by Penny Wylder
Or at least I was until she reaches over and hits the send button on my phone.
“Emily!” I yell, jabbing at the screen, trying to get the words back somehow. “What the fuck?” I can be heard over the music and everyone turns to gawk in the hopes of a cat fight.
I stare at my phone, mouth breathing, hoping she hit the wrong button, but no. The text is there, right under his last text to me several months ago, congratulating me on getting my own apartment.
Emily rolls her eyes and tosses her blond ponytail over her shoulder. “You’ve been talking about hooking up with Paul for years now. I just did you a favor. You’re welcome.”
Turning away, she goes back to her game like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t just ruined my life with a touch of a finger.
My buzz is DOA. Instant sobriety. I want to go home, but I came with Emily and don’t have enough cash on me to call a cab. Right now, I just need a place to disappear. I stumble to the closest closet, kicking at beer cans and stubbing my toe on a keg. Where the hell are my shoes?
In the closet, I sit among the coats and sports equipment, wondering how the hell I can undo this. For an hour I literally do just that: Google ‘how to un-send a text’. Apparently, that’s not a thing. I guess us fucking idiots are on our own.
When I finally make it back to my apartment at three in the morning, I stay up as long as I can, trying to finish reading the paperback I started three months ago while I wait for him to text back. I think about sending another, saying, “just kidding!” or telling him I’d sent that to the wrong person, but part of me is glad it’s out there. I want him to know. My eyelids grow heavy and before I know it, I’m drooling on my pillow and dreaming I’m being chased by fried eggs with a spatula—I have weird-ass dreams after I’ve been drinking.
When I wake up in the morning, I no longer want Paul to know how I feel about him. I regret everything.
It’s early. I always wake up early when I’d rather sleep in. My phone vibrates, rattling from one end of my bedside table to the other.
Shit. I can’t look.
Instead of dealing with it, I roll over and try to go back to sleep. Fat chance with the groundkeepers mowing the lawn outside my bedroom window and the neighbor’s parrot on its perch outside, singing it’s unholy morning song like some goddamned city rooster. It doesn’t help either that the sun shining through my window feels like a Death Star laser beam searing into my face.
I’m in a bad fucking mood. I also have a Godfather of a hangover and my stomach is in knots.
Closing my eyes, my mind goes straight to the ominous “what if” pile and jumps in it like a Labrador in a heap of autumn leaves. What if the text blinking on my bedside table is from Paul, telling me he doesn’t want anything to do with me? What if he told my dad? I would die. If the embarrassment didn’t kill me, my dad definitely would. The good thing is Paul doesn’t live in town. He moved away to the other side of the state two years ago and I haven’t seen him since, so avoiding him is easy.
I slam my arm down on the bed, mad at myself for being so stupid. Next time I get drunk my phone is going in a lockbox with a key, retina scanner, and most importantly, a breathalyzer. I won’t have access to it until I blow under the legal driving limit.
Unfortunately, I can’t lay in bed and avoid my phone forever, so I say a hail Mary and pick it up.
My entire body sighs when I see it’s from Emily. The text says, ‘Get up, bitch, time for some birthday pampering.’
Still no text back from Paul.
After dragging my body into the shower and brushing the dead animal off my teeth, Emily takes me out for a manicure. I try to stay mad at her for hitting send on that text in the first place, but it’s impossible while having my hands massaged. Sitting in the chair, getting my nails painted a bright shade of teal, I ask her, “Do you think it’s strange my parents haven’t called to wish me happy birthday yet?”
They always call first thing in the morning to wake me up on my birthday, Mom singing terribly out of key while my dad mumbles his happy birthday in the background. I was going to mention Paul not sending a birthday text either, but was afraid it sounded too pathetic.
“Em?” I say when she doesn’t respond. The entire time I’ve been with her this morning, she’s been on her phone. She has makeup on and her hair curled. I don’t know how she manages to pull her shit together after a night of drinking when I feel like a child’s beaten doll dragged through the mud.
“Oh, sorry.” She takes one last look at the screen before she puts the phone in her pocket. “It’s not even noon yet. I’m sure they’re still in bed … Maybe your dad took your mom over to pound town, if you know what I mean,” she says, thrusting her hips while sitting in the chair. Our manicurists look at her, then at each other and say something in a language I’m not familiar with.
I lean my head back in the chair and look up at the ceiling, trying to calm my roiling stomach. “Thanks for that visual. I just puked in my mouth.”
After manicures, we grab hangover smoothies and Emily is back on her phone. I’m like the Hulk when I feel like shit and right now I’m fighting the urge to rip that phone out of her hand. I’m getting so sick of the clicking sound as she speed-types. Seriously, hasn’t she heard of Swype? I don’t know why she even bothers taking me out if she’s just going to ignore me.
She says she wants to go out to lunch too, but at this point I’m fed up and don’t even want to go. Plus, my stomach is still a witch’s cauldron about to spew forth some black hell if I’m not careful.
How is it that every time I drink heavily and feel like shit the next day, I’m always ready to do it all over again by the time the next weekend rolls around? It’s starting to feel like I signed up for college just to not learn lessons.
“Look, Em, I’m tired,” I say, trying to tamp down the inner dragon lady I feel starting to rage up inside of me. “Maybe we can go to lunch some other time.”
“Are you sure?” She sounds somewhat relieved, which only pisses me off more.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Can I drop you off at your parent’s house? Your apartment is out of the way and there’s kind of this guy—”
“Fine, I don’t care.”
There’s always “this guy” with Emily.
We head toward my parents’ house. It’s more of a mansion than a house, really. Eight bedrooms, five baths, a pool house. When I tell my friends where I grew up, they automatically think I’m some trust fund baby. A latchkey kid with a bottomless platinum card. But that’s not how it is. Yes, my parents are wealthy, but I don’t get anything from them. Hell, I don’t even own a car because I can’t afford the insurance and gas bill. My dad had to work for everything he has and he expects me to do the same. He thinks I’ll appreciate things more, and so far he’s been right. Everything I own I’ve had to bust my ass to get. I’ve scrimped and saved, and worked my fingers to the bone. Even if I wanted something from him, he’d never give it freely.
We go through the open gate, up the long driveway. There are clusters of cars parked off to the side. Emily parks in front.
“Who are all these people?” Emily asks. Instead of just dropping me off, she gets out of her Saab and follows me as I make my way to the front door.
“I don’t know. Maybe my mom’s having some kind of brunch for her friends.”
That must be why she was too busy to call me on my birthday, I think bitterly.
As we approach the front door, I hear music playing, but it’s not coming from inside, it’s coming from around back by the pool. My parent’s never use the pool. They spent a fortune on the damn thing, but they aren’t exactly outdoors people. It’s an Olympic sized lagoon style pool made out of rock—or something that’s make to look like rock. There’s a waterfall, natural slide, and a large cave for those who want to lounge around in the water without getting a sunburn, or if they just want a little privacy.
We head to the side of the house and go through the
gate. When we get to the pool area, there’s a large gathering of people holding champagne glasses and looking in our direction. The barbeque is going, the smell of cooking meat and garlic salt wage war with my stomach. It gurgles and I can’t tell if I’m just really hungry or getting ready to projectile vomit.
I see my mom and dad in the crowd and I stop. Takes me a second to gather all the faces in my sleepy brain and realize I recognize most of them. There are friends from my old high school, and friends from college. Some of the guys here I recognize from the frat party last night.
“Surprise!” They all yell in unison, and my headache hates them for it.
“How pissed at me are you right now?” Emily says, smirking and shaking her phone. This whole time she’s been in cahoots with my parents, planning this thing, and I’m genuinely surprised. Especially when I see Paul standing among my friends and family.
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Chapter One
Vera
I read the email again for the third time, the disappointment sinking into my chest and sticking like glue.
Dear Ms. Caldwell,
Thank you very much for giving us the chance to consider you. We have reviewed your application and the supplemental materials you sent, but we are sorry to say that we are not able to offer you a position at this time.
Please feel free to continue checking our website so that you may apply again if another position becomes available.
Best,
The Essex Foundation Recruiting Team
P.S. We very much enjoyed meeting with you this past week. Please give our best to your father.
I don’t understand what’s happening here. I walked out of that interview feeling amazing. I connected with my interviewers, and they seemed genuinely interested in me. They also seemed really intrigued by my insistence on working in low-income areas. Plus, I rocked the test they gave me—hypothetical plans for a neighborhood square. What could have possibly gone wrong?
I guess it doesn’t really matter why. Once someone turns you down, that’s it. I sigh, grabbing a pen and crossing off The Essex Foundation from my list of applications. That’s my twenty third rejection in the last three months. It’s only the fourth time I even got an interview. I try not to take it personally anymore, but it feels personal.
I glance down at my list of outstanding applications. It’s getting thin now. I’ll have to take some time tonight to send some more out because I’m running out of time.
Wandering down to the kitchen, I grab a sleeve of Oreos from the secret stash that our chef Gregory keeps for me. It’s definitely cookie time. I get a glass of milk and a fork and dig in, pushing the fork through the cream and dunking. I watch little air bubble pop up as the cookie absorbs the milk. Whoever thought of this combination should be added to the list of saints.
I’m halfway through the sleeve when my mother comes into the kitchen. “Uh-oh,” she says, “I know that face and I know that snack.” My mother pretends to understand my obsession with Oreos, though she doesn’t. To her, processed food is the devil and all evil springs from it. But she tries not to judge too much. I shove another cookie in my mouth.
“Another rejection?” she asks.
“The Essex Foundation.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. I know you wanted that one.”
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge whether she’s being sincere. Neither of my parents agrees with my professed choice of career, but just like the Oreos, my mom tries to give me as much support as she can. From the look on her face, she’s actually a bit sad for me. That’s nice.
She pours herself a glass of water and perches on a bar stool across from me. “What happened?”
The last thing I want to do is rehash everything I’ve been thinking about for the last hour, but I know better than to not answer. She’ll just continue to ask me pointed questions until I do. I shake my head. “I honestly don’t know. That was the interview I felt best about. The interviewers and I really had a great conversation, and I thought we connected. I was really confident about the sample materials I sent in. I just…I don’t know.”
“Well,” my father’s voice cuts across the kitchen, “If they didn’t hire you, it’s obviously not the right place for you. Time to move on.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. My father is Timothy Caldwell. Yes, that Timothy Caldwell. Architect to the stars, builder of half the celebrity homes and high rises in L.A., and number one on the list of people who disapprove of my life choices. “I am moving on, Dad,” I say, “I thought maybe I’d just take an hour to regroup.” I dunk another Oreo a little too forcefully, causing some milk to spill onto the counter.
Dad comes into the kitchen and stands in front of my mother, who helps him fix his tie automatically. This has been one of their routines for as long as I can remember. Whenever my father goes out to meet a client, my mother gets the final polish. “How much longer?” he asks.
My stomach drops. I know exactly what he’s talking about and I don’t even want to think about it because it makes me nauseous. “A week.”
We made a bargain. Well, I say we made it, but it was basically my father dictating the terms. He said he’d give me till the end of the summer—the actual calendar day at the end of the summer—to find a job on my own, doing whatever I wanted. If it didn’t happen, he’d draft me into service at his company. I think the phrase he used was, ‘you’ll come work for me,’ but being drafted is probably more accurate.
Now, I’ve got only one week left until the deadline, and then I get swept against my will into the high-end world of luxury real estate. That is nowhere near where I want to be. I’m grateful for the money that I’ve grown up with, but I have no interest in building a millionaire’s fourth home. I’ve been given a lot, and I would much rather try to pass what I can on to people that need it instead of serving the people who can afford more than enough.
“Thank goodness for that,” my father says, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of his favorite green tea to go with him. “I’d much rather have you learning the ropes with me. I didn’t build an empire just to leave it to no one.”
I sigh pointedly. “Dad, your empire is very impressive,” I say dutifully, “but building the fourth house of some pop star is the furthest thing from what I want.”
“Vera, you’re twenty-two,” he says, his face darkening. “You don’t know what you want. And since you don’t have a job or a house or money of your own, I would think you’d be grateful that I paid for the entirety of your education and that I’m willing to give you a place at the company. Not all fathers would be willing to do that.”
I glance over at my mother, and she nods encouragingly. I know she agrees with him, but she doesn’t want to pile any more stress onto me. I appreciate that at least, but the anger boiling up inside is too much not to let out. “You did pay for everything, and I’m very grateful for that. I’m thankful that you have allowed me to be debt free. But up till now you also let me choose. So why does everything I’ve worked for go out the window just three months after graduation?”
He doesn’t even bat an eye at my words. Nothing ever riles my father, which infuriates me even more. “Because I know this world better than you. You had your fun, and it’s good to have dreams. The things you talk about are very noble, Vera. But people don’t hire untested architects who only want to make houses for people who can’t pay. Maybe sometime down the road when you’ve got some experience in the real world you can try to change it. But right now, you’re going to work for me.”
My eyes prick with angry tears. If he was just going to stop me from going after my dreams, why did he let me follow them this far? “I still have a week,” I say.
“A week or a month, the end result is the same.” He pick
s up his briefcase and kisses my mother lightly before leaving. The kitchen is filled with an awkward silence now.
I pour what’s left of my milk down the drain and put the cookies back in their cubby. My mother clears her throat, but I ignore her. She’s just going to defend him.
She clears her throat again.
“Yes?”
She takes a small sip of her water. “He just wants what’s best for you.”
“Really?” I laugh, but it gets cut off by the lump in my throat. “If he wants what’s best for me, then why hasn’t he bothered to consider what I think is best?”
“Because you’re young,” she says, “and—”
“Mom,” I interrupt, “I’m young, but I’m not stupid. It’s really time you and Dad stopped treating me otherwise. I’ll be in the garden.”
I throw myself out the back door and onto the patio before she can say anything else to stop me, hating myself for acting childish but unable to take the higher road. I want to do something meaningful with my career, with my life, but most of the time it feels like I’m the only person who believes I’m capable. And what drives me craziest of all is my fear that maybe they’re right.
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