Chapter 4
Bella
MOM remember when I told you we couldn’t get a bunny because I was allergic?
BELLA is this another confession?
MOM possibly…
do you remember?
BELLA Do I remember crying for months over it? Yes
MOM I lied
but not for the reasons you think
I genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, am afraid of them
BELLA of…bunnies? the cute fluffy animal?
MOM they’re not cute when they bite your face
BELLA I don’t think they bite people’s faces mom
MOM
4 year old me was in fact attacked by not one but 2 bunnies
BELLA
did you steal their carrots?
Mom?
hello???? did you get distracted by carrots?
t’s a week later and I still want to bang my head against a wall.I Or scream at whoever was responsible for such a horrible job market.
But then the barista places down my refill of my cinnamon vanilla latte, and after a sip, I may be pissed off at the world and my lack of job prospects but at least there is still cinnamon and great baristas.
But the feeling is short-lived. The second I finish my latte, I instantly want to pummel my computer screen, though that is the reason I’ve been coming to this café every day.
When I was at home with no one around to stop me from, say, taking a hammer to my laptop or sending a nasty email to Steven the nepotism employee at my old office who gets away with feeling up women because of his last name, I decided to make the smart decision and job hunt in public.
Where I would second-guess my intrusive thoughts.
I’m just hoping this period of my life doesn’t end with me in a straightjacket and criminal charges.
My phone vibrates across the coffee table. I’ve never snatched it up so fast in my life. My heart is in my throat and hope is blooming in my eyes, until I see my mom’s name flash across the screen and disappointment sinks into my stomach, quickly replaced by guilt.
I’m not disappointed it’s her, per se, I’m disappointed it’s not a company offering me a 401k and a salary. That, and I’ve been dodging her calls during the day, choosing to talk over text because I’m a coward and I don’t want to see her stress when I relay the news that I was laid off.
So, I just…don’t.
Turning my back on the bustling café behind me, I put on the cheeriest voice I can manage and hit accept.
“Hey, Mom! Is everything okay? I’m just about to head into a meeting.” I pause. “This isn’t another confession, is it?”
The barista that walks past side-eyes me, her friendly attitude leaving as she witnesses the blatant lie roll off my tongue. I give her my best ‘don’t
judge’ look. Except all it does is send her running.
Great, now I need to find a new café.
“Hi, love. Sorry, I won’t keep you long,” she says with a small chuckle.
“And no, I’ve restricted myself to one confession a day.”
The sound of her voice calms the rapid beating of my heart. When we’re on the phone like this I can pretend she isn’t sick. I can pretend that she hasn’t lost twenty pounds due to chemotherapy. I can pretend her skin is still radiant and glowing and not a dull gray.
I can pretend she isn’t dying.
Because out of everything that has changed, her sweet voice has remained the same.
Perhaps I should record her talking while she’s still…
Emotion clogs my throat at the thought.
“It’s all right, I’m not in a rush.”
The guilt that hit me before doubles down. I despise lying to her.
“I was just wondering if you’re still coming over for dinner.”
There’s a slight change to her tone that makes me pause. My body tenses, and that sense of calm she installed moments before vanishes.
“Of course I am. Why? What’s wrong?” I lower my voice, not wanting the judgmental barista to find out I’ve been lying to a cancer patient. “Is it the chemo from Monday? Are you still feeling sick?”
It’s a foolish question; she’s always feeling sick. However, the day after chemotherapy is always the worst, and if it’s a particularly heavy dose, she won’t feel well until four days later. But it’s Thursday and she should be feeling some improvement by now.
“No, no, I’m feeling slightly better. The nausea has finally subsided.”
I should feel relieved but I can still hear the slight edge in her voice, can practically feel the tension radiating off her through the phone.
“What is it, Mom? Do you want me to come over now?”
“No, honey! Stay at work. I don’t want you to miss any more days than you have to.”
If only she could see my grimace. “It’s fine, really. I can be over shortly.”
“No, Bella, you need that job. Don’t give them a reason to let you go.”
Now I really want to slam my head against a wall.
Clearing my throat, my eyes slide to my computer as a ping comes through. “If you insist,” I murmur, half paying attention once I notice it’s an email notification.
My heart soars as I read the title.
APPLICATION RESPONSE
I bite my lip to stop the squeal from escaping, but suck in a sharp breath as I pierce the skin instead, a metallic iron taste dancing along my tongue.
“What is it? Are you okay?”
“Hmm?” I hum half-heartedly as my mac conducts the spinning wheel of
doom.
Stupid cafe internet connection.
“You made a noise. Bella, is everything all right? Jason isn’t giving you a hard time again, is he?”
I click on the email and lie again. “No more than usual but everything is fine. I just…I stubbed my toe.”
A throat clears behind me. Turning, I find the same barista from before looking down her nose at me while she clears a table.
It takes everything in me not to scream, I’m lying for a good reason! But I don’t think that will help my case at all.
“Okay, love. Well, I was just calling to check if you’ll be here for dinner.
I’m going to go lie down.”
The exhaustion suddenly in her voice is evident, sending a pang through my chest.
“Okay, Mom, I love you. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Love you too, love.”
Once the line disconnects, I don’t give myself a reason to fret about the sudden dip in her energy levels. Not when the solution to so many of my worries sits in my inbox.
Please be something good, please be something good, please be something good.
My hopes crash and burn as I open the email to find that, in my drunken haze, I applied for an assistant job. Groaning, I drop my head into my hands and bite my lip once again to stop myself from screaming.
It’s one thing to be working for a corporation that has a dick for a manager, it’s another to feel like I’m being paid to be someone’s bitch. After my stint in college where I was a part-time assistant and the asshole made me feel like I was dirt beneath his feet, I would rather jab wooden skewers into my eyes than do it again.
With the salary, I would have to take a second job, work extremely long hours, and then how would I manage two schedules around my mom’s doctor appointments? She doesn’t have anyone else to take her and I can’t ask Layla’s parents for any more help, not when they’re fighting for their daughter’s health. It would be a paycheck, yes, but it wouldn’t — My thoughts come to a screeching halt. So suddenly, in fact, I swear I even hear tires squeal in my mind.
Now I know why either Layla or I applied for the position.
The salary mentioned is astronomical, so astronomical I have to triple- check not only the email but the original job listing.
This can’t be right. That much money is ludicrous for an assistant job.
There is generosity, and then there is insanity. It’s practically throwing money away. No one is that good at being an assistant.
Perhaps it’s someone famous?
That would be just my luck. Find an amazing job that pays incredible amounts of money but work for an egomaniac.
Scrolling through the email thread, I read the bottom where a woman named Lucy says she wants to set up a meeting this afternoon. Checking the clock, I note it’s only half past noon. I send off a quick response to say I’m available whenever it suits her.
I hurry over to the counter and order another cinnamon vanilla latte, thankful the barista with eyes and ears that see all my wrongdoings is off somewhere else.
My phone pings in my hand as I raise my credit card.
RE: APPLICATION
Can you be here in thirty minutes?
Lucy.
“Make that a cup to go, please.”
he first thing I see once I’m buzzed through the security gate is a long driveway, covered on either side by a line of beautiful, thick trees.T Rolling grass spreads out on either side with the parameter of the land bracketed by a tall stone fence.
Whoever owns the house is big on privacy, based off the immense security presence at the gate and the way I still can’t see the house—shrouded by the trees—from where I idle slowly along the driveway. Perhaps that’s why the assistant job pays so much. Maybe it’s to ensure I don’t go running around Colorado spilling this person’s secrets.
Or it’s a crazy serial killer who gets you to work for them for insane amounts of money to buy your silence and turn your cheek the other way when you hear screams from the basement.
My foot slams on the brake.
I’ve been watching far too many true crime documentaries.
Shaking myself out of the stupor my imagination sent me into, I continue forward, unable to hold back my sharp gasp of shock as I round a bend in the driveway and the house finally comes into view.
It’s exquisite.
A large two-story structure, painted white with gray trim work and tiling, sits among the land, the view of the mountains in the background.
God, I’d love to work here.
Serial killer or not, that view alone and the serenity and quiet the land offers send such a calmness through my veins something deep within me wants to stay here forever.
I park the car right as a tall, lanky blonde steps out of the house. I open my driver’s side door as she waves me over, a grin etched across her face.
She holds out her hand for me once I step onto the front porch.
“You must be Isabella. I’m Lucy.”
Her grip is firm as I clear the steps. “Nice to meet you, Lucy. You can
call me Bella.”
“Bella.” She smiles.
I have to slightly crane my neck to peer up at her. She must be at least six
foot and at my short five-foot-five frame, she towers over me. One of my close friends from high school swam competitively and they have the same build and carry themselves in the same manner. Perhaps she used to swim or played some other sport.
I’d like to say I’m a great judge of character—my intuition usually lets me know who to avoid—and I’m not getting any egomaniac or serial killer
vibes from Lucy.
Yet again, never underestimate a woman.
Spinning on her heel, she ushers me inside the house.
It takes everything in me not to stumble.
It’s as if the owner stole inspiration from my Pinterest board. People may call it basic or cliché but I’m in love with warm tones and the farmhouse style. And this house—with its tall ceilings, large open rooms, and stunning floor-to-ceiling windows—creates the most gorgeous home.
“Your home is beautiful,” I gush as she pulls two water bottles from the fridge.
“This isn’t my home.” She offers me a water bottle and as I clutch it, I must not hide my confusion very well. “I’m interviewing for my client,” she goes on to explain, ushering me onto one of the kitchen bar stools.
The marble counter is so shiny, I’m scared I’ll ruin it.
Even the kitchen looks like it was plucked from my Pinterest board.
“Who’s your client?” I ask, my eyes trailing over the deep navy paintwork and gold fixtures. Perhaps it is an egomaniac after all.
“I can’t disclose that.”
My head whips to Lucy, noting the no-nonsense attitude she’s suddenly slipped into. Without giving me a chance to respond she dives into the interview. Throwing questions out at me left and right, I can’t even take a sip from my water before she’s asking another. The friendly smile that greeted me is gone and who sits before me is a strong woman not wanting to deal
with anyone’s bullshit.
Including my own.
Once she wraps up, I have no idea how I’ve done. I don’t know if I’ve impressed her, answered questions to her liking, or if she’s even leaning toward a second interview.
The mask she’s slipped over her features is impenetrable. I’ve been staring at her gray eyes for forty-five minutes now and she’s not showed a flicker of emotion.
“One last thing.” She turns to me. “Why are you applying for this job?”
It’s the first question that stumps me.
If this was a tech or design job, I’d give a spiel about growth and goals and dreams, but she saw my resume. She knows what field I was in before, and it’s why she’s no doubt asking now.
“The tech world is oversaturated at the moment,” I start by saying, choosing to go with the truth despite my many lies to my mom today. I’m unsure just how much truth to share, though, so instead I go with, “I have a family member who’s ill and I will take anything that helps support their hospital bills.”
Her brow quirks, a slight flicker in that impenetrable armor of hers. “I’m sorry to hear.”
I dip my chin because I never know what to say. Thank you always feels odd rolling off my tongue when talking about my mother’s ovarian cancer.
Lucy pauses before asking, “If an opportunity arose for a job in your
previous field, would you take it?”
Now it’s my turn to pause.
She’s a smart woman and the question doesn’t surprise me. What does is that I also answer this question truthfully, all my interview training flying out the window as I say, “No.”
I hated my job and I hated the field. I only went into it because I thought it would offer job security. What I truly wish I could spend my time doing is drawing and painting.
“The salary for this position puts me in a position to comfortably take care of myself and my family member’s bills. I don’t need more than that or to put myself in a position to be left redundant by AI.”
The corner of her lip quirks. “I like your honesty. It’s refreshing.” Sliding off the chair, she rummages in the kitchen as she calls over her shoulder, “The job is yours if you want it.”
A surprised squeak escapes me before I can squash it. The sound makes her pause, tilting her head to check on my sanity before she pulls out folders of paperwork.
“The schedule, you’ll find, changes depending on my client’s work.”
Handing me a manilla envelope full of documents, she sips from her water before going on. “As long as all your duties have been completed, you’ll find a lot of flexibility to work with your family member’s needs.”
My heart soars with hope for the first time in months. I forgot what it
feels like to hear good news. To have something go right in a period of life where everything goes wrong. It’s like the first ray of sun against your skin after weeks of endless rain.
“The job requirement is standard for a personal assistant. Cleaning, errands, booking appointments when needed…”
“Cooking?” I wonder out loud.
“He has a personal chef.”
He.
Clearing my throat, I lift my head. “May I know who your client is now?
You’re not telling me because his name will scare me off, are you?”
She barks out a laugh, the mask slipping off her shoulders like a coat.
“There’s that honesty again. No, he’s a professional athlete who cherishes his private life. I’ll divulge his name once the non-disclosure agreement in your hands is signed and handed back to me.”
My brow quirks. “I take it you’re his manager?”
“Sports agent, but unfortunately with this one, he pays me enough I have also fallen into the role of manager.” She folds her arms as she watches me study the folder in my grip.
I presume my earlier assessment of her having previously been an athlete was true. You don’t get into sports unless you adore it.
“You don’t have anything against professional athletes, do you?” she
asks, eyeing me.
“No,” I half lie.
I don’t have anything against sports or athletes. At least, I didn’t until my mom got sick. My father is a huge fan of ice hockey and if I had to guess, I’d say that luck of mine just ran out.
“Can you at least say the sport he plays?” I ask.
Her lips purse, her chin dips, and finally, she sighs. “Ice hockey, but I
can’t say more than that.”
My luck most certainly ran out.
I have no doubt her client plays for the one and only Colorado IceHawks.
My father’s favorite team. It takes everything in me to tamp down on the anger that rises when I think of him.
Clearing my throat, I change the topic. “Do you mind if I take this home with me to look over?”
“Yes! Please do. The legal paperwork goes on for miles. I can give you emails and numbers if you want a lawyer to review it.”
“That’s all right, I know someone who can help me.” I offer her a warm smile as I pick up my purse. “Thank you, though.”
She places her phone, keys, and bottle in a large black purse. “Very well, then. I hope this means you’ll take the position.”
Following her lead, we stride down the hallway toward the front door.
Sliding my coat on, I get ready to step out into the cold afternoon air. “Yes.
As long as the contract doesn’t ask me to sign away my life, I’ll take the position.”
Her eyes spark. “Perfect, I have a good feeling about this. Please feel free to reach out to me if you have any questions. My number is on the top of the
paperwork.”
“No worries. Thank you, Lucy.”
As I back out and travel down the long winding driveway with the mountains and my dream house peering back at me through my rearview mirror, there is just one thing that fills my mind.
The large number printed in my contract that is now my salary.
