The Fortunate Ones

I take a calming breath and try to harness every drop of patience I have left inside of me.

“No problem. What’s your member ID number?”

She pulls down her sunglasses so I can see her crystal-blue eyes. “I already gave it to you.”

I want to drown her in that virgin strawberry daiquiri. Instead, I smile. “I’m sorry. I forgot it.”

Her friend sneers. “Be nice to the help, Mercedes. She might be like…special.”

Mercedes snickers and whispers loudly, “How sad. I mean, you’d kind of have to be to work here, right?”

Even though I want to, I don’t engage. I keep my smile right where it is and ask again. “What’s your member ID number?”

She rolls her eyes. “4387. The Johnsons.”

She says it like she’s proclaiming to be a Vanderbilt, but I know better. I didn’t recognize her before, but now I do. From rumors passed around the club, I know her dad just got caught cheating on her mom with his tennis partner—his male tennis partner—and now it makes sense; this mean girl act is a defense mechanism. Soon enough, she’ll find a good therapist and learn to get her anger out by taking up kickboxing. For now, I give her extra whipped cream on her strawberry daiquiri and vow to stay the hell away from her for the rest of the afternoon.

Another two hours pass, in which I schlepp food and drinks back and forth from the cabana bar to the kiddie pool. Fortunately, all the children over here are too young to be really mouthy. Plus, I’m the person bringing the candy and ice cream, so to them, I’m better than Elmo.

“Oooh, look who’s over by the gate,” one of the moms says as I’m clearing her table of empty margarita glasses.

“Oh god, he’s so hot,” her friend adds.

“Megan! You just got married six months ago!”

“Yeah, well, Mark isn’t exactly a wizard in the bedroom. Staring at James is probably the most sexually fulfilling thing I’ll do all week.”

My neck nearly breaks at the mention of his name. I turn around, and sure enough, he’s over by the gate, leaning on the ledge and scanning the pool area. I conclude that he’s looking for someone a second before his brown eyes lock with mine. My stomach dips in a sensation I can only describe as euphoric and terrifying all at once, and that’s before he smiles and nods for me to come over.

“Who is he looking at?” one of the moms asks.

“I think the hot cabana girl.”

For their information, I am a cabana woman, thank you very much.

“Maybe he wants a margarita?” the first one asks.

“Um, if that’s how he looks at you when he wants you to get him a margarita then sign me up for cabana duties.”

My hand shakes as I reach for the last cup on their table.

“Do you know him?” Megan asks me.

I offer a hesitant smile and a quick shake of my head. It’s better if they assume he just wants a drink; I’d rather not be the topic of the gossip continually spreading through Twin Oaks.

By the time I drop off my tray in the cabana kitchen and check my reflection in the back of a spoon (good, not great), James is standing just inside the pool gate, hands tucked in his pants pockets. It’s early summer in Texas, which means the temperature is already creeping into the high 80s. I’d be sweating bullets if I were wearing a tailored suit out here, but James looks like he’s hardly aware of the sun beating down overhead. Who knows? Maybe he doesn’t have pores like the rest of us. Still, in an effort to save us both, I direct us over to the shaded porch near the bar then turn to face him.

“Going for a dip?” I tease.

I swear his smile turns devilish.

He nods toward the club entrance. “I just came from a lunch meeting. I need to get back to the office soon, but I wanted to talk to you.”

I swallow down my eagerness. “Oh yeah?”

“You know,” he says, brushing his hand along his smooth jaw, “I used to see you around the club all the time, but now that I have a reason to talk to you, you’ve been impossible to find.”

The concept of him looking for me is hilarious given the biking-home-in-the-rain scenario I endured a few days ago.

“Well, I assure you, I’ve been here,” I say, waving to the pool behind me. “Personally inebriating the rich, famous, and bratty.”

That makes him smile just as the tweens screech in unison about a new Snapchat filter.

“Right. Of course,” he says, glancing down to take in my Twin Oaks uniform in all its glory. I flush under his blatant perusal.

“So what did you need to talk to me about so desperately?” I ask, catching my hands in front of my waist and wringing them out.