by R.S. Grey
That’s where I keep the fancy underwear—a.k.a. the stuff that never gets worn. There are lacy underthings and delicate brassieres, most of which I purchased in France during a short and spicy affair with a young French guy. He ended up being more interested in my friend, but I guess it wasn’t a total waste because now James is likely imagining me in those instead of the 5 for $25 panties from Target I actually wear.
I expect him to be flustered. Guys my age would be, but James pushes the drawer closed as disaffectedly as he opened it and opens the one beneath it. I’m too lost in a fit of laughter to care when he tosses a t-shirt and sleeping shorts at me.
“I think you can manage from here. I’ll see you.”
What?
He’s leaving already?
I reach for his hand and am relieved when he doesn’t immediately yank it away.
“I never got to thank you for my dress.”
He stays stock-still, staring down at me.
“And tonight…”
I think his face softens just a bit, but it’s hard to tell.
Fortunately, his words are clear enough on their own. “I’m going.”
“Fine.” I drop his hand. “But the next time you want me to be your date or your little secret weapon, don’t bother. Michael’s secret weapon was stronger. Tonight was awful.”
He pauses for a moment with his hand on the door and I’m hopeful that my words finally penetrated his perfect facade, but then he yanks it open and walks out. I decide if I never saw him again, it’d be too soon.
CHAPTER NINE
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
Beth, since I have no way of contacting your boss, could you please forward this email to him for me?
Thanks,
Brooke
PS the heels were killer.
————
Dear James,
I’ve thought a lot about what happened last week. Although I don’t think I owe you any kind of explanation, I would like to set the record straight.
You brought me to that party.
You introduced me to your friends and one of your friends slipped something into my drink while I was in the bathroom.
I still have no clue what she gave me. I was pretty out of it the next day. My sister almost took me to the hospital.
Thank you for giving me the benefit of the doubt.
Thank you for ensuring that I wasn’t having an adverse reaction.
Thank you for staying with me and making sure I made it through the night.
Oh wait, you didn’t.
Fuck off,
Brooke
…
It’s been a week since the party and two days since I sent James that carefully crafted email. While I would love a response or—CALL ME CRAZY—maybe even an apology, I’m not holding my breath. The entire night was a disaster. I remember bits and pieces of it and I cringe thinking back on some of my behavior, but then I quash that line of thinking. I didn’t willingly take those drugs. Celeste dosed my drink while we were in the bathroom. Jesus Christ, who does that? I still can’t believe it actually happened. I should contact the authorities. I could draw so much unwanted attention to that little “hidden gem” of theirs. I’ve wavered back and forth about it a few times. While I don’t think Celeste should go around drugging people without their consent, I don’t really know how I would go about seeking retribution. I don’t know Michael or Celeste—I’m not even sure those are their real names. The only person I could really pin the incident on is James and I might hate him at the moment, but I don’t necessarily want to drag him into a police report and potential investigation.
Out of curiosity, I hunt down the club a few days later. The black brick building is easy enough to find downtown, but there’s a new, massive banner hanging across the side of it, proudly announcing the block as a future site for Austin’s newest and most luxurious condominiums. The front door swings open and construction workers march in and out, carrying tools and supplies with them. I think back on all the decadence from that night—the chandeliers, the furniture, the pristine marble floors—and wonder where it’s all gone.
I can’t find anything about the club online; putting in search terms like “secret Austin club” and “downtown speakeasy” only brings up weird Craigslist sex ads. After perusing a few (okay, like 20), I decide none of them have anything to do with the party and I’d be wise to avoid the bushes at Pease Park at night.
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.”
She holds the phone out a little so more than just her eyes and nose fit into the frame, and I get a better look at her. She looks to be ready for bed with her long light brown hair wrapped up in a bun and a loose-fitting kimono wrapped around her shoulders. She’s in her late 40s, but she doesn’t look it. Good genes, I guess. Light blue glasses sit on the brim of her nose, the only sign that she’s aging at all. She pushes them up onto her head and smiles.
“I guess that’s why you’re wearing that polo shirt?”
I cringe. “Yeah, it’s a dress actually.”
“Why does it have Ellie’s name embroidered on it?”
“Oh.” I glance down and brush my finger across her name. “I’m covering a shift for her.”
“That’s nice of you. I didn’t know you two were working together.”
Yes she did; I told her about it the last time we FaceTimed.
“We’re both at the country club, remember?”
“Oh yes! Of course.”
From the tone of her voice, I can tell she’s lying. She doesn’t remember.
“How are you, Mom? I’ve been trying to reach you for the last few weeks.”
She frowns. “I’m sorry, honey. Jorge and I were stationed in a remote village in Argentina for the last month and a half and there weren’t any cell towers within a few miles of the village. I thought I told you I’d be out of contact for a bit?”
She didn’t, but I nod. “Yeah, I must have forgotten.”
I walk a tight rope when it comes to my mom because I’m too scared to rock the boat. We talk so rarely and though I’d love nothing more than to berate her for falling off the face of the earth without any warning, I don’t want to spend these precious few minutes arguing. Instead, I fill her in on what I’ve been up to lately. I tell her about the book I just finished and brag about the interview I have next week with the tutoring agency.
She grins. “That sounds awesome, Brooke. I know you’d rather be working with a family than dealing with that job at the country club, but hang in there. It’ll work out when it’s supposed to.”
I try to take her words to heart.
“Thanks Mom.”
“If I text you my address, would you mind sending me that book? The Nightingale? It’s hard to get paperbacks down here.”
“Of course.” The request fills me with hope. “Do you need anything else? I can put together a little care package.”
She shakes her head. “No. We won’t be here much longer. We’re headed back to Syria next month.”
“How long will you be there?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask Jorge.”
“Do you think you’ll have any time off around the holidays?”
Her smile falls. “I’m sorry, honey. The Peace Corps really needs us right now. War and famine have devastated the entire region. If you could see the images of these children…”
Of course. How can I compete with starving children? I feel evil for even considering it.
A locker slams a few rows down, reminding me of where I am. I check the time and cringe. “Mom, I gotta go. My shift is starting soon.”
“Oh, right. Hey, how about I try to call you tomorrow?”
“I’m working late
, but I could talk in the morning?”
“We’ve got an all-staff meeting pretty early, but I’ll try you after that.”
“Sounds good.”
When we hang up, I regret calling her in the first place. It’s time to start working and I feel like I’ve just been sucker-punched in the stomach. My emotions are brewing right at the surface, which is a bad starting point for the beginning of the shift. If I run into Mr. Oil Tycoon or any of the other more demanding members, I might not be able to offer up an oh-so-sunny smile. Knowing that, I try to avoid everyone as I weave through the kitchen and main dining room, heading for the loading dock out back where the beverage carts have been left to charge.
The club has three of them, basically souped-up golf carts with coolers on the sides and a small table built into the back for prepping drinks. The person assigned to the beverage cart shift before me was responsible for restocking it and when I open the first cooler, I confirm it’s full of sodas and mixers. Ellie said that on a good shift, I’d have to head back to the club midway through to restock, but I doubt I’ll be able to get through all of this alcohol in the next few hours—unless I run across a rowdy bachelor party or something, which for my sanity’s sake, I really hope I don’t.
I’m finishing up inventory when Brian comes out to check on me.
“Did Ellie explain everything to you?” he asks with his hands on his hips.
He’s the one who wanted me to try out the new job, but now he doesn’t seem so sure it’s a good idea, probably because I’m currently scowling. Before I respond, I painstakingly turn my frown upside down.
“Just about. I haven’t driven the cart yet, but I’m assuming it handles like a normal golf cart?”
He nods and points out the gas, brake, and emergency brake. “It’s top-heavy, so avoid any sharp turns. Other than that, you’ll be okay.”
“Sounds good.”
“And not to put any pressure on you, but we’ve got some important members scheduled to play golf this afternoon, so attempt to look like you know what you’re doing.”
I laugh. “I think I’ll manage just fine. I just have to drive this thing around and make drinks, right?”