Page 26 of Vows in Sin
Word for word.
Target Teens. Go for the 18-20 crowd. Think of high school graduation night, with bonfires on the beach.
“I made a mistake. In hindsight, it sounds small. But in reality, it was a massive oversight on my part.”
Now I’ve really got Josie’s attention. Everyone loves an epic failure. She leans in. “What was your mistake?”
“I was thrilled to work with the head of the company. She’s a powerhouse of a woman—with a killer fashion sense. She told me to target the wrong demographic. And I did.”
I leave the story there.
Josie’s face holds a neutral expression. God, she’s good.
“I let her make a fool of me in front of her entire team.” I swallow back the acid of bile. “I stood there, and I took it. I let her gaslight me in front of the entire company.”
She stays silent, giving away nothing as she waits for me to continue.
“The mistake I made,” I take a big breath. “Was not trusting myself.”
“And what did you learn from that mistake? Other than to trust yourself?”
“The experience made me realize that I’d like to work as part of a team. You see, when you’re standing alone, one mistake can ruin your career. But if others have your back, they can catch you before you fall.” I take a deep breath. “And if I’m part of your team, Josie, I’ll 100% have your back. Always.”
She waits. Blinks. Nods. “Great.” Offers me a professional-looking smile. And stands.
I was expecting…something. A smile? A, ‘yeah, I get that.’ Something. Any little bit of reaction I can use to judge how this interview went.
Instead, she holds out her hand. “Thank you for coming in.”
I’ve been dismissed.
With a sinking heart, I give her my hand. “No, thank you for your time.”
We have a nice, feminine handshake, neither too firm nor too weak.
She says, “We’ll be in touch.”
The entire subway ride home, I’m googling different variations of ‘what does it mean when they say they’ll be in touch at the end of an interview.’
I’m the girl with the loud laugh and bright lipstick—the one who cracks jokes sharp enough to sting but sweet enough to be considered charming. I wear silk like armor: flowing robes in tangerine, hot pink, and sunflower yellow. My fingers flash neon polish as I wave them around in animated conversation.
I distract them with my sunshine.
That’s the point.
Two more subway stops till I’m home. I stare down at my phone screen, doing something I’ve not done in weeks. I check my website. It’s the same medley of coral, mint, persimmon, and magenta. My face is beaming the perfect smile in my headshot. The tagline below my picture reads, “Lifestyle Inspiration with Heart.” It’s all a well-designed lie—a loud, beautiful distraction.
Because beneath my strong facade, something simmers. Something dark and heavy, like tar bubbling beneath the surface.
I carry her everywhere—my little sister. Alessi. Sissy. Her name resides within me like a soft bruise I press too often.
But no one sees that side of me. They see the jokes, the stories, the color, the light.
Not the silence.
Never the silence.
I don’t let the cracks show. I don’t say her name out loud. I don’t cry in front of anyone. I smile wider, choose a new nail color, and hit the salon. I throw another joke to distract.
