The Fortunate Ones
Page 10
I can hear the engine purring over the sound of Ian complaining about how he almost lost his high waiting so long, but I’m focused on the idea of James. I want to know what the interior of his car feels like. I want to know what kind of music he likes to play at this time of night. I want to know where he’s heading when we hit the first main road and he turns right before we turn left.
I’m disappointed because I will never get those answers.
“Ian, I think we should talk.”
CHAPTER FIVE
I’ve called my mom five times in the past two weeks and she hasn’t answered once. If we were dating, I would have probably picked up on her not-so-subtle attempt to get rid of me and moved on, but she’s my mom, and therefore can’t ignore me forever. To be fair, she did attempt to call me back last week, but it was at 1:27 AM. Silly me, I was asleep. Now, I try again, counting the rings as they tick by while simultaneously digesting the new decor in my dad’s guest bathroom.
It’s Wednesday, which means I should be hanging out at Flying Saucer with co-op friends, kicking ass in trivia. Music is my topic of choice. There isn’t a late 90s, early 2000s song I cannot name, date, and sing (poorly) word for word. Tonight, however, my team is playing without me. I’ve already received three text messages asking me about various pop lyrics. Who doesn’t know the full chorus to Britney’s “Baby One More Time”? They should be ashamed.
The phone rings on and on.
I inspect the new pendant light hanging over the bathroom sink. Martha must be watching Fixer Upper. There’s enough shiplap in this bathroom to build an actual ship.
“Hi, you’ve reached Laura Acosta. Sorry I missed your call. Leave a message after the beep.”
I do not leave a message. Voicemails, like Britney, are a relic of decades gone by. I need immediate gratification.
I punch the little red circle repeatedly and end the call four times over.
Everyone is waiting for me at the dinner table, and I can hear Ellie chatting with my dad about the country club. He’s been a member for as long as I can remember, but he’s never there. Work keeps him busy, thank goodness. The only thing worse than working at the cabana would be working at the cabana while my dad hovers nearby, teasing in that adorable yet infuriating way only dads can manage. Martha’s there a lot, but only to play tennis with her friends. She sometimes stays for brunch, but usually leaves before my shift starts.
It occurs to me that I’ve been in the restroom for a while now. They’ve probably concluded that Martha’s carefully puffed soufflé is not sitting well with me. I know I’ll have to leave the safety of this shiplap dungeon soon, but I was really hoping my mom would answer my call. I want to ask her about Christmas, just to prove Ellie wrong. She is coming, see?!
When I make it back to the dining room, I pause in the doorway for a moment and take in the charming tableau presented there. The three of them look like an all-American family enjoying their post-dinner coffee and dessert. Martha is wearing a brightly patterned blouse and white jeans. My dad admires her with a warm smile before he reaches across the table and takes her hand. There is a steaming cup of decaf waiting for me on my placemat and a half-devoured peach pie with a crumble top in the center of the table.
“Would you like some pie, Brooke?” Martha asks in her pleasant tone when she notices me standing there. It’s not one of those nauseatingly pleasant tones of cordiality; it is, in fact, genuine, which I find worse. “Or I could get you something else if you aren’t”—she drops her voice—“feeling well?”
She’s trying to ask tactfully if I am having a case of the shits.
I point to the pie. “I’ll just take a slice. Thank you.”
“Are you feeling okay?” Ellie asks me from across the table. “You were in there for like 45 minutes.”
Martha clears her throat, and my dad hides a laugh before adding, “Ellie, save the bathroom talk for after dinner. I’m still eating my pie.”
We’re grown adults, but it still makes me smile when Ellie gets reprimanded. Residual immaturity.
“I was actually checking out the new decor in there,” I respond. “It looks great. Last time I was here, you’d just taken down the old wallpaper.”
Martha beams as she hands me my slice of pie. “Oh! Well, thank you. I’ve been watching this show on HGTV and it’s given me the renovation bug.”
I smirk and give myself a mental pat on the back for being right about ol’ Chip and Jo.
“Did you bring in a designer?” I ask, because I know she didn’t.
She blushes. “No, actually I did it myself.”
“Wow! It looks so professional!”
My dad is smiling at me because he likes when I play nice with Martha. It’s like he and Ellie expect me to come to dinner and breathe fire, but I’m not that bad. Just because I don’t want to actively pursue a relationship with Martha doesn’t mean I hate the woman. She makes crumble-top pie, people—she’s not the devil. I realize that, but I already have a mom. She might be a million miles away with a perpetually dead cell phone, but she’s still alive.
“Martha and I were talking about doing a spa day soon,” Ellie says after taking a sip of her coffee. “She went to some fundraiser last month and bid on a massive package from Milk + Honey.”
Martha nods. “It includes massages, manicures, and pedicures—maybe facials too, I have to check. It’s actually for four people, but we could divvy up the remaining treatments between the three of us and make a whole day of it.”
They’re both looking at me expectantly, but I’m hesitant to agree. While I love cucumber eye masks and tiny women digging their elbows into my back as much as the next person, I don’t want to make this a habit—that is, this “girl time” thing with Martha and Ellie. I’ve spent the last few years keeping a healthy distance, which is why on Wednesdays, I usually opt for trivia night instead of family dinner. This week, Ellie convinced me to come, and now the stone is rolling down the hill trading moss for spa day invites.
“Can I get back to you?” I ask, and there is a collective sad sigh around the room like I’ve just turned on the Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commercial.
My dad is scowling at me, but Martha is quick to fill the silence. “Of course! Why don’t you check your schedule and pick a day that works well for you? I’m pretty flexible.”
I smile, and even though I have no intention of doing that, I agree anyway. “Sounds good.”
Ellie pushes back from the table and comes around to collect my pie plate. “Done?”
“Wait! I was—”
I try to yank it back, but it’s too late. She’s carrying my plate to the kitchen before I even managed one bite. It’s my punishment, and I know if I stick around, she’s only going to make it worse. So, I request an Uber, thank my dad and Martha for a lovely dinner, and scurry out of the house before Ellie can hunt me down and scold me like Mr. Knightly in Emma. Badly done, Brooke. Badly done. Yeah? Well screw you, Mr. Knightly-Ellie.
…
Other than the family dinner and a few desperate phone calls to my mother, the last two weeks have been filled with the following:
- Two meetings with the au pair agency trying to place me with a family
- Nine shifts at the country club
- Three very awkward encounters with Ian in the co-op kitchen
- Six runs around Town Lake
- One afternoon spent reading Harry Potter en français (I laugh every time Neville Longbottom is mentioned in the French version as “Neville Londubat”—literally translated as “Neville Long-in-the-butt”)
And, though I am ashamed to admit it…
- At least four hundred million thoughts about James
I haven’t seen him since our late-night conversation at the bar. He hasn’t been to the club, or if he has, it hasn’t been during one of my shifts. I could ask Ellie if she’s seen him in the dining room during dinner service, but that would only lead to questions about why I care. Up until this point, I’ve played it cool when it comes to James. My infatuation has remained low-key and hidden, but if Ellie gets ahold of it, there’s no telling what she’ll do. If history is any indication, she will march right up to him in the high school cafeteria and proclaim my love in front of the entire lacrosse team. Joey Larson, just to be clear, I didn’t want to “marry you and have your babies”, I just thought you looked hot swinging that bat thing around the field—sue me.
I’m disappointed because I will never get those answers.
“Ian, I think we should talk.”
CHAPTER FIVE
I’ve called my mom five times in the past two weeks and she hasn’t answered once. If we were dating, I would have probably picked up on her not-so-subtle attempt to get rid of me and moved on, but she’s my mom, and therefore can’t ignore me forever. To be fair, she did attempt to call me back last week, but it was at 1:27 AM. Silly me, I was asleep. Now, I try again, counting the rings as they tick by while simultaneously digesting the new decor in my dad’s guest bathroom.
It’s Wednesday, which means I should be hanging out at Flying Saucer with co-op friends, kicking ass in trivia. Music is my topic of choice. There isn’t a late 90s, early 2000s song I cannot name, date, and sing (poorly) word for word. Tonight, however, my team is playing without me. I’ve already received three text messages asking me about various pop lyrics. Who doesn’t know the full chorus to Britney’s “Baby One More Time”? They should be ashamed.
The phone rings on and on.
I inspect the new pendant light hanging over the bathroom sink. Martha must be watching Fixer Upper. There’s enough shiplap in this bathroom to build an actual ship.
“Hi, you’ve reached Laura Acosta. Sorry I missed your call. Leave a message after the beep.”
I do not leave a message. Voicemails, like Britney, are a relic of decades gone by. I need immediate gratification.
I punch the little red circle repeatedly and end the call four times over.
Everyone is waiting for me at the dinner table, and I can hear Ellie chatting with my dad about the country club. He’s been a member for as long as I can remember, but he’s never there. Work keeps him busy, thank goodness. The only thing worse than working at the cabana would be working at the cabana while my dad hovers nearby, teasing in that adorable yet infuriating way only dads can manage. Martha’s there a lot, but only to play tennis with her friends. She sometimes stays for brunch, but usually leaves before my shift starts.
It occurs to me that I’ve been in the restroom for a while now. They’ve probably concluded that Martha’s carefully puffed soufflé is not sitting well with me. I know I’ll have to leave the safety of this shiplap dungeon soon, but I was really hoping my mom would answer my call. I want to ask her about Christmas, just to prove Ellie wrong. She is coming, see?!
When I make it back to the dining room, I pause in the doorway for a moment and take in the charming tableau presented there. The three of them look like an all-American family enjoying their post-dinner coffee and dessert. Martha is wearing a brightly patterned blouse and white jeans. My dad admires her with a warm smile before he reaches across the table and takes her hand. There is a steaming cup of decaf waiting for me on my placemat and a half-devoured peach pie with a crumble top in the center of the table.
“Would you like some pie, Brooke?” Martha asks in her pleasant tone when she notices me standing there. It’s not one of those nauseatingly pleasant tones of cordiality; it is, in fact, genuine, which I find worse. “Or I could get you something else if you aren’t”—she drops her voice—“feeling well?”
She’s trying to ask tactfully if I am having a case of the shits.
I point to the pie. “I’ll just take a slice. Thank you.”
“Are you feeling okay?” Ellie asks me from across the table. “You were in there for like 45 minutes.”
Martha clears her throat, and my dad hides a laugh before adding, “Ellie, save the bathroom talk for after dinner. I’m still eating my pie.”
We’re grown adults, but it still makes me smile when Ellie gets reprimanded. Residual immaturity.
“I was actually checking out the new decor in there,” I respond. “It looks great. Last time I was here, you’d just taken down the old wallpaper.”
Martha beams as she hands me my slice of pie. “Oh! Well, thank you. I’ve been watching this show on HGTV and it’s given me the renovation bug.”
I smirk and give myself a mental pat on the back for being right about ol’ Chip and Jo.
“Did you bring in a designer?” I ask, because I know she didn’t.
She blushes. “No, actually I did it myself.”
“Wow! It looks so professional!”
My dad is smiling at me because he likes when I play nice with Martha. It’s like he and Ellie expect me to come to dinner and breathe fire, but I’m not that bad. Just because I don’t want to actively pursue a relationship with Martha doesn’t mean I hate the woman. She makes crumble-top pie, people—she’s not the devil. I realize that, but I already have a mom. She might be a million miles away with a perpetually dead cell phone, but she’s still alive.
“Martha and I were talking about doing a spa day soon,” Ellie says after taking a sip of her coffee. “She went to some fundraiser last month and bid on a massive package from Milk + Honey.”
Martha nods. “It includes massages, manicures, and pedicures—maybe facials too, I have to check. It’s actually for four people, but we could divvy up the remaining treatments between the three of us and make a whole day of it.”
They’re both looking at me expectantly, but I’m hesitant to agree. While I love cucumber eye masks and tiny women digging their elbows into my back as much as the next person, I don’t want to make this a habit—that is, this “girl time” thing with Martha and Ellie. I’ve spent the last few years keeping a healthy distance, which is why on Wednesdays, I usually opt for trivia night instead of family dinner. This week, Ellie convinced me to come, and now the stone is rolling down the hill trading moss for spa day invites.
“Can I get back to you?” I ask, and there is a collective sad sigh around the room like I’ve just turned on the Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commercial.
My dad is scowling at me, but Martha is quick to fill the silence. “Of course! Why don’t you check your schedule and pick a day that works well for you? I’m pretty flexible.”
I smile, and even though I have no intention of doing that, I agree anyway. “Sounds good.”
Ellie pushes back from the table and comes around to collect my pie plate. “Done?”
“Wait! I was—”
I try to yank it back, but it’s too late. She’s carrying my plate to the kitchen before I even managed one bite. It’s my punishment, and I know if I stick around, she’s only going to make it worse. So, I request an Uber, thank my dad and Martha for a lovely dinner, and scurry out of the house before Ellie can hunt me down and scold me like Mr. Knightly in Emma. Badly done, Brooke. Badly done. Yeah? Well screw you, Mr. Knightly-Ellie.
…
Other than the family dinner and a few desperate phone calls to my mother, the last two weeks have been filled with the following:
- Two meetings with the au pair agency trying to place me with a family
- Nine shifts at the country club
- Three very awkward encounters with Ian in the co-op kitchen
- Six runs around Town Lake
- One afternoon spent reading Harry Potter en français (I laugh every time Neville Longbottom is mentioned in the French version as “Neville Londubat”—literally translated as “Neville Long-in-the-butt”)
And, though I am ashamed to admit it…
- At least four hundred million thoughts about James
I haven’t seen him since our late-night conversation at the bar. He hasn’t been to the club, or if he has, it hasn’t been during one of my shifts. I could ask Ellie if she’s seen him in the dining room during dinner service, but that would only lead to questions about why I care. Up until this point, I’ve played it cool when it comes to James. My infatuation has remained low-key and hidden, but if Ellie gets ahold of it, there’s no telling what she’ll do. If history is any indication, she will march right up to him in the high school cafeteria and proclaim my love in front of the entire lacrosse team. Joey Larson, just to be clear, I didn’t want to “marry you and have your babies”, I just thought you looked hot swinging that bat thing around the field—sue me.
