“This is Dylan, one of our most trusted cooks and now our recently promoted kitchen manager. Dylan tells me you two already know each other. You used to do poetry slams together?”
I let go of Monroe’s hand—some miraculously functioning part of my brain managed to catch the woman’s name—where I’ve been reaching across the desk to shake it and nod.
“We did, yeah,” I rasp, my mouth dry. “A few years ago.”
This is the part where I’m supposed to turn and shake his hand too. This is the part where I start acting like a normal human who’s here to get herself a job.
I am Renee, hear me roar.
I borrow my best friend’s signature phrase of encouragement as I fix my gaze on Dylan, steeling myself for however awkward or weird or painful this is going to be, but it turns out it’s none of those things.
My eyes meet his. He blinks. I blink.
Then the impact of how much I’ve missed him hits me so hard it’s like he’s crushed me into one of those giant Dylan bear hugs without even moving at all. The tension loosens, the air in the room no longer feeling too thick to pull into my lungs, and my head starts rushing with the dozens of questions I want to ask, everything I want to know and share.
How are you? How are Stella and Owen? How are the slams going? Who made nationals this year? Are you still performing?
I let myself take in the sight of him. He looks the same: same bulky frame, same doorframe-width shoulders we were always teasing him about, same tufty chestnut hair and coffee-with-cream coloured eyes that always made me shiver when they locked on mine.
Same cavalier smile. With Dylan, you could always count on a smile.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he jokes in that deep, rich voice of his, one massive hand covering mine. The live wires inside me spark again at the contact as heat blooms in my chest. His forearm is still tan from the summer even though October is days away, the freckle-dusted skin a contrast to my smoother, darker arm that looks so tiny next to his. He really is built like a rugby player.
“Wish I’d known you work here before I applied,” I tease him before I can start to wonder if that’s an appropriate thing to do in an interview.
“Why? So you could work even harder on your application?” he teases right back.
“So I would have known not to apply in the first place.”
“Well she’s certainly got the sass factor necessary for surviving at this place.”
Dylan and I both turn to Monroe like we forgot she was here. Part of me really did forget she was here.
“No need to worry about sassiness with this one. If I remember correctly, she always gives as good as she gets,” Dylan assures her.
“I will check that box off.” Monroe pretends to draw a checkmark on the paper in front of her, which I realize is my resume. She tucks a strand of her brown bob behind her ear, and I let myself take a closer look at her now that I’m not reeling at the sight of Dylan. She looks young to own a bar; she can’t be any older than thirty.
Just a few years older than Dylan must be.
I do the math in my head. Twenty-eight. He’s twenty-eight now.
Too old to give you a second thought, Renee. Three years didn’t change that.
“I’m just going to start this off by saying your resume looks fantastic, Renee. Seriously, it’s just so pretty.” I force a laugh as Monroe holds up the deluxe quality, colour-printed page. “You seem to have just the kind of experience we’re looking for, and your cover letter was very impressive. I have a few questions for you myself, but I’ll let our manager take the wheel first. Dylan, did you want to ask Renee anything?”
A memory forces itself into my thoughts like a projector screen coming to life, the scene playing out so clearly it might as well be a movie in my head. It was the first time I ever went to one of the spoken word workshops at the library. A few of my friends thought it sounded cool, but not cool enough to go with me. I sat on an orange plastic chair surrounded by chatting teenagers I’d never met before and wondered why I even came in the first place.
Then Dylan walked in. He had another group leader with him, but right from the start, he stole the show. He made us get rid of the chairs and sit on the floor. He was all energy, shades of emotion constantly shifting, turning like the tide and pulling us along with him, past the doubts and hesitation that held us back until we found ourselves straight in the deep end.
One of the kids asked if there were any rules for our poems, any subjects we weren’t allowed to talk about.
“I have only one rule as far as that goes.” Dylan held up a finger, all his energy coalescing into that single point, every word marked with intention. “No small talk. I don’t want to hear the things that are easy to say. I don’t want to hear the words the world shoves in your mouth and forces you to swallow, the ones that are supposed to be polite and normal. I don’t want to hear the same script we’ve all been learning since the goddamn day we were born. I want your words.
“I want the words you’re scared to say. I want the words that feel like they’re setting you on fire when you speak them, the words that steal your sleep and keep you up until morning. It doesn’t have to be sad or dark or enlightening. Hell, one of my favourite spoken word pieces is about a guy professing love to his laptop. I don’t care what you write about, but it has to be real. It has to be true. It has be completely, totally you. I don’t want to hear any small talk. I want your words.”
That’s what he’d ask when he heard our poems, when he walked around that meeting room at the library I ended up spending so many hours in, prodding us through creative exercises and brainstorming sessions. He’d suspect someone could go deeper, push farther, break down a few more barriers to pull up the raw honesty underneath, and he’d just ask, “Are those your words?” He’d find someone feeling sucked dry of inspiration, floundering for just a hint of where to begin, and he’d sit them down and ask, “Where are your words? Let’s find them.”
It’s insane, but I half expect him to ask me that same question now.
Where are your words, Renee?
I wish I had an answer for him. I really wish I did.
Of course that’s not what he asks, but it might as well be. It’s the reason they’re gone.
“Your resume says you’re currently completing your degree over in the UK. Are you planning on going back?”
Monroe nods like the question was on her mind too. I know it’s a totally normal thing for an employer to ask; I was expecting to have to talk about it. I have the answer all planned out in my head.
Small talk.
It’s the easy version of the story, the polite one, the one people can listen to without cringing or looking away.
“I’m taking a year off school to save up and get some work experience.” My answer comes out just a little too peppy. “So you don’t have to worry about losing me anytime soon.”
“Good to know,” Monroe replies. “And you’re looking for part time?”
“Yes, if possible.”
“I know you originally applied for a serving position, but when we talked on the phone you said you’d consider bartending. We’re desperately in need of someone else behind the bar, so I just want to know if you’d still be comfortable with that.”