“Violet,” she’d say before he could ask. “My name is Violet.”
“If it helps,” Katie said now, “you have some time to wallow. Your first interview canceled. He called over the weekend, but apparently no one in HR checked the voice mail until now.”
Violet sighed. At least that made time for the puffiness to go down around her eyes. But that still left three interviews scheduled back-to-back, each one forty-five minutes. It was going to be a long afternoon. “Am I allowed to be relieved? Which candidate was that?”
Katie made an apologetic face. “The one whose portfolio you liked the best. The amazing typography on the theater signage, with all those hand-drawn elements.”
Violet groaned. “Great. The only one who wasn’t borderline underqualified. Did he say why?”
“He just found out he’s going to be relocating for his fiancée’s job.”
“It’s official. Everyone but us is engaged. Even our job candidates.”
“Buck up, little camper. I slipped some of your favorite K-Cups into the conference room. The hazelnut ones.”
“You’re the best.”
“You’re going to want to be caffeinated when you get off work. I’m taking you out. We need to get you ‘moving on.’”
“The only thing I’m moving on to tonight is my couch. With the absolute trashiest thing I can find on TV, and a bag of popcorn in my lap for dinner.”
Katie let it drop. One of the best things about her was that she knew when Violet needed to be left alone.
*
Hours later, back in her office as she listened to the collective sound of her coworkers packing up and chatting as they headed in intervals toward the ding of the elevator, Violet buried her face in her hands. The interviews had gone horribly. One woman had even started crying halfway through Violet’s questions.
“I can already tell I’m not going to get it,” she’d whimpered. “Damn it, I really, really needed this job.”
She’d been right. She wasn’t going to get it. Violet had shared her own pocket pack of tissues with the woman and ended the interview right there. She hadn’t had the energy to fake it.
Violet checked her cell—no messages. She felt some last gleam of hope leave her, as if a part of her had been expecting a retraction from Matt. As if something like that photo was even retractable.
Sighing, she clicked through to her in-box and opened the folder of applicants. Maybe she’d overlooked someone who could be called in. Otherwise, it would be back to square one. Starred at the top of her folder was the cover letter and portfolio from the candidate who had canceled. Finn Welsh. Cool name. She’d never known a Finn before.
She opened up the PDF again. After the run of lackluster interviews, his work looked even better than she remembered. It wasn’t just that his was the most balanced, the most intricate, the most high concept—there was something in it that she was drawn to in a way that felt almost instinctual. Maybe she could ask HR to call him back and dig around a little more, find out what his fiancée’s job offer was and if there was anything they could counter in salary or benefits that would make it worth his while to reconsider at least coming in for a face-to-face.
There was a URL to view more of his portfolio online. She hadn’t bothered to check it out before—his samples had been all she needed to see. But maybe something on his profile page would clue her in to what might win him over.
The page loaded, a wonder in flash animation, and there as the word cloud faded and the graphics parted to review his bio, she was staring into the eyes of Handsome Stranger.
It had been about a year since that day on the beach, but she knew him in an instant. She had known a Finn before. Finn Welsh. And he’d managed to get himself a fiancée. Or maybe he’d already had one. Maybe—and the thought had never once occurred to her before—maybe it hadn’t been any accident of fate that they hadn’t managed to reconnect that day. Maybe he’d never been looking for anything beyond those moments away from his obligations back home.
Well. It didn’t make a difference, did it? That was that.
Still, now that she knew his name, curiosity crept in. She looked for social media icons on his home page, but there were none. She typed his name into a search engine, but all she found were a few design credits here and there. If not through his job application, she could see no way or reason they would have crossed paths at all—not online, anyway.
She went back to the portfolio page and stared at it miserably. She almost wished she hadn’t seen it. Now it would never be this mysterious thing that just hadn’t worked out. Instead, she’d never again think of him without feeling silly—for a year’s worth of far-fetched fantasies, for allowing herself to pine over something that he probably hadn’t even given a second thought.
If only he hadn’t canceled the interview. She imagined herself rising from the conference room table, extending her hand, and looking boldly into his eyes. What might have happened then? What if, fiancée be damned, a part of him had been looking for her too?
But he had canceled. And she certainly wasn’t going to beg him back in now that she knew who he was. She thought of the humiliation she’d been spared—the eagerness she would have felt when she’d seen his face, the embarrassment of inviting him to coffee after the interview only to be turned down.
Violet wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there by the time Katie poked her head through the doorway. Her neck felt stiff. Her eyes were dry with fatigue. “I’m gonna scoot,” Katie said. “Don’t worry—we’ll just hold out for more applications. We can keep freelancing stuff out in the meantime.”
Violet couldn’t bring herself to answer. Katie frowned. “You sure you’re okay to be alone tonight?”
She cleared her throat. “I’m thinking of canceling on Jerry and Ben and making plans with Tonic and Vodka instead. You in?”
10
AUGUST 2016
Caitlin sat in the too-stiff antique upholstered armchair that usually went unused in the corner of her family room, her legs crossed awkwardly toward the wall and her glass of chardonnay held as far as she could manage out to her side and away from the action. On the area rug that spanned the gleaming hardwood floor from the couches to the fireplace hearth, the boys were wrestling with George. She’d been in the kitchen doing the dinner dishes, but they kept yelling, “Watch this move, Mommy!” and “Daddy, do it again so Mommy can see!” until she gave up and came to perch here, in the only spot she could find that seemed out of the path of destruction but close enough to watch and applaud their every “point” scored. No matter that she couldn’t begin to understand the rules of this utterly masculine game the three of them had devised.