Page 1 of Evermore: Heart of the Raven

CHAPTERONE

Wednesday, June 2

The man sittingacross from me smiles politely. I offer a polite smile back. He holds my future in his hands, after all. The least I can do is offer him a pleasant smile. He shuffles some papers and then clears his throat — for the fourth time. Lord, but that’s an annoying habit. It’s nearly as annoying as that pencil tapping thing he’s been doing since I got here. Honestly, how can he not know how irritating that is?

“We appreciate you coming in today, Miss Flynn,”Bounce. Tap. Tap. Tap.“But I’m afraid you’re not quite what we’re looking for here at Pinnacle.”Bounce. Tap. Tap. Tap.

For a single second — which, honestly, feels like an hour or two — I sit there motionless. It’s like I’ve left my body and floated up to the top of the ceiling, looking down at what is happening as if it isn’t happening to me, but to someone else. Did he just tell me Ididn’tget this job?Bounce. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“I … I don’t understand,” I hear myself murmur out loud. “I meet all of the qualifications you require. I’m a very dedicated, hard-working, loyal employee.”

“Perhaps, Miss Flynn, but we are looking for the entire package here at Pinnacle.”Bounce. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Maybe we could work out a trial period? Let me prove myself.” From my disembodied spirit’s place among the dusty fluorescent light fixtures above the scene, I hear myself practically begging. How humiliating. But I need this job.

The man across the table holds up a hand to silence me. I stare back at him. He’s so young-looking. He doesn’t even look thirty. His five o’clock shadow looks like he’s been working on it since last Thursday. And he has a baby face. Smooth skin, still battling the last years of pubescent acne. His hair curls around his ears. He must be growing it out because it looks to be in that awkward, too short to be long and too long to be short phase of the process. I’m pretty sure he gets highlights, too. His eyes are bright and he just sits and stares at me with this fabricated smile as if I’ve stepped in a pile of dog crap, and he’s trying to tell me in a nice way that I totally stink.

“Miss Flynn, I just don’t think you’d be a good fit here.”Bounce. Tap. Tap. Tap.“I’m sorry. I am glad to have met you. Perhaps another time, in other circumstances.”

“What other circumstances?” My mouth responds automatically.

He sighs and then starts tapping the rubber eraser of his pencil on the table again. I watch nearly transfixed as the soft pink end bounces several times before he picks it up and lets it tap its quick staccato again.Bounce. Tap. Tap. Tap.So! Damn! Annoying!

“This is a creative firm. We’re looking for people with outside interests they can bring to the table. You have virtually no social media activity, no hobbies or interests outside of work, you don’t travel or take vacations. Forgive me for saying so, but you’re only a couple of years away from a workaholic’s burnout. And that’s just not something we really want here. You understand, of course.”

He spits out those last words as if he’s confirming a fact, not asking a question. I do not understand. I definitely do not understand.

“Does this have anything to do with Morgan Wright?” I hiss out. Good for me, standing up for myself. Wait, I’m actually standing up. Why am I standing up?

“Who?” Mr. Pencil Tapper asks, his head cocked to the side.

“Morgan Wright, my old boss?” My index finger jabs the top of the desk, pressing so hard, that the first joint bends back awkwardly and the whole tip turns white.

“Um … actually no. Should it?” His brows furrow together in consternation.

“Never mind,” I huff. I tug my black leather bag over my shoulder. “Thank you for your time, Mr. …”

Holy crap! I completely blank on this guy’s name. Mr. What? I glance down at his desk and wouldn’t you know it, no nameplate. Lord, what’s with these Gen Z-ers anyway?

“Cyrus. Just Cyrus.”

“Of course, thank you for your time, Cyrus.”

I make a hasty retreat to my car through the modern building into the sticky summer air. Tucked in behind the wheel, I press my forehead against the scorching leather and let out a long shuddering breath. I cannot believe I didn’t get this job because I don’t vacation or have an Instagram account.

Seriously? I have a life outside of work. I have friends. Mrs. Fernelli from apartment 6B. She knocks on my door nearly every Saturday. Of course, it’s usually because she’s missing her newspaper, and she thinks I’ve stolen it.

And I have a Facebook account. At least, I think I do. I follow all sorts of interesting people who encourage and inspire hard work, creativity and a growth mindset. But my posts aren’t anything like the ones my so-called friends make. No selfies of me skydiving, no video of a marriage proposal or check-ins at the newest clubs in town. #loser

I have a life. I mean I … that is, I … well, crap. Who am I kidding? Mr. Pencil Tapper is right. I don’t have any meaningful pursuits or hobbies outside of my job. And now, I don’t even have a job.

Maybe that’s why I’ve felt so lost since leaving Pittman & Wright. It was such a great advertising agency, and I loved my job there. I’d given them every minute of the past four years of my life. They were going to miss me in the coming months. Especially if they were serious about Tucker Cole taking over my accounts. That guy is a total idiot. He’ll be in above his head. No one did as much work as I did. Although I didn’t mind the work. But having my boss hit on me and being the topic of watercooler gossip that I was sleeping my way to the top were is just a bridge too far for me. I cannot go down that road again.

I press the ignition button on my hybrid and maneuver the car into the slow-moving traffic of downtown Atlanta. The towers along Peachtree Street loom over me like the trees in an ancient rain forest, blocking the sun and casting cold shadows on the teeming life that struggles for its existence below. The small and helpless animals slinking through the shadows. Insects. Like me.

Pittman & Wright transferred me here from Chicago just a year and a half ago. My performance reviews were perfect. I like the city. I definitely love the weather. I want to stay. I am quickly becoming desperate to find something — anything to keep my Roswell, Georgia address. I’m a two-time Clio award winner for crying out loud — doesn’t that count for anything? Apparently, it doesn’t because I’m being rejected by twenty-somethings who get highlights? Oh, how the mighty have fallen — well, at least how the mildly mediocre have fallen.

Six interviews. Six interviews in the past two weeks and not a single offer. At least Cyrus told me right away. Two firms still haven’t responded. Maybe they’ll call. Oh, please, let them call!

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