a new start.
And yeah, I’d much rather not be sleeping on an air mattress in my parents’ place, but I couldn’t deny that I felt overwhelming relief by my initial steps toward change. My relationship with Eli was all about give-and-take; I gave and he took.
I had stayed in Portland because of Eli. I had stayed at a hospital nursing job I wasn’t all that fond of because of Eli. I had done a lot of things because of that relationship, and it was time I found my own way and lived the life I wanted to live. I loved Eli, but I didn’t love him enough to lose myself to a relationship I wasn’t even certain he was fully committed to.
“Will you do me a favor, Mel?”
I tilted my head to the side skeptically. “What kind of favor?”
“Do you remember Savannah Cummings?”
“Your weirdo sex therapist friend?”
She nodded. “Yep. Her.”
My eyes bugged out of my head. “You want me to go to sex therapy?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” My mother laughed and shook her head. “Her son Will is an OB/GYN, and his practice is currently interviewing for an office nurse. His office is only about ten blocks from here, and since you’ve been doing labor and delivery for the past five years, I think you’d be a perfect match for the job.”
“I don’t know, Mom,” I sighed. “I mean, working in an office setting? I think I’d rather just apply for an actual labor and delivery position at one of the hospitals here.”
“You’ll also get to assist Will in deliveries at St. Luke’s. You’ll get the best of both worlds with this position.”
“You seem to know a lot about this job…”
She shrugged it off. “I had lunch with Savannah last Thursday, and she happened to mention it.”
I scrutinized her facial expression and found a couple of cracks—mostly in the skin between her eyebrows, a Janet Marco tell. “What aren’t you telling me right now?”
“Nothing.”
“Mom.”
“Fine,” she muttered. “I told Savannah to have Will’s office manager schedule you for an interview on Monday.”
“Monday?” I questioned in annoyance. “As in this Monday? Like, tomorrow, Monday?”
“I had to, Mel,” she defended. “I was afraid the position would be gone if you waited any longer.”
“What if I didn’t want that job? Did you ever think of that?”
“But you love nursing, Mel.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “What time is the interview tomorrow?”
“Eight thirty.”
“In the fucking morning?”
“Language, Melody.”
I refused to feel bad for dropping an f-bomb over this news. I mean, my mother had just gotten me an interview for a job I wasn’t even sure I wanted. Not to mention, she’d scheduled it for eight thirty in the goddamn morning. I’d been working night shift for the past five years—I was the furthest thing from a morning person. My internal clock was accustomed to sleeping at eight in the morning, not waking up to be interview-ready and fight the morning NYC rush.
Hello, God. It’s me, Mel. Can I go back to my dream life with Scott Eastwood? He’d definitely be on board with staying in bed all day.
“8:30 was the only available time they had left for an interview,” she explained. “I didn’t want you to miss this opportunity.”
Fucking hell. I considered miming a very distinct gesture, but only briefly. No amount of bird-flipping was going to get me out of this one.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack. The rapid sounds of my heels tapping against the sidewalk berated my tardy ass as I rounded the corner of 10th Avenue. My Monday morning had started out like only a true Monday morning could. First, I’d slept through my alarm and woken up to my mother’s shrill voice shouting that I was going to be late for my interview before she hopped on her treadmill and started jogging while the Bee Gees serenaded her with “Stayin’ Alive.”
Of course, then, since I’d only had fifteen minutes to get ready, I’d found myself fixing my hair and makeup on the subway. It was pretty much an exercise in futility, applying mascara on a metal contraption speeding across tracks with enough bumps and grinds to make R. Kelly proud, but I’d done it anyway. And then there’d been the old man sitting behind me who’d appeared absolutely fascinated with making creepy eye contact with me in my compact mirror.
Did I mention Mondays are my favorite?
And even more than that, the best kind of Monday is one where you have to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn to attend an interview your mother scheduled for you.
An interview you don’t even really want.
An interview that would keep you in a career you aren’t even sure you like.
Happy motherfucking Monday.
As my lungs struggled for oxygen and my feet screamed inside of my heels for a reprieve, I realized I’d forgotten what three New York city blocks actually equated to in terms of distance. Sure, walking three blocks at a leisurely pace with a pair of comfy Converse on was no big deal, but practically sprinting that distance in a pair of heels was the equivalent of Mean Girls’ queen bee Regina George—a real fucking bitch.
As I headed for the finish line—Dr. Cummings’s office—I tried to pick up the pace. I was already fifteen minutes late, and I had a feeling most medical practices preferred applicants who could get to work on time.
Interviewing 101: Be on time to the fucking interview, Melody.
There was a good chance I’d already screwed this opportunity before I had the chance to hand them my resume. I was a fighter, though, so I kept onward.
I did my best impression of The Matrix as I maneuvered through the workweek foot traffic cluttering the sidewalks. But it was of no use. My elbow still managed to bump into a man in a power suit holding a cup of coffee. The liquid splattered out of his cup and onto his dress slacks.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” he shouted toward me.
“Shit. I’m so sorry,” I muttered, but my legs kept moving toward Dr. Cummings’s office. I knew not stopping made me seem like an inconsiderate asshole, but for one, I was already running late, and, well, that guy appeared to already have a job. And thirdly, the damage was already done. What was I going to do? Stop in the middle of the sidewalk and lick the coffee off of his crotch?
A girl could only handle so much bullshit on a Monday morning.