Chapter 2 - The Last Interview

Michael hated afternoon interviews.

Morning interviews at least allowed for optimism. By four o’clock, the entire day became contaminated by anticipation. Every hour before it felt temporary. Pointless.

At 12:17 Tuesday afternoon, Michael stood in the kitchen eating leftover pasta directly from a bowl while staring at his laptop.

The recruiter confirmation email remained open.

4:00 PM — Final Screening Interview

SynerTech Health Solutions

He had reread the email at least twenty times already.

Michelle moved through the kitchen behind him, still on calls despite technically working from home that afternoon. She wore a fitted ivory blouse and navy slacks, her headset balanced perfectly against sleek dark hair.

Michael watched her from the corner of his eye.

She never looked uncertain anymore.

That was what bothered him most.

Not her success.

Her ease.

At one time they had both sounded important on phone calls. Both had calendars full of meetings. Both had business trips and catered lunches and coworkers who answered emails immediately.

Now only Michelle belonged to that world.

“You should eat something lighter,” she said without muting herself.

Michael frowned. “What?”

“For the interview.”

“You’re critiquing my lunch now?”

Michelle muted her headset and turned toward him.

“You always feel sluggish after pasta.”

“It’s pasta.”

“And you get tired afterward.”

“It’s an interview, not a triathlon.”

Michelle studied him for a moment.

“You’re already defensive.”

Michael laughed bitterly. “I haven’t even logged on yet.”

“That’s my point.”

Her Teams notification chimed.

She unmuted herself instantly, voice smoothing back into polished executive calm.

“Sorry, continue.”

Michael watched her walk into the dining room carrying her laptop like a shield.

He suddenly hated the house.

Not the physical house.

The atmosphere of it.

The silent hierarchy.

Michelle paid for most of it now:

* the mortgage,

* Ethan’s tuition gap,

* Sophie’s car insurance,

* the kitchen renovation,

* the cleaning service.

Michael contributed unemployment checks and strained optimism.

The resentment sat inside him constantly now, low and hot.

He rinsed the bowl and looked out the kitchen window.

Gray February rain coated the backyard deck.

At some point during the past two years, he had stopped imagining the future entirely. Life had narrowed into weeks. Then days. Then interviews.

Just survive until the next possibility.

At 1:04, Ethan came downstairs wearing sweats and carrying his laptop bag.

“You heading back to school already?” Michael asked.

“Yeah.”

“You just got home.”

“I have a project meeting.”

Michael nodded slowly.

Ethan lingered awkwardly near the doorway.

Then:

“Good luck today.”

Michael blinked.

It was the first encouraging thing Ethan had said about the job search in months.

“Thanks, see you in a few weeks.”

Ethan nodded once and left.

The garage door rumbled shut beneath the house.

Michael stood quietly in the kitchen afterward, oddly emotional over something so small.

⸻

At 2:15, Michael showered.

At 2:47, he changed shirts twice.

At 3:10, he stood in the upstairs bathroom studying himself critically.

The overhead light was brutal.

Gray at the temples.

Dark circles.

The beginnings of jowls.

Michelle always looked composed on camera. Michael looked like someone apologizing for taking up bandwidth.

He shaved again despite already shaving that morning.

Then he put on the white dress shirt Michelle had selected for him.

“White looks cleaner on Zoom,” she had said earlier.

The shirt still fit well.

That almost annoyed him more than if it didn’t.

He buttoned the cuffs carefully and practiced smiling in the mirror.

The result looked strained.

At 3:32, Michelle appeared in the doorway of the bedroom carrying a steaming mug of coffee.

“You’re early,” she said.

“I didn’t want to rush.”

“That’s good.”

She set the mug down beside him and adjusted his collar automatically.

The gesture felt strangely intimate.

Almost old-fashioned.

For one second he remembered:

* hotel rooms before conferences,

* Michelle fixing his tie,

* kissing him before presentations,

* believing they were building a life together.

Now it felt like she was preparing him for inspection.

“You need to sit higher,” she said, eyeing the webcam setup in the study. “The angle makes you look tired.”

“I am tired.”

“Don’t say that in the interview.”

Michael sat heavily at the desk.

Michelle adjusted the laptop slightly.

“Less overhead light,” she murmured. “And stop leaning on your hand. It makes you look defeated.”

He stared at her.

“You really know how to inspire confidence.”

Michelle sighed.

“Michael, I’m trying to help you.”

“I know.”

“And?”

“And it feels like coaching someone through hospice.”

She froze.

For a moment neither spoke.

Then quietly:

“You think this is easy for me?”

Michael looked away first.

Because the answer was no.

It probably wasn’t.

⸻

At exactly 4:00 PM, the Zoom window opened.

Derek Simmons — Senior Talent Acquisition Partner

Derek appeared from a bright office with exposed brick walls and aggressively modern furniture. He looked about thirty-two and spoke with the relentless enthusiasm of someone who still believed corporate culture videos were sincere.

“Michael! Great to finally connect.”

“You too.”

Michael smiled carefully.

The interview began smoothly enough:

* operational leadership,

* marketing integration,

* team development,

* strategic growth initiatives.

Michael knew this language instinctively. He’d spoken it for decades.

But midway through the conversation, he felt the shift.

Derek’s attention became polite instead of engaged.

Interested instead of invested.

Then came the question Michael now dreaded every single time.

“So tell me,” Derek said, “how do you feel about adapting to a younger, fast-paced team culture?”

There it was.

Again.

Michael folded his hands beneath the desk.

“I’ve managed multi-generational teams throughout my career.”

“Absolutely,” Derek said quickly. “And adaptability is huge for us.”

Adaptability.

Corporate code for:

old.

Derek glanced down at his notes.

“And just to be transparent, this role reports to a Director who’s fairly early in her career.”

Her career.

Michael almost laughed.

Ten years ago, he would have been interviewing her.

Now recruiters warned him not to resent her authority.

“I’m comfortable reporting to anyone qualified,” Michael answered evenly.

“Love that,” Derek said brightly.

Michael felt something inside himself sink.

The phrases were always the same now:

* fresh energy,

* agile culture,

* dynamic environment,

* digital-native mindset.

Nobody ever said age.

They didn’t have to.

By 4:18, Michael already knew he wasn’t getting the job.

At 4:21, Derek smiled sympathetically.

“We’ll definitely keep your background in mind moving forward.”

Translation:

No.

The call ended.

Silence flooded the study.

Michael stared at his own reflection in the dark laptop screen.

White shirt.

Carefully combed hair.

Professional lighting.

Twenty-eight years of experience.

And somehow he still looked obsolete.

Downstairs, Michelle laughed softly at something on another work call.

Michael closed his eyes.

Then slowly stood and walked downstairs.

Michelle looked up immediately when he entered the kitchen.

“Well?”

Michael opened the refrigerator without answering.

“That bad?”

He grabbed a bottle of water.

“They want younger.”

“Did they actually say that?”

“They don’t have to.”

Michelle leaned against the counter.

“What exactly happened?”

Michael laughed once.

“They asked if I could adapt.”

Michelle winced slightly.

“Ah.”

“Yeah. ‘Fresh energy.’ ‘Fast-paced culture.’”

He twisted the water bottle cap harder than necessary.

“They look at me like I’m someone’s exhausted father trying to learn Slack.”

Michelle stayed quiet.

Then carefully:

“You do get angry during interviews.”

Michael stared at her.

“I’m unemployed, Michelle.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

Her expression sharpened slightly.

“You think this has been easy for me?”

“At least you still belong in those rooms.”

That landed harder than he intended.

Michelle looked away briefly.

Because they both knew it was true.

Michael leaned heavily against the counter.

“You know what’s funny?” he muttered. “At this point I’d probably have better luck if this résumé belonged to a woman.”

Michelle looked up sharply.

Something changed in her expression.

A flicker.

Not amusement.

Not disbelief.

An idea.

Michael didn’t notice.

He grabbed the printed résumé from the island and headed upstairs.

Michelle remained alone in the kitchen.

Slowly, thoughtfully, she picked up the top page.

MICHAEL BRENNAN

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

Then she opened her laptop.

A blank résumé template appeared on the screen.

Michelle rested her fingers on the keyboard.

Then erased Michael and quietly typed:

Jennifer