The Fortunate Ones
Page 27
She sets her clipboard down on her lap. “Then why aren’t you still working there?”
I swallow hard. “Ms. Bannon asked me to leave. She felt there was no longer a need for—”
Her smile falls. “You were terminated.”
“Well…yes. I was fired, but not for reasons on my end.”
Her eyes narrow.
“If you call Beatrice at the agency, she can fill you in on all the details—”
“Of course. I’ll give her a call.” She smiles, just to save face, and then she stands, signaling the end of the interview. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Ms. Davenport.”
I stand and shake her hand, fully aware that I will not be getting the job all thanks to that five letter word: F-I-R-E-D.
She offers to show me the way out, but I tell her I’m fine on my own. I can’t stand another minute of small talk, especially if she’s not even going to offer me the job at the end of it. I’m frustrated that another potential position fell through my fingers because of this bizarre black mark on my record—although, would I really want to work for a family crazy enough to fill their house with dead animals? Stop killing bears, you psychos.
Outside, the bike I borrowed from one of my roommates sits on the sidewalk waiting for me. The neighborhood where the Lancings live is so nice that I didn’t even bother locking it up. Unfortunately, it’s also about a 30-minute bike ride from where I live, and worse, it’s hilly. I had to wear nice clothes for my interview, and while I strip off my blazer and stuff it in my purse, I’m still left in my skirt and blouse. At least I thought ahead and packed tennis shoes.
I know I could call an Uber and save myself from biking home in a Texas sauna, but money is tight at the moment. I’m trying to save up as much as I can, just in case I never find another tutoring position, not to mention the fact that I need a new bike since my old one was turned into an aluminum pretzel. I’m assuming it’s beyond repair, as I haven’t spoken to James since the night of the accident. One week and two days, but who’s counting? I figure he would have reached out if there were any part of my bike worth salvaging.
By the time I make it back to the co-op, my blouse is stuck to me like a second skin. My roommate, Jackie, gives me a wide berth as I pass her in the hallway.
“Rough day?”
I shoot her a don’t ask glare.
“I’m headed to the bakery. I’ll bring home the leftovers after my shift.”
That means she and Ethan have plans to get it on later and she wants to butter me up with flaky croissants and iced pastries. I don’t necessarily want to spend my evening listening to them bang it out next door, but that’s my loneliness talking. I refuse to be a sad, loveless loser. I’d rather be a hyperglycemic loveless loser, so I nod in consent and demand one of the bakery’s cinnamon rolls as reparation.
On the floor inside my room there’s a yellow sticky note that was clearly shoved under my door. I straighten out the crease and interpret Ian’s scratchy handwriting.
Hit me up when you’re back. Chase stopped by this afternoon.
Let me decode that:
Hit me up = come to my room.
Chase stopped by this afternoon = my dealer came by and sold me weed and I want to smoke with you.
WHO SAYS ROMANCE IS DEAD?
I crumple up the note and toss it in the trashcan underneath my desk. Though tempting, I have more important things to do than waste the day half-blazed out of my mind. I rip off my interview clothes and throw them in the hamper before I shower and change into a mismatched pair of pajamas. Yes, technically it’s still the middle of the afternoon, but these are my getting shit done jammies.
After that, I spend five minutes cleaning my room, which makes me feel marginally more in control of my life. Next, I check my bank account, which makes me feel marginally less in control of my life. The gratuities at the country club are great, but somehow paychecks sift through my fingers like sand. Every month I pay my rent, cell phone bill, health insurance premium, and the partial balance of a credit card bill (thanks to the few weeks I endured before starting at the country club). My goal is to put half of each paycheck into savings so I can ditch the country club and travel. To date, I’ve managed to sock away a couple thousand dollars, but now that I need a new bike, that figure isn’t going to increase any time soon.
I close my laptop, postpone my problems for tomorrow, and flop back on my bed.
Ellie is working at the club covering my shift so I could go to that interview, which means I can’t hang out with her, and I’m too broke to go out and buy happiness, which leaves me with very few options. I could head over to my dad’s house and raid his refrigerator. I might feel bad taking his money, but I don’t feel bad taking his food that’s just going to go bad. Unfortunately, that scenario involves running into Martha, and I don’t have the energy for her today. I could search online for a new bike, but there’s no point in looking into it until I have funds to purchase one.
Sometime between falling into a never-ending pit of misery and half-wondering if I should spend my evening getting blazed with Ian, I fall asleep. The next thing I know, my phone is buzzing on my chest, jerking me out of an unsatisfying, restless nap.
“Yup, hey there!” I say after I answer, which is officially the weirdest greeting ever.
“Brooke?”
The voice doesn’t register right away. I blink sleep out of my eyes and turn to check my bedside clock. It’s 7:42 PM. I got back from my interview around 2:00 PM. So much for getting shit done.
I remember I’m on the phone one second before the person asks, “Are you there?”
Hearing his voice floods me with warmth.
“James?”
“Hey.”
My brain is still groggy from sleeping away the afternoon. I can’t figure out why exactly I’m on the phone with James. He’s never called or texted me before, not even last week when I broke down and texted him when I was weak.
It was pathetic and read like this:
BROOKE: Hey, how certain are you that we should stay away from each other? 50%? 100%?
When he didn’t respond in 30 minutes, I did.
BROOKE: HAHA. Just kidding. Good night!
Yeah, I know, not my proudest moment. When Ellie saw it, she didn’t stop laughing for 15 whole minutes. She was rolling back and forth on my bed, howling with joy. I walked downstairs, toasted a bagel, smeared cream cheese all over it, and walked slowly back upstairs. She was still laughing when I got there, so I didn’t share my bagel with her.
“Sorry if this is a bad time,” he continues, sounding adorably earnest.
“No! No!” I sit up and smooth out my hair, like that will somehow help the situation. “What’s up?”
“I just wanted to call and let you know I’m having a courier drop off a replacement bike at the co-op.”
“A bike? For me?”
“Yes. Consider it a gift.”
My emotions are everywhere. Half of me wants to jump at the opportunity to solve one of the dozen problems crushing me at the moment. The other half of me is smart enough not to accept a gift from James without knowing his intentions first.
“I don’t know, I don’t want to be in your debt,” I reason. “Besides, my mother taught me not to take gifts from strangers.”
Calling him a stranger is a petty jab, but the rest is true. I don’t know what kind of strings come attached to gifts from James Ashwood.
“Brooke.” He sighs as if he doesn’t have the energy for an argument. “I forced you to get in my car. I put your bike in the trunk. Forget that I called it a gift. It’s the least I can do for putting you through that wreck.”
“But it wasn’t your fault.”
“Please just let me do this. It’s nothing.”
I stare down at my finger twisting my duvet cover into a tight spiral. “So you bought it for me out of guilt?”
“Does it matter why I bought it?”
Yes. I want to know the real reason, because if it is just out of guilt, that’s one thing, and maybe I’d keep it if that were the case. But, if it’s something else, a motive that runs a little deeper, I’d like to know. Still, he sounds exasperated, and I need a new bike. James feels like he owes me one, so I’ll accept the gift, and when I’ve saved up enough to buy my own, I’ll give it back.
I swallow hard. “Ms. Bannon asked me to leave. She felt there was no longer a need for—”
Her smile falls. “You were terminated.”
“Well…yes. I was fired, but not for reasons on my end.”
Her eyes narrow.
“If you call Beatrice at the agency, she can fill you in on all the details—”
“Of course. I’ll give her a call.” She smiles, just to save face, and then she stands, signaling the end of the interview. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Ms. Davenport.”
I stand and shake her hand, fully aware that I will not be getting the job all thanks to that five letter word: F-I-R-E-D.
She offers to show me the way out, but I tell her I’m fine on my own. I can’t stand another minute of small talk, especially if she’s not even going to offer me the job at the end of it. I’m frustrated that another potential position fell through my fingers because of this bizarre black mark on my record—although, would I really want to work for a family crazy enough to fill their house with dead animals? Stop killing bears, you psychos.
Outside, the bike I borrowed from one of my roommates sits on the sidewalk waiting for me. The neighborhood where the Lancings live is so nice that I didn’t even bother locking it up. Unfortunately, it’s also about a 30-minute bike ride from where I live, and worse, it’s hilly. I had to wear nice clothes for my interview, and while I strip off my blazer and stuff it in my purse, I’m still left in my skirt and blouse. At least I thought ahead and packed tennis shoes.
I know I could call an Uber and save myself from biking home in a Texas sauna, but money is tight at the moment. I’m trying to save up as much as I can, just in case I never find another tutoring position, not to mention the fact that I need a new bike since my old one was turned into an aluminum pretzel. I’m assuming it’s beyond repair, as I haven’t spoken to James since the night of the accident. One week and two days, but who’s counting? I figure he would have reached out if there were any part of my bike worth salvaging.
By the time I make it back to the co-op, my blouse is stuck to me like a second skin. My roommate, Jackie, gives me a wide berth as I pass her in the hallway.
“Rough day?”
I shoot her a don’t ask glare.
“I’m headed to the bakery. I’ll bring home the leftovers after my shift.”
That means she and Ethan have plans to get it on later and she wants to butter me up with flaky croissants and iced pastries. I don’t necessarily want to spend my evening listening to them bang it out next door, but that’s my loneliness talking. I refuse to be a sad, loveless loser. I’d rather be a hyperglycemic loveless loser, so I nod in consent and demand one of the bakery’s cinnamon rolls as reparation.
On the floor inside my room there’s a yellow sticky note that was clearly shoved under my door. I straighten out the crease and interpret Ian’s scratchy handwriting.
Hit me up when you’re back. Chase stopped by this afternoon.
Let me decode that:
Hit me up = come to my room.
Chase stopped by this afternoon = my dealer came by and sold me weed and I want to smoke with you.
WHO SAYS ROMANCE IS DEAD?
I crumple up the note and toss it in the trashcan underneath my desk. Though tempting, I have more important things to do than waste the day half-blazed out of my mind. I rip off my interview clothes and throw them in the hamper before I shower and change into a mismatched pair of pajamas. Yes, technically it’s still the middle of the afternoon, but these are my getting shit done jammies.
After that, I spend five minutes cleaning my room, which makes me feel marginally more in control of my life. Next, I check my bank account, which makes me feel marginally less in control of my life. The gratuities at the country club are great, but somehow paychecks sift through my fingers like sand. Every month I pay my rent, cell phone bill, health insurance premium, and the partial balance of a credit card bill (thanks to the few weeks I endured before starting at the country club). My goal is to put half of each paycheck into savings so I can ditch the country club and travel. To date, I’ve managed to sock away a couple thousand dollars, but now that I need a new bike, that figure isn’t going to increase any time soon.
I close my laptop, postpone my problems for tomorrow, and flop back on my bed.
Ellie is working at the club covering my shift so I could go to that interview, which means I can’t hang out with her, and I’m too broke to go out and buy happiness, which leaves me with very few options. I could head over to my dad’s house and raid his refrigerator. I might feel bad taking his money, but I don’t feel bad taking his food that’s just going to go bad. Unfortunately, that scenario involves running into Martha, and I don’t have the energy for her today. I could search online for a new bike, but there’s no point in looking into it until I have funds to purchase one.
Sometime between falling into a never-ending pit of misery and half-wondering if I should spend my evening getting blazed with Ian, I fall asleep. The next thing I know, my phone is buzzing on my chest, jerking me out of an unsatisfying, restless nap.
“Yup, hey there!” I say after I answer, which is officially the weirdest greeting ever.
“Brooke?”
The voice doesn’t register right away. I blink sleep out of my eyes and turn to check my bedside clock. It’s 7:42 PM. I got back from my interview around 2:00 PM. So much for getting shit done.
I remember I’m on the phone one second before the person asks, “Are you there?”
Hearing his voice floods me with warmth.
“James?”
“Hey.”
My brain is still groggy from sleeping away the afternoon. I can’t figure out why exactly I’m on the phone with James. He’s never called or texted me before, not even last week when I broke down and texted him when I was weak.
It was pathetic and read like this:
BROOKE: Hey, how certain are you that we should stay away from each other? 50%? 100%?
When he didn’t respond in 30 minutes, I did.
BROOKE: HAHA. Just kidding. Good night!
Yeah, I know, not my proudest moment. When Ellie saw it, she didn’t stop laughing for 15 whole minutes. She was rolling back and forth on my bed, howling with joy. I walked downstairs, toasted a bagel, smeared cream cheese all over it, and walked slowly back upstairs. She was still laughing when I got there, so I didn’t share my bagel with her.
“Sorry if this is a bad time,” he continues, sounding adorably earnest.
“No! No!” I sit up and smooth out my hair, like that will somehow help the situation. “What’s up?”
“I just wanted to call and let you know I’m having a courier drop off a replacement bike at the co-op.”
“A bike? For me?”
“Yes. Consider it a gift.”
My emotions are everywhere. Half of me wants to jump at the opportunity to solve one of the dozen problems crushing me at the moment. The other half of me is smart enough not to accept a gift from James without knowing his intentions first.
“I don’t know, I don’t want to be in your debt,” I reason. “Besides, my mother taught me not to take gifts from strangers.”
Calling him a stranger is a petty jab, but the rest is true. I don’t know what kind of strings come attached to gifts from James Ashwood.
“Brooke.” He sighs as if he doesn’t have the energy for an argument. “I forced you to get in my car. I put your bike in the trunk. Forget that I called it a gift. It’s the least I can do for putting you through that wreck.”
“But it wasn’t your fault.”
“Please just let me do this. It’s nothing.”
I stare down at my finger twisting my duvet cover into a tight spiral. “So you bought it for me out of guilt?”
“Does it matter why I bought it?”
Yes. I want to know the real reason, because if it is just out of guilt, that’s one thing, and maybe I’d keep it if that were the case. But, if it’s something else, a motive that runs a little deeper, I’d like to know. Still, he sounds exasperated, and I need a new bike. James feels like he owes me one, so I’ll accept the gift, and when I’ve saved up enough to buy my own, I’ll give it back.
