The Fortunate Ones

It’s completely awkward. If James looks up and sees me, I will look like a complete loser with my soggy bike and humidified hair. It’s bound to happen any moment now. He’s facing my direction, talking to the woman—who, by the way, is pulling off that shockingly red cocktail dress pretty well for midafternoon on a Thursday.

He leans forward and I think they’re about to kiss (DEAR GOD NO) but instead, he reaches out and shakes her hand. She says something that makes him laugh as she accepts his handshake, and then I’m jealous of her palm for getting to touch his. Did I touch him two weeks ago? Yes. I remember—I put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him and then immediately yanked it away. It was nothing like this super erotic handshake taking place in front of me. I want to shout at them to get a room, but the valet whips around with James’ car.

Where are they going now? To elope?

He steps back and waves to her.

Now.

Now is the moment in which he will look up, see me standing here like a damsel in distress, and offer me a ride. I will refuse at first because then he will think I’m kind—Oh, I couldn’t, I hate inconveniencing people—but that’s a lie. I will inconvenience the hell out of him if it means I’m allowed to get into that car and continue our conversation from the other night.

I’m still daydreaming about our exchange when he slides into the front seat of his Porsche and heads off down the winding drive.

Uh, dude?

You forgot me back here.

“Hey Brooke! Are you stuck?”

It’s Harrison, the golf guy I spoke with earlier. I force myself to look away from James’ receding car and offer him a reassuring smile.

“Just waiting out the rain for a few minutes.”

“I can give you a ride home if you want?”

He’s a nice-looking guy, probably a few years younger than me. I’d bet my entire life savings (which is maybe $37) that he goes to UT, belongs to a frat, and feels like a cultured man of the world for ordering chicken tikka masala. I would love a ride home, but what’s that thing about history? If you don’t learn from it then you’re destined to repeat it? Whatever. The point is, I just cut Ian off my line, and I can’t sink my hook into some other poor schmuck just because I don’t have a car. It’s not right, and this guy, with his earnest smile and big doe eyes, is begging for a broken heart.

So, in what I can only call a supremely pathetic act, I decline and bike home in the pouring rain. Water drips from my helmet into my eyes and I have to keep blinking to make out the road in front of me. My feet continuously slip off the pedals, and I suffer through it like a real champ. I commit all the bad parts to memory so I can wallow in my bedroom in peace while I continue to obsess over James…just for a minute, just to see if I can figure out who the woman was.

And I do.

I search #TwinOaksCountryClub on Instagram, and lo and behold, Little Miss Red Dress posted a photo of her afternoon meeting with James. It’s not of him. No, she took a picture of their food and drinks to brag about how #goals her life is. The caption reads: Having a great interview with THE #JamesAshwood at Twin Oaks Country Club! #CrabCakes #GoatCheese #Yum #Yummy #Lucky #Blessed #Soblessed

I develop cataracts before I can finish reading all the hashtags she tacked on, but it doesn’t matter. Her profile says she’s a medical device rep, and she was interviewing with James at the club, so there it is, folks. She might soon be working for James’ company, but she’s not dating him. I might work at a country club, but clearly I missed my calling as a private investigator.

Ellie texts me when I’m about to go to sleep.ELLIE: Oh whoops. Sorry, just seeing this. Are you still floating in the river? You should be nearing the Gulf of Mexico by morning. Should I pick you up in Galveston?CHAPTER SIXOn days like this, I’m tempted to take extreme measures to secure an au pair position. The next time the agency calls me with an interview opportunity, I’m going to give myself a reverse makeover. Fake braces, dopey glasses, maybe a lisp—anything to pick up a new job so I can drop this one.

“Um, yeahhhh, this is wrong…I asked for a virgin strawberry daiquiri and my friend asked for a virgin piña colada.”

I take the drinks out of their barely-post-pubescent hands and swap them.

“There you go. Do you need anything else?”

The tween scowls. “But I already drank half of that one before I realized it wasn’t the right drink. I want another one.”