[18+]
[Closer to You spin off • If you plan on reading the Closer to You series, I recommend reading that first, as this story contains MAJOR spoilers... but CAN BE READ AS STAND ALONE]
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Parker Larson should've made something of himself. Hi...
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"Why do you want this job?" The guy, middle aged and balding badly, looks at me from behind thick glasses. He puts my sorry excuse of a resume on the desk in front of him, folding his hands together like he's more important than he is.
"Why do I want the job?" I repeat, pushing my fingers through my hair. Surprisingly, I hadn't expected to answer this question.
It's not really the type of job a person is passionate about, if you know what I mean.
A number of possible replies run through my head, none of which I can say out loud without being told to get lost.
To get fucking paid, that's one reason.
Okay, it's the only reason.
I clench and unclench my fist against my jeans, glaring out the small window in his office. More like a closet, but he called it his office, so...
Kids, ranging from really young to... older, I guess, run about the playground, shouting, laughing, drawing over the cement in brightly colored sidewalk chalk.
"Mr. Larson?" The man mutters, eyeing me suspiciously.
"Parker." I almost bark, disgusted with the use of my last name. Mr. Parker is and has always been, my father. The stuck-up prick that he is. "Um right, well. I really need a job."
Emma, wife to my best friend Beau Lewis, and one of my own closest allies, has prepared me better than this. We practiced and everything. I rack my brain for the flash cards she made me, covered in interview questions and ways I could make myself sound better than I really am.
I lick my lips and continue quickly, coming up with some happy-as-shit sounding lie and spewing it easily.
"But I wanted something that felt more meaningful." I glance out the window again, to the kiddos playing in the grass, and my mind goes to my nephews, Danny, Mark, and Nick, and to my god-daughter, Maggie. "And I really like kids."
"You understand," The man, Principal Rivers, says, in a tone I'm trying not to take as condescending, "That this position has very little direct contact with the children."
Meeting his eyes and resisting the urge to roll my own, I nod slowly. "Yes." I cover my fist with my other hand, "Yes, I'm aware that the janitorial position has minimal contact with the students."
With a sigh, the man goes back to reviewing my resume. Even with Emma's help, her writing skills and college experience to boot, my resume is shit.
Something about a couple year stint in various rehab programs when I should've been in college isn't so appealing to prospective employers. Especially when you've got a couple years of doing absolutely nothing immediately following it.
I let out a sigh of my own. I can't live off Beau and Emma anymore - I've lived in their spare room far too long already. A few years too long, in fact. And they aren't kicking me out - I'm one of the family, as they always tell me - rather, I'm kicking myself out.
