Page 5 of Another Fox Bites the Dust

Variations of this same rejection have played out again and again. That is, when they even bother to inform me of anything.

Almost half of the companies I’ve applied to either ghost me or don’t bother calling for even a token interview. I’ve received generic emails about how “we won’t be moving forward with your application” and “we’re moving in another direction” and one job offer for half my proposed salary—a number I had already reduced from what I was making previously. I said no, but now I’m almost considering calling them back to see if they’ll take me. A third of my prior income is better than no income at all.

They had scheduled an interview this morning at Last Resort, but apparently Nina has been living under a rock and didn’t realize that I’ve been blacklisted by the entire music industry.

Someone must’ve filled her in—probably right before I arrived.

I give her a tight smile and then walk back to the elevator with my head held high even though on the inside I’m a boiling mess of frustration and despair.

The elevator doors shut, and once I’m alone, all of the bravado holding me together dissipates. I deflate, my shoulders slump, a discouraged breath gusting out of me.

It’s been four months. Four months since Blake and I imploded along with the rest of my life, and I’m still getting the looks. The side glances. The knowing smirks.

When will it end?

I should have listened when Finley offered refuge back home in Whitby. I could have rented my apartment temporarily and applied for jobs remotely to save money. But I couldn’t leave. I don’t run away from problems. I face them head-on and find ways around them or through them. Leaving would have been admitting defeat.

Damn my pride.

I didn’t think I would still be searching the never-ending mice maze for gainful employment with no end in sight.

My savings are almost depleted. I can’t go on like this. I’ll have to start dipping into my retirement if something doesn’t shake loose. Living in New York, especially in a trendy apartment nestled in the West Village, isn’t exactly cheap.

My search for a job in the city ends here. It has to. I’ve exhausted all efforts. I’ll have to start looking at labels in Nashville and California. My heart sinks along with the dip of the elevator, coming to a smooth stop on the ground floor.

Out on the sidewalk, I join the morning rush of pedestrians. I’m meeting my sister Piper in Central Park in an hour and a half. She wanted to be there to either celebrate or commiserate with my latest attempt at finding work.

Commiseration it is.

Tugging my deep blue blazer closer, I squint up at the cloudy sky, keeping pace with the scurrying bodies around me.

My phone rings. Still walking, I pull it out of the side pocket of my briefcase.

I thumb the answer icon. “Hey, Finley. Is everything okay?”

My sister wouldn’t be calling right now unless it was important.

“Mindy.” Surprise laces her tone. “I didn’t think you would answer. I had my mind set on venting on your voicemail. Don’t you have an interview right now?”

I grimace. “Don’t ask. I’m not ready to talk about it. What’s going on with you?”

She sighs, and I could reach out and touch the stress weaved into the sound, even through the phone line. “I don’t want to worry you. You have enough going on.”

I hasten my steps to get around a group of slow-moving tourists. “Finley. We’ve talked about this. You don’t need to carry all your burdens alone. Spill it before I drive over there and waterboard it out of you.”

She releases a sound that’s a half groan and a half laugh. “I almost wish you would.” She pauses for a few seconds and then imparts the next words in a rush. “Jake fell off the wagon last night.”

I stop at a busy intersection, waiting for the light to turn, my stomach a riot of distress. All my worries about money and my career diminish under the weight of concern for my little brother. “Oh, no. Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. Hungover, but fine. I think he’s mad at himself more than anything.”

The light turns green and I move with the crowd into the crosswalk. “We knew this could happen. Sobriety is a tough journey and can be a twisted path with ups and downs and everything in between.”

“I know. But this is Jake. The little guy who used to fall asleep between us on the couch every Friday night. The same kid who was afraid of the dark until he was fifteen and wouldn’t answer to anything but Batman for a full month when he was four.”

Our mom left when Finley was eight and I was seven. Jake and his twin sister, Aria, were babies. They don’t remember her. I barely remember her anymore. The only mother Jake and Aria had was Finley, and me, but mostly Finley. She’s always taken care of all of us.

“I want to punch him in the face, but also wrap him in bubble wrap and lock him in a room where he can’t hurt himself anymore.”

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