Kristan Higgins - On Second Thought

“Remind me why you’re here,” he said, sitting behind the desk. “You want an internship, your mother says?”

“No, and she’s my stepmother. Not my mother. Candy, that is. Um, you’re looking for a features editor?”

Another long, pained, uterus-shriveling glance. “How old are you?”

“I believe it’s against the law to ask that question.” He stared. “Thirty,” I added.

“You look younger.” It wasn’t a compliment.

He stared at my résumé, glanced up at me. I smiled, or continued to smile, as the case was. He didn’t smile back. Looked at the papers again. My smile felt stiff. The left corner of my mouth was twitching.

People usually liked me right away.

Jonathan Kent wore a suit, and his tie was not loosened. He was clean-shaven, which was kind of rare these days. Dark hair combed back severely. Cheekbones like dorsal fins, and those pale eyes. He was neither attractive nor ugly. Generic Caucasian male with potential to be a serial killer, please. Back when I was the receptionist at NBC, I’d made calls for the casting director.

“Do you really want to work here?” he asked, looking up at me.

“Yes! I’m here for an interview, after all.”

He blinked. Finally. “Why?”

Because I’m bored didn’t seem like a great answer, though it would be honest. “Well, I really, uh, respect what you do and think I could positively contribute to the content of the magazine.” Ta-da! The perfect answer.

“What do we do?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“What is it you think we do?”

“Is that a trick question?” No answer. “You publish a regional magazine.”

“And why would we do that?”

Because it’s a cash cow. “To showcase the beauty and vibrancy of life in the Hudson River Valley,” I said with my best Girl Scout smile.

“Your résumé says you graduated from Wagner College. I assume you have a degree in journalism?”

“Uh, no.”

“English?”

“Nope.”

“Do I have to keep guessing, Ms. O’Leary?”

I winced, then smiled to cover. “Philosophy.” Another stare. “It’s one of those degrees that can be used for anything,” I said, echoing the duplicitous guidance counselor at Wagner.

“Is it?” Mr. Kent said. I couldn’t argue that point. “You worked for Ryan Roberts.” He waited, expressionless.

“Yes.”

“Who was fired for an egregious breach of professional ethics.”

“And rehired by another network. But yes. That’s correct.”

“Putting aside your possible complicity in his journalistic deception, do you have any actual skills or education to recommend you?”

I felt a sudden rush of anger. What a rude man. Ryan had not been my fault. (Okay, fine, a little bit my fault, but mostly not.)

“Wow, Jonathan,” I said. “Those are a lot of big words. I’m not sure I follow you.” Clearly, I wasn’t going to get the job, so why not go for broke? “But after seven years with NBC, I think I can write about the great lettuces of Westchester County and who does the best boob jobs.”

His expression didn’t change.

“Have a lovely day,” I said, standing up and reaching for the door.

“You’re hired,” he said. “You’ll have a three-month probationary period. Be here tomorrow. We open at 8:30. Don’t be late, Ms. O’Leary.”

And so I went from writing news that tens of millions of people would hear to editing fluff pieces—the historic Groundhog Day parade in Smithville and the artisan potter who’d had a piece bought by the White House. Where the prettiest wedding venues were (okay, that piece I enjoyed), and how shipping lanes had changed on the Hudson.

It was fine. It was pleasant. I made friends fast, as I always did, though Jonathan failed to succumb to my charms and didn’t eat the cookies I occasionally brought in. I was just killing time, waiting for Eric to propose so we could get married and have kids.

Instead, he got cancer.

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