And something inside me aches at the thought of Ian Hunt rough with me. Something that needs to quiet.
It’s Saturday night. I have to work. I have to exist in the real world and not in a fantasy one where a sexy British businessman wants to erase all my problems.
The universe is against me. Or for me. It depends on the point of view.
Either way, it’s determined to remind me how much I hate this job.
A group of drunk guys spend thirty minutes trying to convince me to take shots with them. Then they tip four dollars on their three-figure bill.
A bachelor party gets handsy with a dancer. Security throws out the groom. The best man stays at the bar. Offers me cash to come back to their hotel room and dance.
Why not, honey. We’ll pay better than this gig. And we can wait until you’re done with work. You won’t believe how much my friend would pay for a night with someone like you.
A guy in a suit sits at the bar all night, friendly and courteous, ordering whiskey after whiskey. He smiles. Nods. Asks easy questions. Accepts simple answers.
I’ve worked here a few months. It’s an all right job. I’d prefer a place with better music. But I have to say, I admire the athleticism of the moves. Look at Britney. She’s upside down!
He leaves without paying his tab.
I finish later than usual. Spend half my tip money on cab fare.
Saturdays are always rowdy, but they’re usually huge moneymakers too.
Saturdays are good for a few hundred dollars in tips. Most bachelor parties throw bills like they’re candy spurting piñatas.
Here I am, at the kitchen table, counting twenties, asking myself if I’m on track to cover rent. Or do I need to scrimp on groceries tomorrow?
Is it another week of almond butter and jelly sandwiches? The goddamn almond butter is a fortune, but it’s as cheap as dinner gets. I’m allergic to peanuts.
Four nights a week at that hellhole and I struggle nonstop.
I fight so hard. And for what?
I’m not on track to pay my tuition come August. Addie’s?
Forget about it.
She thinks Dad’s helping with that too.
And I…
Fuck, I’m so tired.
I shower. Wrap myself in a threadbare towel. Look for a snack in the fridge.
No seared scallops with butternut squash puree. No premium gin and tonic. No flourless chocolate cake.
Almond butter and Trader Joe’s chocolate. In the fridge because we don’t have air-conditioning. Because it’s too hot for the cocoa.
It melts on the counter.
It can’t take the heat.
Can I?
Again, I wake to Addie’s music. A different song from the violinist. Another that tugs at my heartstrings.
It’s too early, but the room smells like cinnamon. And this is my Friday. Sort of. My last day of work before an entire day off.
After I move through my morning routine, I fix tea and oatmeal. With cinnamon, raisins, and a little vanilla extract, this is practically a cookie.
It’s also cheap. Even if the vanilla extract is a bit of a stretch.
Addie steals a sip of my tea. Smiles as the album flows into the next.
“Something’s up.” I steal my tea back. “Something big.”
“Marisol’s planning a beach weekend.” Her girlfriend. The very supportive girlfriend who is the rock she needs.
“And…”
“You’re the one who goes on about how you’re a goth mermaid.”
“I do not go on.”
“Don’t make me load up your Instagram.”
My laugh dissolves the tension in my shoulders. There is evidence on social media that argues against my point. “I may have said it once or twice.” A long time ago. When things weren’t so hard.
She shakes her head okay. Pulls out her cell.
A few taps of her finger and she’s looking at my social media. My former glory.
All these posts of my hair, makeup, style.
A fierce black dress.
An epic crown braid.
The teal and purple bikini that screams Ursula.
Nothing recent. My recent life is far from Insta-worthy.
“Next weekend?” She looks at me with hope in her eyes. “Do you think you can come?” She presses her hands together. “Pretty please.”
“I have work.” I work four nights a week.
Addie works three days a week. An internship that pays double minimum wage and requires business casual attire.
It doesn’t leave a lot of time for us to hang out.
But it’s easier now that it’s summer.
“At night. You can come out for the day. Her parents’ place in Long Island,” she says. “Not the boring part with all the freeways. A nice part, by the beach. And they have a pass.”
“A nice part of Long Island?” I raise a brow really?
“I know you read The Great Gatsby.”
“Are her parents in the Hamptons?”
“Uh…” She motions a little. “They’re super rich.”
A super rich girlfriend. Look at my baby sister. She’s better at this than I am and she’s not even trying. “You’ll have more fun without me.”
She shakes her head. “She’s bringing her sister. And we haven’t… I don’t want it to be weird. Expectations. You know?”