Page 6 of Cuffed to my Roomies
I dropped by the Envy offices—a glamorous chrome-and-white open plan affair with splashy black and red abstract art on the walls and impossibly sophisticated, beautiful women of every race and age at the standing desks, the coffee machine, the elevators. I was a little starstruck, but I managed to find HR and let the rep know I was in town and would report the following day on schedule.
Miriam, the HR rep I’d been talking with, stretched to her full height of probably six feet, and with a toss of her long, tiny braids, insisted on giving me the tour a day early. She showed me where the layout for the next issue was being assembled, the computer bay where the graphic design team created the illustrations and stock photos for fill-in. By the time I’d been introduced to Liz Markham, the features editor, I was ready to squeal and beg for her autograph. The whole publication was every bit as smart and polished and sexy as I’d imagined.
“I looked over some of your samples myself. The article you wrote about the campus availability of birth control was quite good, Lynette. I look forward to bringing you onto the team,” Liz Markham said to me. I wanted to clutch my chest in thrilled shock—Liz Markham knew who I was and had read one of my articles. Read it and LIKED it!
“Thank you,” I stammered.
“If you’d like to come a bit early tomorrow, we have a weekly staff meeting at eight on Thursdays. You’d be welcome to join us,” she said graciously. I couldn’t believe it! I was going to get to sit in on a staff meeting at Envy with one of the most award-winning features editors in the business—a woman known for her hard-hitting style, her insistence on vetted sources and verifiable studies, her refusal to settle for fluff about which celebrity was dating whom. She had the brain of an investigative journalist and the heart of a designer—the perfect blend of smarts and style. She was my idol. I had hoped I’d get to meet her during my internship. I never dreamed she’d speak to me directly or invite me to meetings. I was so excited I wasn’t sure I could keep from squealing and jumping up and down. Only the knowledge that I would look like a complete idiot kept me from indulging.
I thanked Miriam like she’d just given me an extra kidney or something. I squeezed her hand until she said “ow” as politely as possible and took it away. I messaged Ainsley that I had gotten to meet Liz Markham. She would appreciate the significance of that.
I visited several possible rentals—at least two of which looked like they should have crime scene tape around them. Seriously. One had blood spattered on the ceiling, obviously blood, which the landlord insisted was ‘probably some kinda spaghetti sauce that exploded’ nowhere near the kitchen. I’d paid the towing service, and my car was at a mechanic who promised to look at it as soon as he could, while saying something terrifying about how much an alternator would cost. By the time I returned to the loft, impressed again by how beautiful and secure the converted firehouse was after facing the reality of available rentals, I was reluctant to fork over the money for a few nights in a cheap motel and look for a rental on Sunday—my day off from the restaurant. I knew I had to get some sleep for my first day at Envy and the staff meeting where I couldn’t wait to watch, learn, and take notes. I was greedy—I wished I could stay at the loft again.
I climbed the stairs, knocked at the door. Brett let me in. I was bursting with excitement about the internship, about getting a job at the first place I applied, but I felt a little shy with him. I would have told Derek everything at once, but Brett was more subdued and I took my cue from him, not acting bubbly as I felt.
“How was your day?” he said, “Derek will be back soon. He went to pick up something to eat.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, tell him I said thanks again and bye, okay?”
I went to get my backpack from the spare room, feeling disappointed I wouldn’t get to say goodbye to them both together. Thinking already that I’d miss seeing them, that I’d imagined telling them about my invite to the staff meeting, maybe toasting with bottles of beer in celebration. It was a silly, sitcom dream, to have a supportive friend group excited about my success, ready to joke and laugh with me.
“Wait. Please stay until he gets back. We’d like to talk to you.”
“I—” I was about to make a smartass comment about if they meant to question me in their official police capacity. I wanted to snap at him because I felt discouraged and sad about my apartment hunt and about leaving the loft and the guys. But I reminded myself how kind they’d been, how wonderful and sweet. So I bit back my rude retort, shifted my weight, “If you think I should hang around for a few minutes, I will.”
