“It’s going to be alongsemester, Mr. Elephant,” I said to the plushie lying facedown on the comforter beside me. I gave him a quick pat on the head. “But at least I’ll always have you. Sorry about that whole ‘pretending not to know you’ thing earlier, by the way. I’m sure you understand.”
He didn’t respond, and I spent the rest of my morning taking a deeper look into the warning signs of schizophrenia.
CHAPTER26
A Kiss
My schizophrenia searchwas less than fruitful—though the internet was quite insistent I had cancer—but I was convinced the diagnosis was inevitable. Thankfully, the afternoon arrived before I could self-diagnose, and Teresa and I were off on another catering adventure.
The ride there was not what I would call pleasant.
“So, was he any good?” Teresa asked for the seventh time since we’d left the dorm.
“We didn’t have sex, Teresa,” I said distractedly, also for the seventh time. I’d zoned out on the drive, unable to get my mind off Oliver’s phone number hidden away in my nightstand drawer.
Did I dare call?
“You honestly expect me to believe that Noah slept over because you headbutted him and accidentally overdosed him with drowsy meds?” Teresa asked as we reached the venue, yanking me out of a daydream featuring me calling a certain piano prodigy. She pulled her car into the nearest parking spot and turned off the engine. A beat of silence passed before Teresa hummed. “You know what? Never mind. I believe it. It actually makes more sense that way.”
I only felt marginally offended, but it was still disconcerting to know it made more sense that I’d attacked and drugged my romantic partner rather than seduced him.
That didn’t exactly reflect well on my character.
“I tried to tell you.” I hopped out of the car and into the warm, welcoming California sun. An army of trees loomed over the monstrous country club in front of us, and golf carts lined the circular drive. We were catering a swankysoireeof some sort, and I tugged at my simple black shirt to make sure it wasn’t too wrinkled.
Mr. Everton’s catering van was parked next to a side door, so Teresa and I hurried over to report for duty. Imagine my surprise when we found Mr. Muscles from the breakfast gig unloading the back of the van. I offered him a quick wave while trying to make it look like I was much too busy to help unload boxes.
Not that I was morally above van-unloading or anything. I simply accepted it wasn’t my calling.
“Hey, Trent. Is Mr. Everton inside?” Teresa asked Mr. Muscles, and my cheeks warmed when I realized I’d never learned his name.
Trent grunted as he heaved up another box, and I was in awe of the way his veins looked ready to burst out of his muscular arms. Mine were wet noodles compared to that. “Yeah. Fair warning, though. He’s in a bit of a mood today. Something about his son popping back up on the radar.”
Teresa sent Trent a rueful smile that I didn’t understand before giving me the side-eye. “We’ll make sure to stay out of the way, then,” she said, but I noticed she didn’t offer to help him unload either. “And we’ll tell him to get lost if we see him around. Right, Emma?”
I nodded along obediently, having no interest in the topic of Mr. Everton’s son as my mind had already moved on to what sort of desserts we could be serving today. I spent enough time with children between piano tutoring and the birthday parties we catered that the idea of running into Mr. Everton’s son was anything but tempting.
With another wave to Mr. Muscles—Trent—Teresa and I bustled our way through the side hall and followed the sharp clanging of pots and pans until we reached the country club’s kitchen.
“I think we’re both on buffet duty, but let’s check over the schedule to be sure.” Teresa grabbed my arm and tugged me over to the wall. A crowd of caterers already filled the immaculate kitchen, and there were so many stainless steel appliances I was afraid I’d get smudged fingerprints all over them. I recognized Mr. Everton across the room where he directed a few of the younger teens helping with table setup.
“As long as we’re not on van-unloading, we’ll be fine,” I said, in case she was worried.
Teresa gave me an odd look before focusing on the spreadsheet pinned to the wall. I followed her gaze, skimming the list of our coworkers and what roles they had today.
“Ah, there!” Teresa grinned in triumph, as if finding our names earned her some sort of medal. “Dessert duty for me, and you’re on the sides table.”
My eyes narrowed to slits as I double-checked. But there was my name, bolded right next toSides: Vegetables and Pasta.
This was an injustice.
“I’ll give you two hundred dollars to trade me,” I said. I straightened my shoulders and glared at the list of duties. Had Mr. Everton purposefully not put me on the sweets buffet?
Honestly, you drool all over a mountain of cupcakesone time.
Teresa snorted. “Emma, you don’t have two hundred dollars.”
My shoulders slumped, but she made a good point. How had I forgotten I was basically broke? “I meant two dollars. And a hug. And I’ll stop accidentally watching Netflix on your profile. I swear, I’ll remember to use my profile every time.”
