The door opened. An African American woman walked in, her Mary Jane heels clicking sharply against the tile floor. She sat across from me, her posture straight, her gaze calm. She rested her hands on the table and smiled. I didn’t return it. Instead, I tapped the table, bit my lip, and kept my eyes on her, noticing the silence hanging between us.

Her smile faltered. She tilted her head slightly, an eyebrow rising, measuring me.

“Here for the job interview?” I asked.

“Yes. The product manager position,” she said, her voice steady, controlled.

My interview was already ten minutes late. I sat at a table too large for this room, too empty. It was bare, save for a few dry-erase pens, a stapler. Blank burnt orange walls stared back at me, reminding me of dried clay or rust. Who thought that was a good color? A whiteboard with smudged numbers—left behind by a lazy cleaning job—was the only thing keeping the room from resembling a '70s sci-fi interrogation chamber.

The clock ticked. I felt every second.

“Have you worked in direct selling before?” she inquired, placing her phone on the desk before drawing a grey tote bag with black handles onto her lap.

I tried to ignore how at ease she looked in her sleek black blazer. “No. You?”

“I interned at one for a semester. It’s an interesting world.”

My eyes darted to her, then back to the door. Were they planning to question us together? It was unusual for white collar jobs, but not unheard of. The thought gnawed at my nerves, amplifying my unease. Despite the chill of early March outside, beads of sweat formed on my back, my shirt clinging uncomfortably to my skin.

She reached into the bag and pulled out some sheets of paper. “My interview isn’t until 10,” she said. “I was early, and they said I could wait. But they didn’t say another candidate would be, too. Awkward, right?”

I stared at the papers, trying to read upside down. “Your resume?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mind? I’d like to see what I’m up against.”

“Sure,” she said, “if you reciprocate.”

“Fair enough,” I said, and we exchanged documents.

Her name was Octavia Hurston. Based on the dates of her degrees, I figured she was probably in her late 20s, just a few years older than me, yet already a product manager at three large companies. A steady climb in responsibility and title pointed to fast-moving ambition or talent, likely both. Her hobbies were reading, pickleball, and working with a nonprofit called Black Girls Code.

She was sharp, accomplished, and polished. So why was she interviewing at Candela? I mean, I was here too, but that made sense. She seemed like someone who had options.

I handed the resume back to her. “Not good,” I mumbled.

“What?” she asked, glancing at the returned document, concerned.

“I meant not good for me. You’re way more qualified.”

She smiled as she handed back my resume. "Thanks, but yours is solid. Clear, quantified achievements, good action verbs.”

I glanced down at the resume I’d spent hours crafting, each line a loving exaggeration of the truth. Was she being sincere or mocking me? I let out a slow breath, willing my foot to stop tapping. Why had I ever thought this would be simple?

“How did you hear about Candela?” Octavia asked.

I hesitated. Mentioning my LinkedIn connection to Louis, the hiring manager, suddenly felt like admitting to cheating on a test. "Through a connection," I said vaguely, remembering Louis's emphasis on "cultural fit" over qualifications. “You?”

“It came up in a search, and I applied through the website.”

I watched Octavia rotate her twist braids with her right forefinger while reading notes.

Questions crowded my mind, each one louder than the last.

What was she doing here? Was the job still mine?

Yesterday, Louis texted: "GL 2morow. It's formality 2 make it official.” I arrived this morning thinking the job was mine and the interview was a token gesture to check a box.

Had I misunderstood Louis entirely? The heat in the room became unbearable. I mopped sweat from my forehead as if I had just completed a marathon in Abu Dhabi.

She caught me staring. I didn’t bother looking away. Octavia gave a faint smile, correctly reading me. "I wouldn’t stress, Cody,” she said, her voice steady.

I wanted to resent her for taking this job from me, but her kindness made that hard. “Easy for you to say,” I muttered, sharper than intended.

Octavia raised her eyebrows, unfazed. “Direct selling has its own rules,” she said, her tone polite but carrying a faint undercurrent, like she knew something I didn’t.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, my voice tight with tension I couldn’t mask.

She glanced at her phone, then back at me, with an almost resigned look. “It’s just different. It has its… quirks.” She tilted her head, as if weighing whether to say more. “Just something I’ve noticed.” She shrugged slightly. “You’ll see.”

Her words lingered, a faint knot tightening in my chest, sharp and unplaceable.

The door opened, and the receptionist appeared. “Cody Harris? They’re ready for you now.”

I stood up and walked around the table toward the door.

“Good luck in there,” Octavia called out.

“Thanks,” I replied, glancing back. Our eyes met… hers calm, mine full of anxiety.

What was she getting at? Her words were part reassurance and part riddle, and I couldn’t shake them from my mind. Was there a warning tucked in her tone?

The receptionist led me away, her brisk steps pulling me from the room, but Octavia’s gaze stayed with me, steady and unreadable. A quiet churn started in my gut, a whisper that this interview might hold more than I’d bargained for. I pushed it away. I couldn’t afford doubts. Not now.

I needed a job. I needed money. Nothing else could matter.