Page 30 of Not a Friend (Crescent Light #1)

Three Years Ago, May

Do you think I can run far enough that everyone will forgive forget me?

T he final semester of grad school was spent focusing on what really mattered: studying, graduating, and lining up a job. The sooner I could start the next chapter of my life, the better.

I set my sights on Boston. If I was going to turn the page on my life, I needed to do it in a place I loved—a place that felt right. As the weeks went on, I picked up the pace on the job hunt, sending applications far and wide to every newspaper, magazine, and publishing house I could find.

Most of the promising job openings were way out of my league and required knock-out resumes in addition to a minimum of ten years of experience, approximately one thousand references, and a bulletproof portfolio to even stand a chance at getting an interview.

I kept myself realistic at first and applied to less-than-exciting opportunities I knew I was qualified for just to get my foot in the door. Anything that could get me to Boston and make sure my bills got paid was good enough for the time being .

The most far-fetched and ideal listings, the roles that made my eyes light up and filled my daydreams, lived in bookmarks on my laptop. Untouched. They were a reminder of what the long-term goal was. Of what I wanted to be, even if I wasn’t there yet.

If nothing else, they were there for me to torture myself with.

Tired of scrolling through the same listing of open positions for the hundredth time, I opened my bookmarked list with a sigh.

LightFoot Publishing House, Alto magazine, and The Mountain .

All of whom had made a name for themselves not only in the publishing and journalism sphere, but all over the world.

Each of them was highly competitive and could open opportunities for a lifetime to anyone who was lucky enough to work with them.

They were a faraway, unattainable dream.

Applying and applying and applying some more had landed me in a vicious cycle of hope and bitterness when weeks passed with few callbacks.

Not to mention, the callbacks I did get weren’t from anywhere I was excited about.

When I clicked Submit on my twentieth application, self-doubt reared its ugly head.

“What’s the harm in applying for the heavy hitters?” Gemma asked as she mixed a bowl of brownie batter.

“Other than the fact that there’s no way I’ll be selected?” I deadpanned, lowering my record player’s turntable needle carefully on the middle of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours Deluxe album. The beginning notes of “Gold Dust Woman” filled the apartment.

“The worst that can happen is what, exactly? You never hear anything back from them?”

My eyes settled on the wall in front of me. Yes.

She continued without my answer. “So, hypothetically, you apply. A month goes by; you don’t hear a word. Guess what? You’ll still get a job somewhere, and life will go on.” She held the chocolate-covered spoon out to me. Existential crises call for brownie batter.

I took the spoon, saying nothing, but meeting her eyes all the same. She was right. I knew she was. What good was scraping the bottom of the barrel if I had nothing to lose by shooting for the stars?

“Apply for the damn jobs, Olive.”

“I hate it when you’re right.”

“I sure hope I nail every single one of these interviews because I just signed a lease on an apartment in the city,” I told Gemma weeks later during one of our last girls’ nights before graduation. Lounging on the couch, I cradled a bag of salt and vinegar chips.

“That’s ballsy,” she said, hunching to apply ballerina-slipper-pink polish to her toes. “How many interviews do you have lined up?” She’d come from another interview earlier that afternoon. It only took two hours for them to call her to set up a second one.

I sighed. “Three.”

The knot in my stomach twisted at the thought of committing to a year-long lease in the city with no actual income secured.

My latest job rejection shook me to my core because it should have been a hole-in-one.

If I couldn’t get an entry-level assistant position, what hope did I have for something better?

“I know it’s risky, but the apartment complex wouldn’t wait until closer to graduation for me to sign. Plus, it was the only complex with units bigger than an actual shoebox. Or that has a heater. And no roaches of note. ”

“Who needs heaters in Boston anyway?” she snarked as she carefully rose, closing the cap on the polish. “And none of that matters because you are definitely getting one of those jobs. There’s no way you won’t.”

I rolled my eyes and turned my attention to The Bachelorette , our chosen trash entertainment for the evening.

I’d always loved Gemma’s optimism, but sometimes it struck a nerve.

Some of us weren’t as effortlessly good at everything as she was.

Besides, she had her budding social media popularity to fall back on if the job hunt went belly-up, paid sponsorships and all.

Not to mention perfect grades, a perfect body, and the perfect boyfriend, but who’s counting?

My bitterness at my circumstance wasn’t her fault, and I knew I was being an asshole by letting her genuine positivity get under my skin. It was an odd feeling, realizing how much of a monster you could become when you weren’t in the best mental place, even to those you loved.

Despite telling myself I was fine with how things ended with Nate, I wasn’t. I really, really wasn’t. It wasn’t just the heartbreak. It wasn’t just the blindside. It wasn’t even the jealousy that nagged at me.

It was the utter lack of clarity. It ate at me, whispering in the back of my mind. What was worse were the questions left unanswered because there was no point in seeking them. The resolution I would never get because there was nothing to resolve.

Nate never reached out to me after I left him on the sidewalk, and neither did I. What was there to say? I tried shutting my feelings down by simply not letting myself think about them, but they weighed heavily on my chest regardless of whether I consciously thought them or not.

I scooted closer and leaned against Gemma’s shoulder.

“Well”—I popped a chip into my mouth— “there is a way I won’t get one. But we’re not going to think about that.”

“Right!” She snapped her fingers. “Positive thoughts. We’re manifesting.”

“We are manifesting,” I repeated.

She closed her eyes in mock-prayer, as if willing my big city job into existence by whispering, “Boston, Boston, Boston,” in hushed, serious tones.

Me

I take back everything I’ve ever said about manifesting.

I hit send on the message to Gemma, a wide grin splitting my freckled face as I replayed the phone call in my head again.

Against all my wildest expectations, and with no time at all to spare with graduation two days away, I got a phone call from the number one company I was hoping to hear from after interviewing. One of the big opportunities.

The Mountain was a multi-media production conglomerate that was most widely known for its magazines, which had been in print since the 1980s, and its online blog.

I’d consumed their content for years, from thumbing through magazines in airports to following their social media profiles and tracking their takes on my favorite new artists.

Their content centered around popular interests in cuisine and lifestyle, but their biggest claim to fame was music.

The Mountain offered everything from deep-dive historical analyses on long-forgotten artists, to interviews with classic rockers, to album reviews for the latest pop stars, all in one place .

I was shocked when they set up a second interview—I was a nervous wreck for the first and fumbled through the whole thing.

For the third interview, they invited me to their office in Boston, right where all the magic happened.

I barely kept my jaw off the floor long enough to answer their questions, but somehow, I did it.

A copy editor position wasn’t too shabby when it was at one of the biggest names in the journalistic and music worlds.

Graduation day passed in a blur of smiles and photos and hugs, but all I focused on was packing up and starting anew at The Mountain . There were connections to make, dreams to chase, ladders to climb, and I planned to make the most of it.

The sense of relief as I gave Gemma my copy of our apartment key was enough to tell me I was better off moving on from Hartwood—and from Nate. Distance was good. Time was better. With enough of both, maybe I could get him out of my system.

I had a few days to settle into my new place in Boston before my first day at The Mountain . Gemma, Grant, and Martinez left quickly after helping me move, but I distracted myself by scrubbing everything in the apartment from top to bottom and hyper-focusing on unpacking as quickly as possible.

The music I kept blaring through my headphones as I unpacked drowned out my thoughts well enough, but didn’t stave off the anxiety over my new normal. Each night, I stayed awake entirely too late, tossing and turning, dreading my first day as much as I looked forward to it.

When morning arrived, I wore the most business-professional-while-still-being-trendy outfit I owned and willed my stubborn waves into frizzy submission, ignoring the cartwheels in my stomach .

The other new hires and I were greeted by security in the foyer of The Mountain headquarters—a man built like a redwood tree who looked like he had about a million more important things to do than babysit the newbies.

“He looks thrilled,” a heavily-freckled girl giggled beside me. She shot me a look out of the corner of her eye, making me roll my lips to stifle a laugh.

“Poor guy got stuck with us today,” I whispered back.

“What department are you in?” she asked. Her thick auburn hair sat braided around her head like a crown.

“Online Dailies. Copy editor.”

“Really?” Her green eyes widened. “Thank god. I am, too. I think it’s me, you, and that guy over there.

” She pointed to the lanky, nervous-looking guy at the front of the line to get a photo for his new badge.

He towered over everyone, but his thin frame made me think he would fall over if there was a strong enough wind.

“His name is Ha-Joon, I met him earlier. I’m Wren, by the way.” She extended her hand to me, shiny gold rings adorning every finger, complimenting her freckled skin.

“Olive.”

We filed one by one through the line, getting photos taken and waiting on our shiny new badges.

A surreal, giddy feeling washed over me when I held my badge in my hands for the first time.

I stared down at my smiling face on the shiny plastic—it was a great picture, thankfully—and all I could think was, I am so proud of her.

It stole the breath from my lungs. I did it. Boston, my apartment, The-freaking-Mountain. And I made a friend in the first hour of walking through the door.

Everything was new and shiny and clean, and the novelty felt easier to embrace than the old. For the first time, I stepped confidently into a fresh version of myself and fully embraced her.

The group of new hires—ten total, spread throughout three different departments—were all ushered into a boardroom to meet our managers.

Wren, Ha-Joon, and I were to report directly to Julienne, an impeccably-dressed Black woman whose presence filled the room.

The coils of her hair danced over the shoulders of her deep maroon blazer as she shook each of our hands.

I could tell within seconds I liked her, but that she was also the type to be selective about who she liked in return.

And boy, did I want her to like me back.

“You three better get comfortable with each other,” she told us at the end of the meeting, her husky voice making her all the more compelling. “You’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”