Page 8 of Under Locke & Key

I make it approximately seven hours before I start freaking out. I’ve been offered an interview, in a town I don’t live in, for a job I’ve never done before.

Breathe. Just breathe .

My parents loom at the back of my mind, along with every sacrifice they’ve made.

All their time, all the money they had and didn’t have that they’re still trying to help me pay loans on.

Even though they’ve never outright said it, the expectation was that I would use my degree for its intended purpose in the most lucrative way I could.

When you grow up without the safety of a backup plan or trust fund, there’s only one option: to succeed.

They want me to be happy—on the surface I know that—but they also want me to reach my potential and those feel like very different things.

They want me to be the version of myself they’ve always envisioned, the Rachel they hoped for when picturing a child and helping that child grow into success.

How do I go about this without feeling like I’m taking a step back, in pay and in prestige?

Would they even understand my desire to?

ángel doesn’t get it, and he’s said as much.

The pressure to perform just doesn’t factor into his life.

Rachel Mackey, as my parents and the world know me, isn’t a risk taker.

Employed at Lakin-Cole since before graduation, living in the same apartment for years—I’ve built a life on being consistent and all it’s gotten me is exhaustion and misery.

ángel doesn’t have the firsthand experience of being done dirty by Lakin-Cole but there is someone else who might get it. At least partially.

I shoot the text off before I can second-guess myself.

Hey, Sebastian. It’s Rachel. I was wondering if you had some time to discuss something work related. I wanted to pick your brain on some options outside of Lakin-Cole.

I don’t have to wait very long for a reply.

Sebastian

Finally realizing you’re better than they deserve?

A laugh bursts out between my lips and it’s a relief, knowing there might be another path for me.

I’m not committing to anything. Monday is another workday and I’ll be there again, same as always if I don’t take that chance in Dulaney.

But having a contingency for when I lose my patience is a good plan.

Keith got Program Manager.

Nothing else needs to be said. I know he’ll understand.

If you’re not busy tonight, you’re welcome to come join me and Farren for pizza and you can vent all you need. You know I get it.

Sounds great. Just send me the details.

* * *

Their place in Alexandria is disgustingly cute, a white townhouse with cute black shutters and a flower bed that will soon be bursting with blooms once the heat catches up.

Knocking three times, I wait. My clammy hands are wrapped around the neck of the wine bottle and I hope I’ve made the right choice in what to bring.

It’s not a housewarming, it’s a “thank you for indulging an old colleague and helping her get the courage to escape a soul-sucking environment” kind of gift.

Farren answers within a few seconds, her smile welcoming and warm. She has curves that won’t quit and when the light hits her curls they glow golden. I feel overdressed in my dark jeans and blouse compared to her leggings and “You Either Catan or Catan’t” shirt and fluffy socks.

“Rachel? Hi. Please, come in.” Farren steps aside for me to enter and I try not to wonder just how they found this place in this market.

Following her lead into the kitchen, she takes the bottle of wine and pops it into the door of the fridge to chill. “This is so sweet of you. Thank you! Sebastian is just out picking up the pizzas but he’ll be home any second.”

Part of me pipes up that I should be uneasy about meeting Farren without Sebastian as a buffer. We are technically strangers, after all, but something about her calm warmth dismisses the thought before I can dwell on it.

The wood floors are pocked and scarred with age but gleam as if they’ve been polished.

The interior is a mixture of cool neutrals with hints of color that brighten up the space and make it feel homey.

Fairy lights strung up and wrapped around the curtain rods give the space a gentle glow that an overhead light would’ve killed.

The cocoon effect is continued in the warm white of lamps next to the sofa, light blue and teal throw pillows on the seats, and a chunky-knit cream blanket folded over one of the arms.

Farren settles down on the plush sectional with one leg folded underneath her and I join, my nerves melting away under the comfort of the huge sofa. I mirror her position, my leg tucked under the other, holding the throw pillow I displaced in my lap.

“Comfy, right?” She smiles as if she’s had this conversation before.

“Super comfy. You’ve got a beautiful home.”

“Thank you. We lucked out. Sebastian had a big chunk saved up so we were able to put in a down payment. Most aren’t that fortunate. It helped that it was a private sale too.”

I think of my parents who made sure I had the best even though it put us all in an uncomfortable position.

Even with the scholarship to Georgetown, we’re still paying off the loans to cover the rest—the interest rate killing us.

The payment deducts every month, half from me, half from them.

Even with my salary at Lakin-Cole it’s slower going than I’d like.

D.C. is not a cheap city to live in and I’m the kind of person who prefers to enjoy the money I’ve earned.

Bills first, of course, but Friday night drinks and a show at the Kennedy Center now and then—every little luxury adds up.

“So, you’re considering getting out?” Farren asks after my internal rambling stretches too long, saving me from formulating a response.

“Mm, I think it’s time. Keith got the promotion I’ve been working toward.”

Farren rolls her eyes, “Ugh, fucking Keith. He’s the ass that took up ballroom lessons, yeah?

As soon as that wine is chilled we’re going to enjoy a couple glasses and get your mind off it.

Sebastian might not be as forthcoming about his circumstance before he left but I’ll tell you, Lakin-Cole did a number on him.

Time away from the company, setting his own hours and picking projects he actually enjoys has made such a huge difference already. He’s so much more relaxed.”

Farren’s expression flits from anger, to concern, to nauseatingly in love as she talks about the situation and Sebastian, and I get it. I can see exactly why Sebastian is all tied up in knots about her.

She’s open. What you see is what you get. And despite myself and my tendency to hide behind my careful facade, something about her feels safe enough for me to be wholly honest.

“I’ve given them everything. Years. All I got for it was them being vague about why they didn’t give me the job and then Keith hit on me at the bar when we were out celebrating afterwards.” Picking at the texture of the pillow in my lap, the statement is more choked than I expect it to be.

Farren pats my hand and stands.

“This is an emergency and I hope you don’t crucify me for it but that wine can’t wait. I’m throwing in an ice cube or two. You sit right here. Give me two minutes.”

I choke out a laugh and nod. ángel would cuss me out if I did that, but he’s not here to see and I’d take the fuzz of a little bit of wine over decorum right now.

Glasses clink against the countertop and I hear the soft pop of the bottle being opened. The front door whooshes open and shut, the clang of keys tinkling against each other sounds as Sebastian tosses them into a bowl of some kind.

“I’m here!” he semi-shouts.

“Kitchen!” Farren responds and I’m super aware of his socked feet padding toward her.

Staring over my shoulder, I watch as he puts the pizza boxes down on the island and gathers her up into an embrace. His chest to her back as she pours, he smooches the side of her neck and she giggles, pushing him off of her.

“Your guest is here.”

I’ve never felt like more of an observer than right in this moment. Some of Sebastian’s ease drains away and he turns to give me a smile—genuine but guarded. He looks different. It takes a moment for me to put my finger on it but it’s clear.

“Hi, Rachel.”

“Hi.” I give an awkward little wave from the couch.

The dark circles and deep brackets beside his frown are gone. His shoulders aren’t bowed like they were before, the world on them and weighing him down. The last time I took him to coffee and gave him a pep talk, urging him to quit, he looked like a man on the brink of something dire.

This man looks healthy, happy, and smitten when he glances back at Farren.

“Sorry.” Whether he’s apologizing to her or me is unclear but he does have the grace to look sheepish at his display.

Farren walks over with our glasses, holding one out to me and we tap them together in cheers as she sits down onto her perch again.

“Babe, bring the box and some plates. We’ll eat over here.”

I’m back to being thirteen, at a friend's house and totally alarmed at the fact that they get to put their feet up on the sofa and eat in the living room. Even though I’ve lived on my own for years, and eat wherever there’s a free surface in my apartment, something about being a guest here reverts me back to some long-dormant state where my parents’ rules sit on me like the coat they insisted I wear out lest I catch my death at the lightest breeze.

We bite into bubbly mozzarella and crusts flecked with the kiss of high heat and flame. In between sips of wine, Farren bridges the gap between the Sebastian I knew and the one he’s been able to grow beyond.

“How did you do it? I mean, I know I pushed you to quit, but the aftermath . . .”

“I won’t lie and say it was easy; it’s taken me a couple months to build up a clientele. Word of mouth goes a long way in the freelance space—not that you have to go that direction—but that was my experience.” Sebastian shrugs.