The Fortunate Ones

I pick up my pace and cringe when I see how angry he is.

“Jesus, I’ve been here forever. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“Sorry, sorry! I had to close and there was a member inside who wouldn’t leave.”

It’s the truth, just not the whole truth.

“I was about to come in, but I’m not exactly dressed for it,” he says, motioning down to his Bob Marley boxers and foam flip-flips.

I buckle up as he puts his car in drive and loops around, back toward the gatehouse. At this time of night, there shouldn’t be any other cars exiting the club, but when we arrive at the fork where the parking lot and the valet entrance merge, we’re met by a sleek black Porsche. Ian presses on the brake. So does the Porsche. I fidget in my seat.

Ian curses under his breath and then waves the car forward.

The Porsche pulls out in front of us and then we chug along behind it, down the winding tree-lined drive. At the entrance, the gate takes a few seconds to open, and I try as hard as I can to see through the tint of the Porsche’s back windows. I can make out the silhouette of a man in the front seat, but no features. Most importantly, I can’t tell if he’s watching me in his rearview mirror. I hope he is.

I can hear the engine purring over the sound of Ian complaining about how he almost lost his high waiting so long, but I’m focused on the idea of James. I want to know what the interior of his car feels like. I want to know what kind of music he likes to play at this time of night. I want to know where he’s heading when we hit the first main road and he turns right before we turn left.

I’m disappointed because I will never get those answers.

“Ian, I think we should talk.”CHAPTER FIVEI’ve called my mom five times in the past two weeks and she hasn’t answered once. If we were dating, I would have probably picked up on her not-so-subtle attempt to get rid of me and moved on, but she’s my mom, and therefore can’t ignore me forever. To be fair, she did attempt to call me back last week, but it was at 1:27 AM. Silly me, I was asleep. Now, I try again, counting the rings as they tick by while simultaneously digesting the new decor in my dad’s guest bathroom.

It’s Wednesday, which means I should be hanging out at Flying Saucer with co-op friends, kicking ass in trivia. Music is my topic of choice. There isn’t a late 90s, early 2000s song I cannot name, date, and sing (poorly) word for word. Tonight, however, my team is playing without me. I’ve already received three text messages asking me about various pop lyrics. Who doesn’t know the full chorus to Britney’s “Baby One More Time”? They should be ashamed.

The phone rings on and on.

I inspect the new pendant light hanging over the bathroom sink. Martha must be watching Fixer Upper. There’s enough shiplap in this bathroom to build an actual ship.

“Hi, you’ve reached Laura Acosta. Sorry I missed your call. Leave a message after the beep.”

I do not leave a message. Voicemails, like Britney, are a relic of decades gone by. I need immediate gratification.

I punch the little red circle repeatedly and end the call four times over.

Everyone is waiting for me at the dinner table, and I can hear Ellie chatting with my dad about the country club. He’s been a member for as long as I can remember, but he’s never there. Work keeps him busy, thank goodness. The only thing worse than working at the cabana would be working at the cabana while my dad hovers nearby, teasing in that adorable yet infuriating way only dads can manage. Martha’s there a lot, but only to play tennis with her friends. She sometimes stays for brunch, but usually leaves before my shift starts.

It occurs to me that I’ve been in the restroom for a while now. They’ve probably concluded that Martha’s carefully puffed soufflé is not sitting well with me. I know I’ll have to leave the safety of this shiplap dungeon soon, but I was really hoping my mom would answer my call. I want to ask her about Christmas, just to prove Ellie wrong. She is coming, see?!

When I make it back to the dining room, I pause in the doorway for a moment and take in the charming tableau presented there. The three of them look like an all-American family enjoying their post-dinner coffee and dessert. Martha is wearing a brightly patterned blouse and white jeans. My dad admires her with a warm smile before he reaches across the table and takes her hand. There is a steaming cup of decaf waiting for me on my placemat and a half-devoured peach pie with a crumble top in the center of the table.