Into You Series: The Complete Collection

2. Grace

CHAPTER 2

GRACE

T hat design position is not mine.

Yet.

It’s a typical Thursday night, but instead of lying on my empty apartment floor, I’m relaxing belly down on my mom’s couch, laptop propped against the armrest, clicking through email after email—ignoring those from Joe—and refresh the page over and over for any sign of an offer letter from Treasuries.

Ramona’s brother, Ian, sent me an application right after I finished unpacking, and I completed it in record time. Seriously. I’d like to see the timer.

Then I spent two days lamenting over whether my cover letter was okay, fretting about the art I put in my portfolio, and obsessing over my signature for the paperwork itself. First impressions are everything; I don’t need my calling card looking like a crayon doodle.

Though maybe that’s ‘in’ now? Design trends are so weird.

“Will you get off that laptop and help me?” Mom asks, holding a slightly threatening knife and waving it over as an invitation to join her in the kitchen.

My mom has the same flaming red hair and short fuse that I have, so it’s no surprise where I got it all from. But at her core, she is the loveliest woman alive.

“Are you finally gonna use that kitchen of yours?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

She points the knife at me once more.

“That mouth is going to get you into trouble one day, missy,” she says. “And yes, I refuse to let this house go to waste.”

I inherited my love for redecorating homes from my mom. She’s spent years since Dad passed redoing the entire house. She pulled up the carpet, stripped the paint, and overhauled the kitchen, despite her rare desire to cook.

“I’m sure the kitchen appreciates the love.” I snark, and she shoots me another menacing look.

My mom and I are close now, but we weren’t always. I blame it on our red hair. Fire doesn’t mix well with fire. But mostly I was just a little turd of a teenager. Teachers always commended my parents for raising such a lovely girl, but that’s just because I saved all my angst for my parents.

What was it that Usher said? Lady in the streets, complete heathen she-devil behind closed doors? No, that’s not it …

I was a force to be reckoned with. At least I thought I was—especially once I’d gotten my beat-up old Volkswagen. I thought I was so cool, driving around with the windows down and the breeze in my hair with my ripped band tees and mismatched socks.

Yeah, I still cringe thinking about it too.

Bless my mom for still being with me today.

I close my laptop and walk to the kitchen island where I pull up a bar stool and lean my elbows on the counter. It’s the one part of the kitchen that doesn’t quite match her more modern decor. I run my hands along its scarred wood surface and memories of Dad wash over me. I used to watch him cook here. He never really said much, but occasionally, he’d throw me a homemade French fry or two while I doodled. I miss being near him. I think she kept the island for the same reason.

“So, what’s on the menu?” I ask, reaching to grab a piece of a sliced cucumber. She bats my hand away.

“Tacos.”

“Ooh yum.” I wiggle my shoulders. “And why tacos this time around?”

“They seem easy,” she says with a sigh. “If I’m going to learn, I’ve got to start simple, right?”

“Well, it’s good to know that after renovating everything that can possibly be renovated, you’ve decided to conquer the art of cooking,” I respond, trying my hand at stealing another slice; she catches me again. I laugh and she winks.

In our small lull of silence, I start to get itchy with anticipation about the job again. I unlock my phone and look at my emails, pulling the screen down to refresh.

“Leave it alone,” Mom interjects with a chuckle. “If you get an email from them, you’ll get an email. It won’t go anywhere.”

“Yeah, I know.” I exhale. “But I’m not exactly the most graceful person.”

With her mouth half open, I know my mom is about to make some clever come back about how ‘Grace is always graceful’ but I point at her to stop before she can start.

“Nuh uh.”

She laughs.

“You need to work on your stress levels, Gracie.”

“Funnily enough, the HR person asked how I handled stress and I totally lied.”

“You said you handle it well?” my mom asks, still chopping.

“Yeah.”

“Definitely a lie,” she says without missing a beat.

I twist my mouth into the corner, letting out a, ‘hmph.’

“Well, the creative director and I talked about my history in design and eventually discussed my ambitions,” I say. “I think that’s where I nailed the interview.”

Though, while I say this, my anxiety gives me a thousand reasons as to why maybe I actually didn’t nail it.

My mom can read my expression instantly.

“Don’t worry. You always accomplish what you want to,” she says. “Do you remember that time you wanted to go to that concert … oh, what was it …”

“The Backstreet Boys?”

“Yes!” she says, throwing her hand in the air. “The Backstreet Boys. And you insisted your father buy you tickets.”

“He didn’t.”

“Well, of course not. You were six. But you being the spunky girl you are, off you went! Backpack full of stuffed toys and one peanut butter sandwich. You were determined to make it to that concert.”

“Blindly walking in no direction at all,” I comment with a smile. “Not much has changed.”

“Yes, but if you put your mind to something, you will do it. It may not be this company, but you will be a designer.”

My mom has always been a glass half empty woman, and my dad was the family optimist. When he passed, I think she tried to adopt his positivity to compensate for his absence. Now, her sunshine and rainbows outlook on life is like a full glass of water I could drink in every day.

We exchange smiles and she returns to chopping.

I can’t help but whip out my phone again.

“You know, in my day, we had to wait on calls and if we missed it, poof, you missed it.” She nods matter-of-factly before slicing into a cucumber—nearly chopping her fingers off.

She’s still learning.

“Mom, you know I lived during those times too, right?” I say, putting my phone down after another glance yields zero responses.

“Millennials don’t know how good they have it,” she continues. “Distract yourself. Grab that pepper and help me out?”

I lean forward on the counter to withdraw a knife from the block and scoot the green pepper toward me. But before I can even start, my phone buzzes. I look down to see an email from a sender using an address ending in treasuriesinc.com.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, ignoring Mom’s immediate response of: “Language, young lady!”

I stare at the unopened email, trying to come to terms with how let down I will be if it holds bad news.

“Well, are you going to open it?” she asks.

“Just … give me a second,” I say.

“One …” she teases. “Two …”

“Okay, okay.”

Taking a deep breath, I click the message.

Grace Holmes,

We are pleased to offer you the position of Junior Designer with Treasuries, Inc. Attached, you will find your offer letter and background authorization form. Please complete and return both documents to our HR Manager, Nia Smith. She is copied on this email.

We look forward to working with you.

Regards,

Cameron Kaufman, Creative Director

The biggest grin spreads across my face and my fingers go from shaking to practically dancing off my hands.

“Mom!” I scream, causing my poor old, sleeping dog to bolt upright on the couch, wide awake. “I’m in!” I jump, run to my mom, and grab her hands. “I’m a designer!”

“That’s fantastic!” she yells, joining me as I jump in excitement. “See? I knew things would turn around for you.”

I smile and rush back over to my phone to look down at the email once again.

Yes.

There it is.

Not a dream.

I read it out loud, ending with the signature: “Regards, Cameron Kaufman.”

“Who is Cameron Kaufman?” Mom asks, returning to her haphazard vegetable cutting.

“I think he’s the guy they just promoted?” It’s a question more than a definitive answer. “I don’t know. It says ‘creative director’ in his signature, but I definitely didn’t meet with a dude named Cameron.”

It’s impossible to forget the old man who interviewed me. I think he could cough dust into his handkerchief.

“Sounds professional,” she says.

“Very,” I muse, looking down at myself and realizing I haven’t changed clothes in a couple days … nor have I showered.

“I might need a new outfit,” I say, and Mom squeals.

In seconds, she’s redirecting me to some fancy online shop where she selects the well-tailored outfit the model is wearing on the front page from their “#GirlBoss” collection. I look down at my own shirt and realize that “#GirlBoss” sure beats the hot pink “#BlessThisMess” shirt Ramona gave me.

The website’s cart reads well over a price range I can afford, and the price is bumped even higher when I select two- day shipping. But the spiffy suit just screams “I have my life together!” so I click PURCHASE, ignore the sinking feeling in my gut that knows I spent too much, and scoot myself back into the bar stool.

I may be in more financial distress after that purchase, but I can’t stop smiling while I look at the email. While I may not know much about clothing, budgeting, or helping in the kitchen, I do know one thing: This is my new start.