The Fortunate Ones
Page 19
I’d rather just forget about the entire ordeal.
I’m hanging out with Ellie in her room at our dad’s house. We’re both off from work, and while our morning was spent productively (SoulCycle, brunch, laundry), our afternoon has been anything but (Real Housewives, homemade face masks, enough Instagram scrolling to make my thumb cramp. Hello millennial arthritis).
“Hey, isn’t this the guy you said James wanted to hire?”
Ellie holds her laptop out for me so I can see the article on the screen. It’s from the Austin American-Statesman and includes a large, majestic photo of James on the homepage. I tell myself they photoshopped it to make him look that good.
The headline reads: BioWear Names New CFO.
I cringe and wave it away. There’s no point in reading it.
Ellie insists, all but flinging her laptop at me. It almost topples off the bed before I catch it. “Okay! Jeez, I’ll read it.”
I skim.
“Blah blah blah thought they would pick Michael Felch, blah blah blah they picked someone else.” I hand her laptop back to her and turn back to the TV, where Countess Luann (once a countess, always a countess) is currently going on about her wedding. “Why do I care?”
Ellie groans in annoyance, but it doesn’t faze me.
I flip the channel and land on Ellen, America’s sweetheart.
“Don’t be so obtuse!”
“Wow, someone’s using the word of the day.”
“James wanted to hire Michael Felch up until last week, made you come to the party to schmooze him and his girlfriend, yet now suddenly his company hires someone else?”
“Yup.”
I flip another channel and land on Judge Judy, America’s strict but fair nanny.
“I bet he didn’t hire Michael because of what went down at the club.”
“Or maybe—and this might sound insane, so stay with me—there was more than one highly qualified candidate.”
“No. I swear this is his way of letting you know he believes you, that he’s sorry for what happened.”
You see, this is why I don’t like bringing Ellie into my personal life. Sure, we share the same parents, and I spend most of my waking non-work hours (and some of my waking work hours) with her, but she loves nothing more than going off on fanatical tangents supported by flimsy notions. If I believe James took my email into consideration when hiring his new CFO, I’m putting way too much faith in him. I’ve learned my lesson. I got burned last week, and I’m not going to fall into the same trap again.
I point to the TV. “Can’t a woman watch her daytime TV in peace?”
She plunks me in the head with her pointer finger and thumb.
“Consider the situation from his side for a second. The last woman he dated had a major drug problem—”
“What? How do you know that?”
“Social media. Anyway, she was a real partier, and now, a year later, he’s into you, someone he hopes will be different. He’s super excited about taking you to the party, maybe even hopes something will come from it, and then BOOM, you come back from the bathroom blitzed out of your mind.”
“Because Celeste drugged me.”
“Right! But from his perspective, it looks like you’re a crazy party girl. I don’t really blame him for being annoyed that night.”
I sit up and reach for my shoes. “That’s some good psychoanalysis, Freud.”
My sarcasm flies right over her head.
“Yeah, I know.”
It’s time to go. Martha is downstairs in the kitchen baking and will probably insist that I stop and chat with her for a good 45 minutes, but that’s fine—I’d stick my head into the oven if it meant getting out of this room.
“Wait, don’t leave!” She scrambles off her bed. “You were just about to agree to cover another one of my shifts.”
“Yeah, that’s a hard no.”
“C’mon! It’s this Friday.” She’s at her dresser, slamming drawers, looking for something. “Tyler has a gig playing at this local festival in the afternoon and he’s nervous the crowd won’t be very big. I have to be there to support him.”
“Sounds miserable, but not as miserable as I’ll be if I agree. Ask Marissa to cover it.”
“I already did. She’s going to the festival too.”
She finally pulls something white out of the drawers and turns to me with big puppy dog eyes. Fortunately, I’m more of a cat person.
“I promise I won’t ask you for another favor for a month.”
“That’s what you said last week.”
“A year then!”
I laugh because it’s ridiculous, but her desperation tells me she won’t be giving up any time soon.
“Sweeten the deal for me.”
“Fine. If you cover my shift, I won’t bring up any more of my theories about James.”
I arch my brows. Now we’re talking.
“And…?”
“I’ll bring back a funnel cake from the festival.”
“Deal.”
“Yay!” she says as she shoves the white thing in my arms.
“What’s this?” I ask, holding it up so the fabric unfolds and hangs limp in the air.
It’s a dress.
Actually, it’s a uniform…
She smiles sheepishly. “My shift is out on the golf course.”
“No.” I drop the dress like it’s on fire and head for her door. “Not going to happen. I’m ripping up our verbal contract.”
“It’s too late!” she calls out after me. “You already agreed!”
Absolutely not. No amount of day-old funnel cake will convince me to prance around as the beverage cart girl on the golf course.
Over.
My.
Dead.
Body.
…
Welp, I’m a dead body. I’m sitting in the employee locker room at the country club, and my shift starts in 15 minutes—correction, Ellie’s shift starts in 15 minutes. I hate that I’m here, sitting in her white polo dress. The material is some kind of thick cotton blend that is sure to suffocate me the moment I step out into the Texas heat.
I could be preparing for my shift—after all, I’ve never worked out there before—but Ellie filled me in on most of the details when she dropped the dress off last night. I was staying strong in my refusal until the tutoring agency contacted me about an interview next week. Sadly, I need Ellie to cover my shift so I can go.
I think her exact words were, Oh, how the tables have turned.
So now I’m here and Ellie is wearing a flower crown and smoking a bowl while her boyfriend bangs on a tattered tambourine.
Conversation on the other end of the locker room trickles over to me.
“—saw him just now.”
“I think he’s eating lunch.”
Two new waitresses are gossiping about one of the guests, and I’d bet a million dollars I know who it is. I still haven’t heard from him. My email gets checked every hour on the hour, but I tell myself that’s in case the agency has another interview invitation for me.
“I think the hostess put him in Sammy’s section. Lucky bitch.”
My stomach knots into a tight ball.
I look down at my watch.
14 minutes left.
I don’t want to listen to their conversation, but I don’t want to start my shift any earlier than necessary, so I reach for my phone and dial the first number I ever memorized.
I don’t expect her to answer, but then the FaceTime call starts to connect and my heart drops.
“Brooke?!”
The excitement in her voice makes my heart sore.
“Hey Mom.”
“Hold on. I didn’t realize this was FaceTime. Let me just step inside. The connection is a little better in there.”
There’s a mixture of indiscernible sounds and I’m pretty sure she drops the phone at one point, but about a minute later, her face appears on my phone screen and a wave of homesickness hits me.
“There you are! My little Bwookie. Where are you?” She squints her eyes. “Is that a locker behind your head?”
I swallow down the sudden—and strange—urge to cry as best as possible and plaster on a big smile. “Yeah, I’m at work. I only have a few minutes to talk.”
I’m hanging out with Ellie in her room at our dad’s house. We’re both off from work, and while our morning was spent productively (SoulCycle, brunch, laundry), our afternoon has been anything but (Real Housewives, homemade face masks, enough Instagram scrolling to make my thumb cramp. Hello millennial arthritis).
“Hey, isn’t this the guy you said James wanted to hire?”
Ellie holds her laptop out for me so I can see the article on the screen. It’s from the Austin American-Statesman and includes a large, majestic photo of James on the homepage. I tell myself they photoshopped it to make him look that good.
The headline reads: BioWear Names New CFO.
I cringe and wave it away. There’s no point in reading it.
Ellie insists, all but flinging her laptop at me. It almost topples off the bed before I catch it. “Okay! Jeez, I’ll read it.”
I skim.
“Blah blah blah thought they would pick Michael Felch, blah blah blah they picked someone else.” I hand her laptop back to her and turn back to the TV, where Countess Luann (once a countess, always a countess) is currently going on about her wedding. “Why do I care?”
Ellie groans in annoyance, but it doesn’t faze me.
I flip the channel and land on Ellen, America’s sweetheart.
“Don’t be so obtuse!”
“Wow, someone’s using the word of the day.”
“James wanted to hire Michael Felch up until last week, made you come to the party to schmooze him and his girlfriend, yet now suddenly his company hires someone else?”
“Yup.”
I flip another channel and land on Judge Judy, America’s strict but fair nanny.
“I bet he didn’t hire Michael because of what went down at the club.”
“Or maybe—and this might sound insane, so stay with me—there was more than one highly qualified candidate.”
“No. I swear this is his way of letting you know he believes you, that he’s sorry for what happened.”
You see, this is why I don’t like bringing Ellie into my personal life. Sure, we share the same parents, and I spend most of my waking non-work hours (and some of my waking work hours) with her, but she loves nothing more than going off on fanatical tangents supported by flimsy notions. If I believe James took my email into consideration when hiring his new CFO, I’m putting way too much faith in him. I’ve learned my lesson. I got burned last week, and I’m not going to fall into the same trap again.
I point to the TV. “Can’t a woman watch her daytime TV in peace?”
She plunks me in the head with her pointer finger and thumb.
“Consider the situation from his side for a second. The last woman he dated had a major drug problem—”
“What? How do you know that?”
“Social media. Anyway, she was a real partier, and now, a year later, he’s into you, someone he hopes will be different. He’s super excited about taking you to the party, maybe even hopes something will come from it, and then BOOM, you come back from the bathroom blitzed out of your mind.”
“Because Celeste drugged me.”
“Right! But from his perspective, it looks like you’re a crazy party girl. I don’t really blame him for being annoyed that night.”
I sit up and reach for my shoes. “That’s some good psychoanalysis, Freud.”
My sarcasm flies right over her head.
“Yeah, I know.”
It’s time to go. Martha is downstairs in the kitchen baking and will probably insist that I stop and chat with her for a good 45 minutes, but that’s fine—I’d stick my head into the oven if it meant getting out of this room.
“Wait, don’t leave!” She scrambles off her bed. “You were just about to agree to cover another one of my shifts.”
“Yeah, that’s a hard no.”
“C’mon! It’s this Friday.” She’s at her dresser, slamming drawers, looking for something. “Tyler has a gig playing at this local festival in the afternoon and he’s nervous the crowd won’t be very big. I have to be there to support him.”
“Sounds miserable, but not as miserable as I’ll be if I agree. Ask Marissa to cover it.”
“I already did. She’s going to the festival too.”
She finally pulls something white out of the drawers and turns to me with big puppy dog eyes. Fortunately, I’m more of a cat person.
“I promise I won’t ask you for another favor for a month.”
“That’s what you said last week.”
“A year then!”
I laugh because it’s ridiculous, but her desperation tells me she won’t be giving up any time soon.
“Sweeten the deal for me.”
“Fine. If you cover my shift, I won’t bring up any more of my theories about James.”
I arch my brows. Now we’re talking.
“And…?”
“I’ll bring back a funnel cake from the festival.”
“Deal.”
“Yay!” she says as she shoves the white thing in my arms.
“What’s this?” I ask, holding it up so the fabric unfolds and hangs limp in the air.
It’s a dress.
Actually, it’s a uniform…
She smiles sheepishly. “My shift is out on the golf course.”
“No.” I drop the dress like it’s on fire and head for her door. “Not going to happen. I’m ripping up our verbal contract.”
“It’s too late!” she calls out after me. “You already agreed!”
Absolutely not. No amount of day-old funnel cake will convince me to prance around as the beverage cart girl on the golf course.
Over.
My.
Dead.
Body.
…
Welp, I’m a dead body. I’m sitting in the employee locker room at the country club, and my shift starts in 15 minutes—correction, Ellie’s shift starts in 15 minutes. I hate that I’m here, sitting in her white polo dress. The material is some kind of thick cotton blend that is sure to suffocate me the moment I step out into the Texas heat.
I could be preparing for my shift—after all, I’ve never worked out there before—but Ellie filled me in on most of the details when she dropped the dress off last night. I was staying strong in my refusal until the tutoring agency contacted me about an interview next week. Sadly, I need Ellie to cover my shift so I can go.
I think her exact words were, Oh, how the tables have turned.
So now I’m here and Ellie is wearing a flower crown and smoking a bowl while her boyfriend bangs on a tattered tambourine.
Conversation on the other end of the locker room trickles over to me.
“—saw him just now.”
“I think he’s eating lunch.”
Two new waitresses are gossiping about one of the guests, and I’d bet a million dollars I know who it is. I still haven’t heard from him. My email gets checked every hour on the hour, but I tell myself that’s in case the agency has another interview invitation for me.
“I think the hostess put him in Sammy’s section. Lucky bitch.”
My stomach knots into a tight ball.
I look down at my watch.
14 minutes left.
I don’t want to listen to their conversation, but I don’t want to start my shift any earlier than necessary, so I reach for my phone and dial the first number I ever memorized.
I don’t expect her to answer, but then the FaceTime call starts to connect and my heart drops.
“Brooke?!”
The excitement in her voice makes my heart sore.
“Hey Mom.”
“Hold on. I didn’t realize this was FaceTime. Let me just step inside. The connection is a little better in there.”
There’s a mixture of indiscernible sounds and I’m pretty sure she drops the phone at one point, but about a minute later, her face appears on my phone screen and a wave of homesickness hits me.
“There you are! My little Bwookie. Where are you?” She squints her eyes. “Is that a locker behind your head?”
I swallow down the sudden—and strange—urge to cry as best as possible and plaster on a big smile. “Yeah, I’m at work. I only have a few minutes to talk.”
