Page 104 of Wicked Pickle

I twist my hair into a tidy knot and shove a fake pearl pin in it. I keep my makeup light and lips glossy.

I’m done.

But the face looking back at me looks tired and sad. I force a smile. “Come on, Symphony,” I tell the reflection. “Look alive!”

But whatever is happening to Diesel weighs on me. I know my Spanx predicament and subsequent date to the wedding weren’t the crux of it. Bailey could have outed the bar’s location without any of that happening.

But itwasthe beginning of the end of their evasion of the Pickle family.

Rather than trying to park in the middle of the Government Center, which is notoriously impossible, I make the dubious choice of taking a city bus.

I hang on to a pole, trying to prevent my bag from banging into my neighbors, hoping I make all the right choices today.

But when another round of passengers pushes the capacity to the limit, I can’t take it. I squeeze my way out and call for a ride. I made it most of the way, so it won’t be too terribly expensive. And hopefully, this jaunt is leading to a paycheck that will make everything easier.

When I’m let out in front of the historic limestone courthouse with its low Mediterranean roof, my chest swells.

I’m here! This is what I’ve been working for. It could be closer than I think!

I’m early, so I take my time walking to the tall glass-covered building where my interview will happen. I’m filled with a sense of wonder and anticipation.

Will I walk this path every day? Are these flowerbeds something I’ll admire all the time?

Who will my boss be? Kind or a curmudgeon? And my coworkers? Potential besties or stanch competitors?

I draw in a deep breath. Diesel seems far away, like a long, delicious dream that is fading.

This is my future. I can feel it.

When the time draws close, I enter the building. There’s security to go through, then a check-in procedure. Finally, I’m ushered into a room lined with chairs.

A scowling older woman presides over the space from behind a dark wood desk. “Symphony Collins?”

“Yes, I’m Symphony.”

“Have a seat. They’ll call for you shortly.”

I settle on a plastic chair, my bag in my lap. The decorations are sparse, a few paintings, a couple of side tables. A sad Ficus droops next to the desk.

Government buildings. Only the public-facing places are kept nice.

I’m the only person in the chairs for a few minutes, then a lanky young man arrives.

“Sid Harris?” the woman asks in the same tone she did for me.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

“Take a seat. Someone will call for you.”

He chooses a spot on the opposite wall. Our gazes glance off each other.

He pulls out his phone, and the woman immediately barks, “No cell phones.” She taps a small sign by her computer.

I hadn’t seen it either, and I’m glad I resisted pulling mine out.

“Sorry,” Sid mutters and shoves his into his jacket pocket.

From the deep recesses of my bag, I feel my phone buzz. Probably just a random notification.