11. Aurora: The Job Interview

Chapter eleven

Aurora – The Job Interview

I run as fast as my legs will carry me, my chest heaving hard and my heart slamming fearfully against my ribcage, begging for escape from the fear coursing through me. Shrinking it into an extremely painful, small size. I can’t tell exactly where I am, but my surroundings seem familiar. Suddenly, I find myself chasing down my coffee shop. It stands in one spot, but the harder I run, the farther away it seems to be.

I pump my legs extra hard, running to catch up with it. Then comes my pastry shop and bar, each getting farther away the harder I try to run. My mom whizzes by me, laughing. I try to grab her, but my fingers grasp nothingness. And then I am transported to the living room of the house where we all used to live, begging her not to go, tears running down my face in painful rivulets. And then I am back on the familiar but unknown road again, chasing my shops, and now my mom .

“Ror, be a good girl,” she says, in a very strange voice, which echoes through the strange street, her laughter ringing out as clear as a bell.

Then suddenly comes Alex, his pretty sky-blue eyes icy cold. He glares at me icily, shouting the words, “It’s over,” repeatedly at me. All I can do is run and run, breathing hard, legs burning. Alex’s voice keeps ringing shrilly, piercing through my mind .

I gasp awake, my alarm clock ringing annoyingly, and I slam the off button. I am drenched in sweat, despite having the air conditioner on. My silk nightie sticks to my body, and my hair is plastered over my face. It was all a nightmare. A familiar nightmare, but a different plot and different settings. But it’s the same content, the same message being passed.

I used to have these nightmares, but they stopped like a year ago. The first time I had a nightmare related to that, I’d just opened my bar, and some months later, I had opened my pastry shop. I named it Sweet Harmony Bakery and was already thinking about opening the coffee shop since the next-door space was available.

Britt had called my dad about the situation that I had tried my best to keep from him. He had rushed down to Birchwood, feeling guilty and extremely sad. He had blamed himself for leaving me all alone after his divorce from mom. That wasn’t true. I had suggested he leave for the city when the opportunity came to be transferred there. He hadn’t needed much persuasion though. He up and left.

I couldn’t be selfish. I know I am the spitting image of my mom—everyone says so—and I could see the pain occasionally when he looked at me. Before she left, I was called ‘Dora’s twin.’ The townspeople had stopped calling me that after she left. At least in my presence anyway. I can still see some pitying gazes directed at me when they think I’m not looking, but that stopped bothering me a very long time ago.

Dad, Ryan, and Britt were able to convince me to go to therapy. That worked, at least for the time, and the nightmares had ended. I stopped having the urge to open more shops, but I couldn’t close them all, either. They are my sweat and hard work, and I see no point in closing down any of them. The nightmare must have been triggered by Alex’s text. Britt is right, I still need to heal.

Ryan had popped up in the pastry shop yesterday to say hello and again apologize for Jake’s behavior. And he asked if I’d be going for the interview at the new construction company. Getting suspicious, I had narrowed my eyes at him.

Raising both palms in surrender, he’d sworn Britt had run the idea through him before she came by on Saturday. This pep talk over a plate of doughnuts had motivated me to go for the interview, even though he’d looked at me weirdly, as if there’s a joke lost on me. Ignoring the tingling in my spine, I agreed to go for the interview and see what happens.

Looking at the time . . . yikes! It’s 7:15 and the interview is at 9:00. I still have time to get ready and prepare myself mentally. Taking a deep breath, I get up, stretch, and catch sight of myself in the mirror. My eyes look tired, and I have dark bags under my lower lids, contrasting darkly against my pale face. My hair sticks out wildly, and some is still plastered on my face.

I’d totally pass an audition for the role of a zombie right now .

Shaking my head, I walk downstairs to give Mr. Snow his breakfast. He is sleeping peacefully on his cat bed. Not wanting to disturb him, I tiptoe slowly towards where his bowls are situated to avoid waking him. One of us, at least, has to have a good night’s rest. Filling his bowls with cat food and milk, respectively, I place them down gently, turning to get back upstairs, only to see him already looking at me, eyes narrowed.

“I’m sorry I woke Your Highness—wouldn’t want you starving while I’m gone now, would I?” I say sarcastically, grinning widely.

He purrs and raises his head giving me his full-on haughtiness before going to his milk bowl, lapping it up noisily.

“Okay, good morning to you too,” I say, laughing.

Walking into my closet, I select a professional, knee-length, gray skirt, pairing it with a white, button-down shirt with a collar. I want to look as professional as possible. Laying the outfits on the bed, I opt to pair it with a black belt, the buckle designed in the shape of a star.

A pair of closed-toe heeled sandals and a sleek handbag exudes confidence and sophistication—at least in my humble opinion. The handbag is made of high-quality leather with no excessive or loud patterns. It’s probably the most expensive gift I’ve ever gotten myself. I choose a delicate necklace with a tiny star as the design and decide to leave off the earrings.

Peeling off my nightie, I wrap myself in a fluffy pink towel and pad to the bathroom. After a quick shower, with my hair wrapped in a towel, I treat myself to some of my favorite body lotion. Wouldn’t want my skin feeling dry or wrinkling like an old lady. After a quick breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs, I see it’s 8:15 a.m. so I’d better hurry.

Running my hairbrush through my now-damp hair, I gather it into a low ponytail at the nape of my neck and wrap it around to create a neat bun. I dress as quickly and neatly as I can, since I don’t want to appear for the interview looking rough, or be late, either.

Slipping on a black leather watch, I pick up my bag and double-check to be sure that the credentials I had put there the night before are intact. Satisfied, I rub on some lip balm and apply a stroke of mascara. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself.

The nerves are beginning to kick in, and a sweaty mess with a white shirt does not pair well. Spritzing on a little bit of my favorite citrus perfume, I grab my phone from the charger, along with my car keys.

When I start the car, a country song comes on. Totally wanting some quiet time to myself, I switch off the radio, roll down the windows, and inhale the crisp, fresh air.

The construction company is on the bustling side of town, a few miles from my shops and house. This part of town is filled with larger companies and peppered with restaurants, a mall, car washes, and other likely shops you’d find in a developing town.

As I drive through, I can feel the change in the atmosphere, the ambiance is bustling and energetic. The streets are filled with cars and people rushing to their destinations. I can hear the sounds of honking horns, the revving of engines, and the chatter of pedestrians. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air, mingling with the aroma of breakfast from nearby eateries. At least that is familiar to me.

When I glance at the dashboard, I see 8:45 a.m. Yikes! I have never been a good manager of time. It seems to happen every time, except when I’m going to work. No matter how early I wake up for any occasion, I end up getting there late. It’s a bad habit that I really need to get rid of.

Turning towards the next street, I thankfully spot the construction company. It’s located in a vibrant and even more bustling area and situated near a major transportation hub, making it easily accessible for employees and visitors alike. Hmmm, s omeone is really ambitious .

The environs are filled with other businesses, shops, and restaurants, creating a lively atmosphere. A stark contrast from where I live and where my shops are located. Birchwood is fast developing from what you’d call a small town. At least this part is. I don’t know why, but I feel a pang of nostalgia at the thought.

Pulling into a spacious parking lot for employees and probably visitors, I realize the company is much bigger than I’d imagined or spotted from a distance. It has a modern and professional exterior with ‘PRECISION CONSTRUCT’ displayed prominently in glittering, gold letters. There is also well-maintained landscaping that adds a touch of greenery.

Wow! I think. This company is obviously a big deal. It’s no wonder Jake feels he could insult my businesses, telling me the construction company is a better contribution to society. Obviously, he feels a sense of pride working here, but I hope we never run into each other. The thought of that happening makes my gut ache.

Walking in, I see that the inside is even more beautiful and spacious, with a very welcoming reception area. The walls are adorned with photographs of completed projects, showcasing the company’s expertise. There is a small waiting area with plush chairs and a glass center table.

Obviously, this isn’t a startup company, it’s a branch. I swallow. If a branch is this big and beautiful, how about the head office? I swallow again, an imaginary lump sticking to my throat. Feeling self-conscious, I try to calm myself mentally.

How did Britt manage to know the CEO of this company again? She’s definitely got some long legs. I can only hope the CEO is a nice guy, or gal, maybe. Because who knows—I might actually get the job, and I won’t want to be stuck with a miserable or mean boss.

I walk towards the reception area, where I see a deep black marble countertop with beautiful gold lining in the middle. There is a computer, phone, and other necessary tools. Behind the desk is the logo of the company, a cursive ‘P,’ artfully written inside of a ‘C,’ in a different, but equally artful font.

“Good morning,” I greet the receptionist, who looks up with a warm smile.

I can’t help but notice how beautiful she looks. Her blond hair is neatly kept in a tight ponytail, she has on a black jumpsuit and a white-colored blazer and compliments her outfit with a simple silver necklace and stud earrings. Her gold-plated nametag reads, ‘Sheryl. ’

“Good morning, ma’am, how may I be of help to you this fine morning?” Whoa! Great customer service.

“I’m here for the interview please,” I answer as calmly as I can, but my fingers are beating a staccato rhythm on my thigh, and I try my best to calm my raging heart.

I’m surprised she can’t hear the loud beating of my heart.

“Welcome to Precision Construct—” She pauses, hinting for me to provide my name.

“Aurora. Aurora Blaze.” I give my name, posing my right hand for a handshake, praying it’s not a sweaty mess.

“You’re welcome, Aurora. I’m Sheryl. The interview is on the top floor, as the CEO will be conducting the interview himself. Go on in and take the elevator. You’ll find a waiting area on the fourth floor, where you’ll see others who are here for the interview, so take a seat with them. Good luck!”

She finishes and I thank her gently, the sound of blood rushing and pumping in my ears too loud. I step into a sleek, modern elevator—very spacious, comfortable, and well-lit. The doors are about closed when a hand shoots in between, stopping them. I sigh inwardly, hoping for some alone time in the elevator to prepare myself mentally.

Looking up, I feel my jaw just about hit the elevator’s polished floor. It’s the last person I’d ever want to see right now. Guess I’m not that lucky. Great! I’m nervous for my interview, and now I have to encounter this jerk. I arrange my features into an air of indifference, looking away.

Jake’s eyes widen in surprise as he appraises me head-to-toe with narrowed eyes, and I feel my blood pump hotly. What? I’m not good enough to work in the fancy company where he works? I feel my hands shaking, not from nervousness this time, but from the anger rapidly spreading through my being. He steps into the elevator and clears his throat.

“What are you doing here?” he asks curiously, in a tone I can’t decipher.

I take a deep breath and look straight ahead, almost refusing to inhale the air because his nice masculine fragrance is beginning to spread through the elevator. I keep mute and look straight ahead.

“Cat got your tongue, Princess? What are you doing here? Are you here to serve coffee or pastries? You might want to turn back because it’s not lunchtime yet.”

He opens his big mouth again, and this time, he sounds angry. I grit my teeth, still refusing to give in to his childish antics. I don’t want to be called in for my interview, heaving and puffing like a crazy, raging bull. Willing the elevator to move faster, I start counting numbers backward from twenty-five to one. This may be a four-story building, but it seems like it's taking forever. Counting usually keeps my mind occupied and seems to be working. Well, it was, until Jerk face felt the need to open his obnoxious mouth again.

“Hmm . . . you’re obviously not here to deliver coffees and cakes. What are you doing here then? Here to serve drinks with your beautiful face, Princess?” he says, condescendingly.

That’s when I try my hardest to not leave my fingerprints on his cheek. I was raised better than that. I’ve never felt so humiliated and disrespected in my entire life. With tears of extreme anger stinging my eyes, I whirl to face him .

Disgust and intense anger for him color my features, I’m sure. His eyes widen and he looks almost . . . sorry? But the emotion is instantly gone and I find myself lashing out poisonously.

“Listen here, City Boy. You’re not the only person allowed to work in a company! What, exactly, is your problem? You may work here, but who and what has given you the right to judge anyone, for goodness’ sake?

Ryan did introduce him as a worker, right? “You just work here, Jake! And your boss would be so disappointed in you, maybe more than disappointed, knowing how disrespectful you are being. Besides, I’m definitely allowed to be here for an interview to get a job, and the next time you see me, keep your mouth shut! Or I’ll ensure your next words will be said through swollen cheeks.

And stop calling me ‘princess!’” I yell, ending my tirade with a finger pointed at his face.

His eyes have a strange light in them, and he smirks at me. Shaking his head, he steps out of the elevator that I hadn’t realized had stopped. I don’t know which got me angrier, his silence at my outburst, or the fact that I’d let him get to me.

Ugh! What a jerk!