Page 7 of No Place Like You

“How are things in Seattle?” she asks, her face lifting through a sad smile.

“They’re fine,” I tell her. “You know, same same.”

“Are you at work?”

I peer over my shoulder, looking at the wall behind me bedecked with various coffee-related decor. A hand-drawn image of coffee beans to my right. A cross-stitched frame with the words “More Espresso, Less Depresso” to my left. “Yep, I’m on my break.”

“And you chose to spend your ten minutes of freedom withme?” she asks with a sweet smile.

I laugh. “You said it was urgent,” I tell her. “So what did Mom and Dad say? I bet Mom already set an appointment to go dress shopping with you. You better get out the tissues.”

She rolls her eyes. “They’re next,” she answers. “And don’t remind me. I love Mom to pieces, but her dramatics can besoover the top sometimes.”

“Hmm,” I hum, tapping my finger to my chin. “I wonder if that’s where you getyourdramatics from?”

“I amnotdramatic,” she tells me. “I’m just…expressive.”

“Sure.”

“Have you talked to Mom recently?” she asks.

“A few days ago,” I tell her. “She told me about this job listing in my area she found off Craigslist. Who still uses Craigslist?”

“Mom, apparently.”

I scoff. “C’yeah. Anyway,” I continue, “as soon as I read ‘must be bilingual in Farsi and English,’ I deleted the email she sent me. I don’t even think she reads the job description at this point. As long as they’re in Seattle, she just zips them my way.”

Nat laughs before her smile fades. “I talked to her last week. She, uh, mentioned something about an internship?”

My entire body freezes. “What?”

“I mean, she didn’t go into detail, but she just briefly said you told her about it last month? From UW? She said you wanted to apply, but she convinced you it might not be the best idea right now.”

“Oh, that,” I say, holding back the deep sigh of relief from my chest. “Um, yeah. It was this internship at a photography agency. They’re handling this huge ad campaign and filling some of the entry-level positions with interns. UW sent me the email to apply since I’m an alumni, but…whatever.”

“That wasn’t even your major,” she points out.

I nod. “I know,” I say, brushing off the tightness in my throat with indifference. “But I took some art electives in grad school, just for fun, I guess, so I think they thought I might be interested.” I start to gnaw on my lower lip, hoping my nonchalance is believable.

She nods. “You know, she’s just worried about you. After you got fired last year, she’s focused on you finding a job. You know, like arealone. No offense.”

I wince, recalling the sit-down I had with Ted from Human Resources informing me I was being “let go” from the marketing agency I’d been working at for two years, blaming the mass layoff on budget cuts and the current economic climate. I thought I was getting a raise or a promotion for all of my hard work. Or even a new desk chair. Not a cardboard box to fill with the contents of my desk. And I certainly didn’t think those months of unemployment following my walk of shame out of the office would lead me right to Mr. Bean’s Coffee and Tea and the bright Help Wanted sign in the window. “I know,” I tell her.

“She said she doesn’t want you getting your hopes up on an internship with no promise of a secure job. At least for now, you have Mr. Bean’s. She doesn’t want you to givethatup since…you know, there isn’t much else right now.”

“Yeah, she—she said that.” I couldn’t disagree with my mom. But still, her reaction shocked me. My mom, and my dad,nevertried to snuff whatever dreams and ambitions my sisters and I held in our hearts. When Nat wanted to take up figure skating at eight years old, my parents bought her her first pair of ice skates, only for her to ditch the dream of joining the next Winter Olympics a month later. They never got upset, always reminding us we don’t know what we want until we at least try.

But this was different. Too much was on the line. My livelihood, my future. The stakes were higher. I wasn’t sixteen, carrying around my high school yearbook department’s loaner camera to take candid pictures of the student body. I wasn’t in college, taking a few photography courses to see if it was something more than just a hobby while finishing my graduate degree. I couldn’t be haughty or reckless about my future anymore.

“And, you know, maybe she’s right.” Nat pauses, reading the sullen dejection on my face as she tries to soften the blow with her gentle voice and cautious words. “I know you’ve always been into this whole photographything, but maybe you can do that on the side. And if an opportunity like that comes up again, you’ll be in a better place to take it.”

But an opportunity like that doesn’t come up every day.

Which is why I applied for it. Against my mom’s wishes. With a big fat lie slapped on my face. Right alongside the emails from her and my sister backing my mom with heed and reason.

I didn’t think I’d get it. In fact, I assumed the mass email informing University of Washington students and alumni about the internship was more spam related instead of a purposeful and thought-out offer. But it wasn’t. And even though the extent of my photography experience in college was nothing beyond a few photography courses with a brief conversation with the professor about my art career, it was enough to get me in. And now, I’m starting on Monday, bright and early. In New York City, of all places.

There’s banging on the door through the screen, followed by a light jump from Nat and a set of loose giggles. “And there’s my fiancé’s boyfriend. I better go before Dexter flings my laptop across the room.” The door swings open just then, and Dexter hurdles toward Nat. “Dexter!”

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