Resentment(39)

"I personally like the second option." He clasps his hands in front of him. "It seems more direct and official. Don't you think?"

"Absolutely," she says, holding the door wide open. "Hopefully, she'll get the point before our lunch hour is over and we can spend the rest of our day dealing with people who actually belong here..."

“Yes, you’re right.” I return my resume to my folder. “I would totally feel out of place with a woman who clearly enjoys being a bitch and a man who’s too much of a sloth to think for himself.”

“Excuse me?” she says, her jaw dropped.

“And I’m sorry my clothes aren’t from Chanel or Kate Spade, but...” I take a step forward and boldly tug at the sleeve of her jacket. “I also own this exact jacket you’re wearing. Got it from Target on a Black Friday sale.” I give them “Fuck you both” smiles before stepping outside, their stunned expressions still radiating on my trail as the door slams shut right behind me.

I don't bother looking over my shoulder at them. I don't let myself feel bad for one second either.

I keep walking and find the next gallery. Keep getting the same results.

Either all of the art galleries in this city are run by people with huge sticks up their asses and a vendetta against non-designer clothes, or I’m going to need to pursue my passion elsewhere.

As I approach the last gallery on my list—The Hamilton Array, I debate whether I should go inside or not. Unlike all the other galleries, there is indeed a "Now Hiring" easel standing outside of the building’s windowed entry. The people wandering about the room with cue cards are dressed in jeans and smocks, and the floor appears to be wood instead of marble or granite.

This is the last one...The last one...

I suck in a deep breath and push the doors open.

"Welcome to the Hamilton Array, how may I help you?" An older woman with curly gray hair steps in front of me.

"Hi, I'm—" I pause. I'm beyond done with my nice-girl spiel. Sixteen rejections are more than enough. "My name is Mia Gray, and I'm looking for a job. Since there's a sign right out front that says you're hiring, and I meet all of the bullet points on your list—in addition to being good, damn good, really fucking damn good at art, I think that’s good enough for a simple conversation at least. I’m not even asking for an interview.”

She tilts her head to the side, looking confused.

"I learn fast," I say, continuing, "I've never been late to anything a day in my life. I'm willing to work weekends, nights, holidays if need be, and contrary to the fact that I just cursed way more than I normally do, I don't curse at work and I'm really good with kids." I let out a breath. "I really am sorry about the cursing, but...I really need a job."

Her lips curve in a small smile and she gestures to a group of wooden chairs on the far right wall. "Have a seat, Miss Gray. I'll get my co-owner after his phone call and you can tell him everything you just said to me."

"So he can laugh at me and mock my words, or so he can actually consider me for the job?"

She laughs. "Both."

***

Later that day, after a three hour first interview at that last gallery, I’m cursing myself for not taking the bus. I’ve probably walked a total of eight miles today, and I’m not the most in-shape person in the world.

I finally return home around nine o’clock and my brain is exhausted, my feet are sore, I’m in dire need of a hot shower and a long nap.

When I open the door, I immediately freeze, almost having forgotten for a split second who the hell my roommate is. Dean is stretched out on the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, with a girl, a completely different girl from the fight party, curled up beside him.

She’s dressed in a simple T-shirt and shorts, and her curly red hair is pulled up into a high bun that perfectly frames her face. I try to pick a flaw, any flaw, but because I am an artist, I can recognize true beauty in anything or anyone when I see it.

Ugh...

Dean looks over his shoulder at me and our eyes meet for the first time in weeks, but neither of us speak.

The girl looks at me and quickly turns back around. “Who is that?” she whispers as I step into the kitchen.

“No one” is Dean’s short reply.

“Be serious.” Beauty queen laughs, nudging him.

“She’s my roommate’s sister.” He relents. “Ignore her.”

“Okay, cool.” She laughs. “Will do.”

I set my stuff down on the counter and open the refrigerator, searching for the leftovers from the lunch I made yesterday. I push Eric’s protein shakes and health food crap to the side, but I can’t find the food I cooked. And I hid it in my usual, perfect place.