Page 1 of It Happened Again

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A DOOR OPENS

MAISY CALHOUN

The breathing techniquesmy sister Chelsea recently used giving birth to her son were not helping calm my nerves for my interview. I stood in the public bathroom hoping no one would pop in here, seeing me looking foolish, heaving in and out in rhythmic fashion while clearly not pregnant.

Ironically, I’d spent a good part of my graduate thesis researching stress and cortisol—tracking how regulated breathing could make a measurable difference. Apparently, I was better at collecting the data than applying it to myself.

“Nice try, but my heart is still racing over this,” I explained over the phone.

“Relax, Maisy. You’ll do well. I know it. Isn’t that right, little Maximillian?” She cooed to my nephew, who made sweet baby noises that I could slightly hear over the phone. The image of my sister as a mother with child did somewhat soothe me, and I wished I were back in Holly Creek with her. But I was here in Manhattan hoping to take my career to the next level.

In the background, I heard my brother-in-law talking to her. “Tell Maisy that one call from me to the CEO at Orion and she has the job. Richard and I donated to fully fund the new wing of the research facility they’re building.”

“And once again, tell Rex I don’t need help. I can do this on my own,” I countered. There, that calmed my nerves. I’ve always been a little competitive and independent. I would prefer to get this job on my own, even though it was my old professor who told me about this opportunity in the first place.

“He only wants to help any way he can, you know,” she explained.

“I know. And thanks, but it’s time. I should head inside and be respectfully early,” I said.

“You can do this. I believe in you. Plan to come up soon to Holly Creek for a weekend. Baby Max is changing so fast and his auntie shouldn’t miss a minute of it.”

“With the millions of photos of him you send me daily, I feel like I’m right there with you. But yes, I’ll be up there soon,” I promised and clicked off.

I chuckled at how Chelsea and I were leading very different lives now. She, as a new mother and professional TV host of her own morning cooking show—and the wife to Rex Buchanan, a very wealthy man. Me, a graduate of Columbia in the field of neuroscience, looking to level up in a career full of men. Fingers crossed this final interview with Orion would be the ticket.

I passed through security and checked in at the front desk. They promptly sent me up. The elevator door chimed as it let me off on the top floor, revealing the opulence afforded to the top echelon at the Orion Mind Institute. Nerves buzzed in my stomach like overly caffeinated lab mice as I stepped out, heels clicking against polished marble floors that probably cost more than my undergrad degree.

This was it.

One final interview. One final round. One last chance to impress and not trip over my words or, worse, my own feet.

The sleek modern interior of the top-tier research facility could come across as intimidating. A haven of high-tech labsand soft-glow panels, with the faint hum of genius happening all around. It felt less like a workplace and more like stepping into the future—where breakthroughs happened over coffee and some of the smartest people in the world walked the halls.

And here I was, Maisy Calhoun—going on twenty-five with a newly minted master’s degree, slightly hyper-passionate, and deeply committed to pretending I had my life together.

I ran my palms down the sides of my navy-blue dress, smoothing invisible wrinkles. The dress was classy, but sharp. Academic meets girl-who-can-hold-her-own in-a-lab-fight. At least, that’s what I told myself when I bought it.

“Ms. Calhoun?” A woman in a smart blazer and scarlet lipstick approached me with a clipboard and a smile that said, I control your fate.

“That’s me,” I said with a grin carefully calibrated to professional-and-poised, with just a hint of don’t-worry-I’m-fun-too.

She gave me the once-over and nodded in approval. Or maybe she liked my shoes. Either way, she spun on her heel. “Right this way. Dr. Thorne is expecting you.”

Ah, Dr. Julian Thorne. Mentor. Professor. Former shipmate. Walking academic encyclopedia with a penchant for vintage fountain pens and theories that challenged the neural correlates of consciousness.

Also: slightly oblivious to social cues.

There was a lot you could learn about a person when spending a year together on a research vessel—and extending it by sixmoremonths—cruising throughout the southern hemisphere, studying everything from oceanic neurobehavioral patterns to how isolation affected cognitive response on the crew.

I’d been his research assistant and somehow managed not to fall overboard—or fall for him—despite his constant, lingeringglances. He’d never crossed a line, exactly. But I’d seen the hints, the what-ifs behind his eyes.

“Maisy,” Julian greeted me as I stepped into his office. He stood to shake my hand, his smile warm and familiar. Today, he was professional, given the circumstances, while a month ago when I met him for drinks so he could tell me about this job, we’d said goodbye that night with a lingering hug after he’d had a few.

“Julian,” I said, on a first name basis now that I wasn’t his student. “Good to see you again.”

“You look well,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners.

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