Chapter Twenty
Libby wondered how Pete fit in her life. She wanted to talk to him, let him know her excitement at getting the interview, tell him how eager she was to get back, but she knew that he wouldn’t share in the thrill of it. She wasn’t the girl anymore that he wanted to hear from. She’d spent the whole day at work, her mind alternating between thinking about Pete and how things had changed with her mom. With her mother, Libby felt she was in a good place; she felt like she could finally communicate with her. With Pete, things weren’t that clear.
With a deep breath, she checked one last time for her tickets, grasped the handle of her suitcase, and headed for the airport.
* * *
Riddick Wiesner was every bit Libby’s dream job. She’d have an actual office—no cubicle—a solid number of vacation days, and a better salary than the one she’d had at her last job. All she had to do was nail the interview. With her best Tom James power suit on and her highest heels clicking along the pavement, she crossed the busy Manhattan street toward the address on the screen of her phone. It was glorious to be back. The sun was shining, the morning was crisp. In the air she could hear the sound of traffic, honking taxis, and the movement of commerce, all of it filling her with an inexplicable excitement.
She entered through two glass doors—both taller than the oak trees back home—and made her way to the reception desk. A woman about her age sat at a sleek, fifties-inspired wood-grained desk, a brass plaque behind her with a list of the businesses in the building. Libby caught her eye and the woman smiled. “May I help you?” she asked pleasantly.
“Yes. I’m here for an interview at Riddick Wiesner.”
The woman reached over the desk to direct Libby to the elevators where she would get off at floor fourteen. She walked the blindingly shiny white floors to the elevator and hit the button just as her cell phone alerted her to a message. While waiting for the doors to open, she took a look at her phone. She was surprised to see a text from Wade. It read simply: Can we talk? Why did she have to get a message like that just before going in? Now her mind was wandering to all the reasons Wade could want to talk instead of focusing on her interview. Wade would not distract her. She was there for one purpose and one purpose only: to get that job. Nothing was going to get in the way of that.
The elevator doors swished open and she stepped aside to allow a few people to exit. When she got on and the doors had closed, she quickly texted a response: Can’t talk now. About five mins out from interview with RW. Then she turned the sound off on her phone and put it in her handbag. She wasn’t even going to look at the response if there was one. She didn’t want to know if he was checking on the sale of the cottage or if he was wishing her luck on the interview or anything else.
He’d left her at her lowest moment, dumped her—just like that. As she thought about it, she wasn’t sad anymore. She was angry. How dare he be that insensitive after all the time they’d spent together? She deserved more than the sad excuse for a break-up he’d offered. She shook the thought from her mind, trying to clear her head for the interview. He was not getting in the way of her success on that interview. She was giving it all she had.
When she arrived at floor fourteen, she stepped off the elevator into the hallway, still trying to clear her mind. She needed to be there, in the present, not thinking about anything else. Time to get to work on real life. She could sort out her muddled love life later.
After a quick call to Steven Wiesner, Libby was ushered into the Riddick Wiesner conference room where she met her potential new boss. He was tall and thin with a tailored, navy suit, a heavily starched blue pinstriped shirt peeking out from under his jacket, and a blood-red tie, but his face was friendly, his eyes warm. “Hello.” He held out his hand.
“Hi. Libby Potter.” She offered a firm handshake.
“Have a seat.” He pulled out a chair, the castors rolling toward her. She sat down across from him, the gleaming table empty except for a leather-bound legal pad and a pen on his side. “Thank you for coming today,” he said as he looked down at his notes.
He began to ask her all the right questions and she was firing answers back with ease and skill. There was no better feeling. Her mind went back to that tire swing, soaring toward the water, knowing the thrill of her fate. This was it. Like that perfect, splash-free dive, she was gliding along, completely free. The entire interview felt right, like she was meant to be there, and she could tell by his responses to her that he was impressed—the raised eyebrows, the eye contact, the smiles at just the right moment.