Hello Adventure

Chapter 1 - Catch Flights Not Feelings

"You're not getting the job."

"What was that?" I almost dropped the glass of water that Ryder Scott—office assistant and gatekeeper to Ms. Stasia Dimonico—just handed me.

"The job," he repeated with patronizing slowness, "there's no way you're getting it."

"But I haven't even met Stasia Dimonico yet. Is it the heels?" I asked.

Balancing on one foot, I kicked up a shoe like I was checking the bottom for dog shit. Okay, fine: traditionally speaking, the shoes could be classed at as a smidgen too tall for a job interview, but this was the image-conscious world of public relations—a field dominated by chic, extraordinary women. And this wasn't just any PR shop that I was interviewing for: This was Swish, an agency known for infusing the stuffy, old-fashioned luxury travel industry with much-needed youth and coolness. Swish had style!

Ryder Scott ignored my heels. "We've been interviewing for this role for months, okay? And no one's gotten a callback."

I dropped my distressed flamingo pose, feeling my face fall.

Ryder smirked. "Don't look at me like that—I'm trying to give you a heads-up," he said, like he was doing me this big favor. "I just don't want you to get your little hopes up. Better tear this dream off your vision board because it's not happening for you. No chance."

As Ryder spoke, he directed me into a glass-walled conference room with the clinical, no-nonsense reserve of a nurse about to perform a routine pap smear. In other words: neither one of us was especially enthusiastic about what was about to go down.

Ryder sat down, man-spreading all over the place, and I forced down a swallow of water, which only pushed the knot in my throat down an inch. The conference room windows showed off the still-summery, leafy streets of Boston's Back Bay, and I tried my best to focus on the pretty view.

Forget the shoes. You've got this. I pepped to myself like a one-woman cheer squad. Ryder hadn't told me anything I didn't already know: The job listing first opened in May—right after I graduated, and it was still open now, at the end of September when I finally worked up the confidence to apply.

"Well, Ryder, maybe I'll be the one to break the curse," I said, trying my best to keep a hold on my slithering confidence.

When I was prepping for the interview, I ferreted out everything the internet could tell me about Anastasia "Stasia" Dimonico and her long-time office assistant Ryder Scott. A self-described "lax player" from Hartford, Ryder had graduated with a BA in marketing and—if this conversation was any indication—in being a cold-hearted dickhead. According to his social media profiles, he was your average grown-up frat boy, fully equipped with an inflated sense of self; user of the term "douche canoe;" devotee of CrossFit; and executor of finger-guns (sans irony).

"Listen, Stasia is tough, and you—well, no offensive—but you look like your standard issue bathroom crier."

I polished away a fingerprint on the glass table with the underside of my fist and conspicuously cleared my throat. "What do you mean?" I asked with naivety, even though I knew what he meant. Oh, I knew damn well what that douche canoe meant. I searched for restraint and a passable smile—one of those huge grins you beam when you're screaming internally.

"You look like one of those delicate snowflakes who runs off and sobs in the toilet whenever their boss yells at them," he cackled like a super villain, getting a voyeuristic mean thrill off the imagined misery.

Ryder Scott. The fuck kind of name is that? You man-boys with your reversible names! I was tempted dig into him, but this job—the dream job—was weightier that anything Ryder Scott could throw at me.