Page 2 of Rules for Second Chances

I tamp down a hot flare underneath my ribs. He could’ve ordered food. And the party didn’t have to be scheduled in the eighteen hours between him finishing one dogsledding trip and starting the next. But he wanted to celebrate on my actual birthday, even if it meant spending one of the few days we have together working for his mom.

“Let’s go.” He zips me out of my coat. “I invited a couple of the new guides. Couldn’t leave them out, you know?”

“Sure. Wait. Do I look okay?”

“You look perfect.” He admires me like I’m not the camouflage-colored mate to his bright-feathered goldfinch, my hair and eyes and freckles all the common copper brown of a tarnished penny.

“Are you sure?” I smooth damp palms over my black skirt. My blouse is builder beige, the ideal color for people to project themselves onto during the successful conversations I will be having tonight.

“You lookperfect,Diz.” He puts his arm back around me, hollering,“Birthday babe’s heeeeere!”

The guests cheer for way less time than I anticipated; I wave half a second after everyone turns back to their conversations. Underneath my high collar, my neck itches. Stress hives already. It’s fine. Amber’s gone, but Tobin will stay with me, and people love—

“Tobin. I need you in the kitchen,schatje.” My mother-in-law, Marijke, is looking particularly tall, blond, and Euro-hot in a white ensemble trimmed with silvery faux fur that matches her current line of handmade children’s wear.

It’s hard to believe I once dreamed of having intimate, huggy relationships with my in-laws. Marijke bakes and sews and looks like Heidi Klum, but huggy, she’s not. I’d say Tobin got his looks from her, if his dad, Tor, weren’t also blessed with truly regrettable physical attractiveness.

“I can help, Mrs. Renner.” I look forward to pronouncing her name correctly—Ma-RYE-ka, rhymes with “I like ya”—the second I’m permitted to use it. In the meantime, maybe I can sneak into the kitchen. I could pass a tray of hot appetizers using a trusty script: “Spring roll? Have a napkin.” Later, I could ask how people liked the food. It’s not exactly a conversational dream come true, but it’s something to say.

“Nonsense. Enjoy your party.” She sweeps her son away.

Now I’m truly alone. I catch myself rubbing my fingers together and stuff my fists in my pockets in a way I hope looks casual. Alone isgood. I should stop relying on Tobin to grease the social wheels for me. I’m sure I can do this on my own. And if this is my year to enter—no, towin—the company’s pitch competition, Ihaveto do this on my own.

I activate a favorite party ploy: browsing the food table while I fake-casually scan for a conversational circle with a gap where I might fit. There’s a tight cluster of guides (Tobin’s underlings, since he became head guide at West by North, the wilderness adventure company where we both work), some neighbors discussing zoning ordinances, and a few of my colleagues from head office. Not promising.

Naheed, our head of marketing, wanders over to the sandwich station. “Hey, Liz. Tell Tobin he throws a great party.”

Okay. It’s happening. Conversation, take one. “I will! Thanks for coming.”

“He’s home for one night between trips, right? Better make it count. Lady in the streets, freak in the spreadsheets, am I right?” Naheed never runs out of pointed one-liners about popular, outgoing Tobin being married to me, the operations coordinator—the human version of a calculator.

“Ha. I get it.” I like my job, but not the way it gets pegged as boring work done by boring old me. But even if my laugh is fake, Naheed makes the dude bros in the C-suite chuckle for real. I should pay attention to his technique. “That reminds me. Can I ask you—”

“Happy birthday, Liz. You entering the pitch competition again this year?” Naheed’s marketing minion David Headley has followed his boss here, as usual. He’s one of the people who said he’d definitely come to my board game night. I organized it afterour CEO, Craig, told me I was “hard to read” and “looked angry,” before offering the immortal advice to “be more likeable.”

In David’s defense, no one else showed up either.

“I’m thinking about it. You?” I trace a finger over the skin above my collar. The hives haven’t escaped. Yet.

“Oh yeah. This is my year. Naheed and I have been prepping my pitch since January. I’ve joined every project that ticks off a leadership skill and invested in a golf membership at White Oaks. If my boss here wasn’t also my mentor, I’d almost think he wanted to get rid of me by winning me the competition and getting me that promotion.”

A layer of crushed ice lands hard on my soul.

“Oh. Uh, I didn’t know I should do all that.” I don’t have a mentor. Or even a boss, since mine left West by North last fall. Ernie was a good supervisor, but he was coasting into retirement, blissfully unconcerned with the future of the company. Or the future of me. Since he left, I’ve been covering his duties on top of mine, so I should be fine on the job skills front. Coaching, though—that’s tough to find when you don’t have a supervisor and the company has no senior women.

And pitch presentations are a whole different game. Like parties, and job interviews, and any other unscripted social situation, they’re a field of garden rakes with the pointy side up: no matter which direction I step, a rake handle comes flying at my forehead.

“You’re lucky to have a mentor like Naheed.”

Naheed leans back. “I’m full up on mentees right now, Liz. Don’t have room for another.”

My neck burns. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean—”

“Not to embarrass you, but the mentor usually chooses the mentee—”

“Please, I wasn’t trying to suggest—” I wave my celery in aslashing “no” motion, sending spinach dip sailing onto my right foot.

“—and really, it’s about a good fit. Ask Craig to pair you with someone, maybe? Hey, I need a refill. David, come with.” They walk away, chatting brightly.

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