Page 3
“I’m calling Jonathan,” he says, already walking away. “Don’t get comfortable.”
The door slams and my breath leaves me, slowly and thoroughly. What the hell even happened? I’d understand if he disliked me after getting to know me—he wouldn’t be the first—but he was being a jerk before I even opened my mouth.
I lean against the marble counter and press my face to my hands, the disappointment sinking in at last. I’ve already quit at Topside and on very little notice. They won’t be hiring me back, which means unless I find something else quickly, I’m heading home to Kansas with my tail between my legs, just the way my ex-boyfriend predicted I would.
What’s hardest is that this job felt like a sign—that things would be fine, that I was going to be able to dig my way out of this hole I’m in. But every bit of luck I ever had evaporated the minute I accepted that advance. Why would this be different?
* * *
Eventually I make my way to Jonathan’s office, just to the right of the kitchen. It’s small and sunny and Zen-like in its austerity. Aside from the desk and chair, the only décor is a single bright green fern and two framed photos—one of Jason and one of the three of us, laughing in the breeze with the Santa Monica pier lit up behind us.
I sip my cold coffee and begin to take down the weekend’s messages, waiting to be fired. I’ve almost, almost, accepted the idea, by the time he calls midday. But my stomach still drops. I’ve never been fired before. Nor have I ever lost this much money in one fell swoop.
“This morning,” he begins stiffly, “I was…surprised. I just want to be sure you know what you’re in for here. It’s not an easy job.”
Relief hisses through my blood, like steam escaping a valve. I’m not sure what changed his mind, and I don’t really care. “That’s okay.”
“You’ll be working long hours,” he says, “and you’ll have to do...other things as well.”
I sink into my chair. “That sounds like the sort of vague thing Harvey Weinstein would suggest,” I say with an awkward laugh.
This is greeted with utter silence. Apparently, I’ve once again derailed a conversation with one of my misplaced attempts at humor.
“No,” he finally says. “But there may be things about my lifestyle you find distasteful.”
“You mean the turrets?” It just comes out. I internally cringe at my lack of filter. I need a muzzle. “Never mind. I don’t care about the distasteful stuff. It’s fine.”
“Okay,” he says on a heavy, disappointed exhale. Clearly, he was hoping I’d walk away on my own. “You can stay on until Jonathan gets back. And I’m sure he told you this, but let me reemphasize: no one gets my personal number. No one.”
Jonathan already explained this to me, with the urgency of someone discussing nuclear codes. I’m to take messages if anyone calls, and forward any texts that seem pertinent, personal or otherwise. But the only people who actually have Hayes’s number are his friend Ben, Jonathan, and now me…so he’ll know who’s to blame if it gets out.
“Make sure people leave you alone. Jonathan told me.”
“Exactly,” he replies. “Yourself included.” And then he hangs up without another word.
I heave a deep sigh and close my eyes. It’s going to be a really, really long six weeks.
3
There is, I’ve discovered, no day so bad that passing my ex-boyfriend’s new billboard can’t make it worse. As I weave past hipster coffee shops and organic grocers on the way to work, Matt’s pretty face smiles down at me from the side of a ten-story building, conveniently positioned so I can’t avoid it without taking my eyes off the road entirely.
Matt’s first big break was in this Vietnam-era movie, Write Home, playing a young soldier whose death had viewers weeping. His pretty face is what first caught people’s attention—the lush lips, the blue eyes, the perfect features. But I think what won people over is that he’d basically played a version of himself: sweet, earnest, well-intentioned. A simple guy who cared about those around him and just wanted to return to his girl back home.
It’s the face I still see when I look at that billboard: The high school sophomore who fell, inexplicably, for a bookish fourteen-year-old. The sweet boy who took me to prom, who got almost every “first.” Shouldn’t I see the lie in him when I look up and see his face now? I really hate that I don’t. Because if I still don’t know where I went wrong with Matt, how will I ever know with anyone else?
I arrive at Hayes’s house. Newspapers are gathered, the alarm is turned off. I’m not letting Matt ruin my day.
Hayes’s coffee is placed on the counter with the sugar already added. Wouldn’t want him to tear and stir it on his own, like an asshole.
I brace myself when I hear him coming down the stairs, anticipating more of that sour attitude I got the day before, but he barely glances at me when he enters the kitchen. In spite of his obvious exhaustion, he is hard to look away from and I respect myself less because of it. Those broad shoulders and pouty mouth of his don’t make him a decent human being.
He takes a sip of coffee and closes his eyes. “Advil,” he demands. “Drawer to the left.” He speaks at half-volume, his voice raspy.
Once upon a time, I might have felt some pity for him. But I’m a little focused on keeping my pity for myself at present, and he’s old enough to know what happens when you drink yourself into a stupor.
I find the bottle and slide it to him. “How did you get home?” I ask.
His eyes narrow. “Unqualified and judgmental. Such a winning combination,” he mutters, pouring way more pills in his hand than he should. “There’s a service that will bring your car home if you’ve been drinking. Where’s the schedule?”
