Page 44 of The Toy Collector

That might be the most honest thing I’ve heard all day.

The rest of that first day unfolds in a blur of new passwords, rushed instructions, and carefully labeled folders—digital and otherwise. Each of us is handed a rotating schedule of shadowing sessions, prep briefs, and assigned reading that looks more like classified intelligence than intern training.

At first, I feel like I’m drowning in acronyms and silent expectations. But by Wednesday, something clicks.

The rhythm here is fast, but I can keep up. I spot patterns quickly—who to ask, when to speak, how to format things the Blackwood way without needing to be told twice. I don’t just complete the work, I start tounderstandit. And I love how that feels. Rather than just doing the work, I learn toseeit.

By Thursday, I’ve already submitted two memo drafts for a senior associate, flagged inconsistencies in a report no one else noticed, and reorganized briefing notes in a way that earned me an actual compliment from someone whose name appears in Forbes.

Being here isn’t just thrilling, it’s addictive. For the first time in forever, I’m not performing for approval. I’m performing for myself. And I’mgoodat it.

When Friday afternoon finally rolls around, I’m in the middle of gathering my things when Ben saunters over, wearing his signature smile.

“I don’t know about you, Piper, but I could do with a drink.”

“Or ten,” Alice jokes from her desk.

As much as I like Alice and Ben, I would have preferred to celebrate with Lena, but she’s going on a date she’s been talking about all week. “Let’s do it,” I agree, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

Together, we leave Blackwood and head to a place Ben knows. It’s not too far away, so we walk through the crowded streets. Foggy Bottom is always busy, but it’s nothing like Friday afternoon at 4 p.m. when everyone wants to get home.

The bar is all deep shadows and gleaming surfaces, the kind of place where secrets cling to the walls like cigarette smoke.

“If you grab a table, I’ll get the drinks,” Ben offers.

Alice and I both agree, listing off our drinks of choice before snatching up a table near the windows. When Ben joins us, he’s eyeing Alice’s Dirty Martini with a scowl like it’s offending him.

“God, I hate olives,” he says, taking the empty seat next to her.

She grins. “Careful, Ben. Saying things like that makes you sound uncultured,” she volleys, removing the olive from the cocktail stick with her teeth.

I reach for my drink, a French 75. “To surviving our first week,” I say cheerily.

We clink our glasses before each taking a large swig.

“I can’t believe we made it through,” Alice says, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. “I keep feeling like I’m going to wake up and find out it was all a dream.”

“Are you staying here in D.C.?” I ask. I can’t imagine she’s flying back and forth every day.

Nodding, she confirms she’s staying at a flat she’s rented. “I only have to show up in Boston a few times a month, so it was easier moving here temporarily,” she explains.

We talk about the thrill we’re all experiencing when we walk into Blackwood each morning, of being taken seriously. While Alice and I continue to talk about the internship, Ben disappears to get more drinks.

“It feels good to do something more real than just reading the words in textbooks,” I agree when she’s told me about a task she completed just before we left for the weekend.

“And I haven’t tripped or spilled coffee on myself a single time yet.” Her words tumble out in a giddy rush, like she’s been holding back those fears all week.

I guess that’s how we all feel, and there’s something nice about being here with people who truly understand the pressure.

We have a few more drinks, but it doesn’t take more than a couple of hours before I start feeling like the third wheel. Ben’s been flirting with Alice almost since we arrived. It’s not that I’m jealous, but there’s something over-the-top about his antics.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I use the app to text my Blackwood-provided driver to let him know I’m ready to leave. Then I drain the last of my wine—I switched to red somewhere around the third drink, hoping for warmth, but all it gave me was a headache—and stand, smoothing my skirt with a quiet breath.

“I should probably head out,” I murmur, not loud enough to interrupt, but just enough to be heard.

Alice blinks up at me, slightly dazed, cheeks flushed from the martini and maybe Ben’s attention. “Already?”

I nod, giving her a crooked smile as I tug on my coat. “Yeah, I’ve got to put in a few hours on my school work this weekend or I’ll end up finishing everything the night before it’s due. And no one wants to read whatever that version would be.”

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