forbidden word while in his presence—“mozzarella and fresh baked bread. I hear the food is out of this world.”
“Traveling abroad takes language study to the next level. Conversing with people in their native tongue is a powerful way to connect. I highly recommend it.”
I smiled but kept my mouth shut. The flare of passion in his voice, in his brown-sugar eyes, made me want to know more about his experience in this area. Where had he traveled? What languages did he speak?
He closed the folder and sat back in his chair, his overall demeanor seeming to have warmed by at least half a degree.
“So why do you want to volunteer at The Bridge, Molly?”
For a man who seemed smitten by an application form I was quite certain he’d authored himself, this was about the most anticlimactic ending to an interview I could have imagined, seeing as I’d answered that particular question in written form at least six times in six different ways. I tamped down my internal frustration, remembering that I was a professional, a businesswoman with a goal. “Because I care about my community and the needs of the kids who live in it.” There. Simple, sweet, and to the point.
“And what needs do you believe you can help with . . . specifically?”
Specifically? “Well.” I smiled. “I think we’ve already established that when in a pinch, I can easily double as a human target.” I chuckled, but he did not. Fine. If he wanted serious, then I’d give him serious. “Mr. Whittaker, I built a self-made business from the ground up—first by researching how to upload tutorials to YouTube while filming some daily makeup, hair, and fashion tips from the kitchen pantry of my first apartment. Nobody knew my name or my face and nobody cared a lick about what I thought I could teach women in the beauty arena. My first few videos were only viewed by my friends and some family members. But little by little, I grew a following who shared those videos and commented with their encouragement for me to continue. My first sponsor—a protein bar catering to women’s health—found me ten months and a hundred and fifteen videos in. Their partnership provided me better camera and editing equipment, and about seventy-five percent of my daily sustenance, too. I now have a hundred and twenty-four companies who have partnered with my brand and my vision to bring a new level of honesty to the beauty industry worldwide, and with over half a million followers who engage in my weekly videos and livestreams, that number continues to grow daily, as do the products and retailers I endorse. So . . . what I have to offer your residents is a lesson in grit and determination.”
If Mr. Whittaker was impressed by any of that, he certainly did not show it. Instead, he leaned forward in his chair and released an exhale that had me itching to pull out my phone and tap into my Instagram account to prove I hadn’t exaggerated a single word of it.
But something told me it wouldn’t matter.
“You want to teach . . . grit?”
“Well, yes, and—”
He gave the tiniest shake of his head and sighed. “Miss McKenzie—Molly,” he corrected. “While I can appreciate your ambition and marketing abilities, I’m afraid that grit is not a quality our residents lack. Grit is how most of them survived their childhood. Grit is the common denominator for every child who’s ever lived through trauma. It’s kept them breathing in times most people would wish themselves dead. And it’s also kept many of them from experiencing deep and meaningful relationships, because the same instinct that tells them to push away potential failure and hurt has become the only instinct they know how to trust. The youth in our program don’t need more grit. They need more grace—to be seen, heard, known. To be real.”
It was suddenly difficult to swallow, much less speak. There was so much to digest in what he’d just said, so much to process and make sense of that—
“I want to thank you for your time, Miss McKenzie. Please give your brother my regards, and if we have a need for your services in the future, I’ll have Glo give you a call.”
He rolled his chair back and made to stand, but my legs refused to obey the signal my mind transmitted. He’d denied my application? I’d failed the interview process?
“Wait . . . does that mean you’re not approving my application?