The November rain didn’t fall so much as linger, hovering in the air like it couldn’t decide whether to commit. Just enough to blur the windshield, just enough to make the city look like it was crying softly in the background. A gray, patient sadness that matched the tight coil in my chest.
I sat in my car outside the glass-and-steel building, the kind designed for people who had their lives together. I didn’t feel like one of those people. Not today. Maybe not ever.
We came to Portland for a reset. The rain only reflected what I feared: still gray, still unsure. Starting over wasn’t moving things; it was earning a place.
In the rearview mirror, my reflection stared back. Hair curled the way YouTube promised would look “effortless professional.” A blazer pinching at my shoulders. Lips pressed so tight they looked like they needed instructions to remember how to smile.
“You’ve got this,” I whispered.
The kind of thing people say in movies. Or print on mugs. It didn’t help. But I said it anyway, like a reflex. Like praying when you don’t even believe. Because I wanted to believe. I needed this to be different. I needed it to be the one that mattered.
I checked my phone. There was one unread message.
My husband, Jake: Good luck today.
Sent two hours ago.
I didn’t know what I was hoping for. A call, maybe. Something more than a six-word text that felt like it had been sent out of obligation. He hadn’t asked the name of the company. He didn’t know the job title. Just nodded last night and said, “Tell me how it goes,” eyes never leaving his game.
Marc walked in like he wasn’t in a rush, but didn’t have time to waste either. Early forties, maybe. Short light hair. Navy button-up, sleeves rolled. No tie. Confident, but not loud. His eyes were calm but unreadable, the kind that had seen too much and stopped reacting to any of it. Something in that stillness made my chest tighten.
“Diane?” he said, holding out his hand. “Thanks for coming in.”
Maggie Linn
