She asks me, “So, where’re you from?” I tell her I’m from this small town in California. She goes, “Isn’t there a presidential library near there?” I answer, “Yeah, it’s the Reagan Presidential Library, I worked there and . . .” And the moment I said “Reagan,” I thought I should backtrack. “Well, I really didn’t like it though – my mother forced me to work there. I’m not even a Republican.”

I’m walking toward the door with the partner behind me as we pass about a dozen photos of his family. I say, “You have a very nice office. I like your photos.” My small talk game is on point.

I’m distracted thinking about how well the interview went, and how I’m going to smile and thank the partner for his time, when he responds, pointing at one of the photos: “That’s my son. He’s getting married this weekend.”

I go, “Oh cool, are you going to the wedding?”

We get outside the restaurant, somewhere in Midtown, and we’re about to part ways. I turn toward one of the interviewers and go in for a hug—purely on reflex—as she stretches her hand out for a handshake. I manage to mush her hand into my body as I half commit to the hug. I feel awkward, try to back out, apologize.

But really, I love NYC. It’s home to me, and I don’t want to live in DC. Ugh, but this firm is so perfect for me. For them, I would go to DC anyway.

The interview starts with a few very typical questions. Do you like law school? What’s your favorite class? How was your summer job? Then he cuts me off mid-sentence and goes, “So, New York or DC?”

“Well, it’s going to be a really tough decision for me. Really tough. I love New York, it would be very difficult for me to leave.”

I can see myself saying these things and my inner voice is screaming. STOP. NO. YOU LOVE DC! DC!!!

But it’s too late. A few days later, I got a rejection email.