Page 101 of Playing the Backbeat

“Mr. Stonewell.” I stand tall, shoulders back, shaking his hand with a firm grip and a close-lipped smile. “Nice to meet you. I’m Deanna Perry.”

The man barely acknowledges my presence, allowing the woman from HR, Olivia, and Phil to do most of the speaking.

I remind myself to keep my hands still, folded on my lap. I say the right words, attempt to find the balance between talking about both me and my skillset, all while not wringing my hands in my lap like I want to.

Because my nervous system is a fucking wreck.

I toe the line. Too tough and I’m a bitch. Too weak and I’m a pushover. If I stray too far in either direction, that leaves me outside the inner circle in places like this, which means I won’t be taken seriously or even invited into the rooms I need to be in to get ahead.

It’s an unwelcome shock to my system to find myself thinking like this again. Considering each word carefully before I say it, weighing how it’ll be interpreted. Scraping and clawing my way up the ladder, playing the corporate game. Except now, the very idea of throwing myself back into this world isn’t some motivating challenge. It isn’t about proving to everyone, proving to myself that I can do this. It’s just…exhausting.

Dread settles over me, sinking further into my skin with every minute I spend in this gray, sterile conference room. It hasn’t been that long since I worked at Keller’s Financial, but I don’t remember it feeling this miserable.

Maybe I’ve spent too many nights laughing behind the bar with Vicki, cracking jokes with Sandy and her friends as they try to reassure me the drinks I serve them are tasting better,catching the occasional heated glance and smirk from Dylan as he makes his way around the Bridge, helping out wherever he is needed during the show.

It’s one of the things that surprised me most when Dylan gave me a job. Sure, he was the manager and that requires sitting his ass in a chair at a computer a lot of the time, but during shows, he was always around. Helping security, or the barbacks, Vicki and me. He even cleaned the bathrooms.

Sitting here across from Phil and Stonewell, I know that they’ve never put their own blood, sweat, or tears into this business.

Not like Dylan.

I need to focus. I do not need to be thinking about Dylan right now.

I wish I were excited about this opportunity. If you had asked me months ago if I wanted this job, I would have screamed yes, done a dance, and licked the floor to get it. On paper, it’s a perfect match with my experience, but all I feel is numb.

I give them the answers they want to hear, but there’s no life in them. A dull ache forms at the base of my neck, and by the time the interview is over, there’s a steady throb pulsing with every breath I take.

I thank them all, shaking hands with Olivia first, then with both Stonewell and Phil, knowing in my gut that I need to take this job if they offer it to me. My stomach sours at the thought, and I rub my temples gently as the elevator takes me to the lobby. I focus on my breathing as I drive home, until I can immediately jump in the shower. I don’t wait for it to warm, jumping into the freezing water. I turn, the cool water running over my neck as I slowly roll my head from side to side.

Maybe it’s not the corporate grind that’s lost its appeal. Maybe it’s thateverythingfeels a little dull. Even the walls of my ownapartment—an apartment I love—feel cold and stifling. Tears burn the back of my eyes, but I shake them off.

Damn. Maybe Ishouldget a cat.

It’s that thought that finally brings a smile to my face. I quickly get ready for bed…at five thirty. I don’t care. There’s nothing more I need from this day other than to climb under the covers and let my mind drift to sleep.

Hours later, I wake to the sound of my phone buzzing, and Dylan’s picture pops up. Sandy insisted he put on a glow stick necklace and bracelets tolean intothe rave vibe at a recent concert. I giggle at the sight of his cheesy grin in the photo before sadness quickly washes over me.

Dylan: How’d it go?

An innocent question, but it forces emotions to whirl in my gut and I can’t make sense of any of them. Maybe there’s guilt in potentially finding another job and leaving the one he gave me. A side of longing because I don’t want to text him about my interview…I want to sit on the couch and talk to him about it. I want to hear him laugh when I imitate Phil and hisgotchaquestions he tried to pull to challenge me…some friend.Cue eye roll.

Dee: It was fine. Nothing unexpected.

Dylan: So you crushed it.

A small part of me likes that he has that kind of faith in me. That same part of me preens at the thought of him being proud of me for holding my own in a room like that.

Dee: Basically. I’m not sure if it’ll be a fun job, but you know. It’ll do.

I watch as Dylan begins to type. Then nothing. He starts typing again a few seconds later, then nothing.

I drop my phone to my side, huffing out a huge sigh before throwing my other arm over my eyes.What am I expecting him to say?I have no idea, but I know I’m waiting for him to fixthis. To ease this stabbing disappointment after that horrible interview for a job I don’t want but need.

Finally, my phone vibrates and I peek under my arm to read his message.

Dylan: Fuck them. You’re too good for that place anyway. Stay at the Bridge. Sandy will be thrilled.

Dee: And Vicki?