Page 3 of His Surrender

And there it is. The sentence that’s been sitting between us since Monday.

I straighten, slipping my hands into my pockets because I suddenly don’t know what else to do with them.

I drag a hand through my hair. “I understand. You’ve already committed to another family. You can’t push back the start date. I’ve called three agencies.”

“Any luck?”

“They can send résumés.”

“But not by next week.”

“No.”

Silence settles between us, broken only by the gentle mechanical sway of the swing.

For the first time in my life, I have absolutely no idea how to solve the biggest problem in front of me.

CHAPTER TWO

AUBREY

If I chuck my laptop across the room, I wonder if replacing it would cost less than the therapy, I’m clearly going to need after another day of job-hunting.

Eight hours of scrolling through job boards, tailoring cover letters, and tweaking my résumé for the hundredth time, and I have exactly five applications to show for it. Five.

Don’t get me started on what will inevitably happen over the next week.

Nothing.

Not a damn thing.

If I’m lucky, one company will email me back. Maybe I’ll even land an interview. I’ll iron my nicest blouse, rehearse answers in the mirror, convince myself this is finally the one … only to get another polite rejection, thanking me for my time before informing me they’ve decided to move forward with a candidate who has more experience.

Experience.

The one thing every “entry-level” job apparently requires.

I spent four years earning a degree because everyone promised college was the key to building a career. Instead, I’ve moved back into my childhood bedroom, I spend my days collecting rejection emails, and somehow, I’m expected to already have years of professional experience before anyone will give me my first chance.

Make it make sense.

I slam my laptop shut, opting for a little extra force instead of chucking it across the room.

It’s probably healthier.

Marginally.

I glance at the time on my phone.

Six o’clock.

Sydney should be off work by now. At least one of us managed to graduate and land a real job.

The bitter taste of jealousy creeps into the back of my throat, and I hate it almost as much as the rejection emails piling up in my inbox. Sydney has worked her ass off for everything she’s accomplished. She deserves every bit of her success.

It’d just be nice if I could find a little of my own.

I tap her name and lift the phone to my ear.