No amount of explanation is going to fix this. I can see it on his face.
“Mr. West, we administered epinephrine and she’s handling it well. The symptoms are all but gone now. I do, however, advise that you be vigilant about making sure she doesn’t consume anymore products with peanuts going forward. She may grow out of the allergy later––it happens sometimes with children––but we don’t know for certain.”
“Can I see her?”
“Yes, of course,” the doctor tells him. “Right this way.”
“Jordan…,” I quietly plead, but he won’t look at me. Without thought, I touch his arm and he rips his arm away from me. It’s an automatic gesture, and yet I should’ve known not to cross his boundaries.
“You idiot!” he shouts loud enough for everyone in the ER to hear. He pulls back, takes a deep breath and runs his fingers through his hair, his nostrils flaring. “You had one job to do and…” He shakes his head like he’s trying to get a hold of the rage.
As much as I try, I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop shaking. I don’t even remember falling apart like this at my father’s funeral.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t––”
“You’re fired,” he snarls. “We’re done. I’ll mail you your last check.”
I knew it. I knew it the second he walked into the ER.
“Let me say goodbye?” I can’t stand the thought of Maisie thinking I abandoned her like her mother and father have. She didn’t do anything to deserve feeling this way. It’s my fault. I take full responsibility, but the least he could do is let me say goodbye.
“Please Jordan. I’m begging you. Just let me say goodbye.”
“I don’t want you anywhere near her.” With that, he turns and walks away while I watch him go.
“Who was that douchebag?” Todd asks, suddenly standing next to me staring after Jordan.
“No one.” I wipe my face again. “Just the guy I used to work for.”
Chapter Eight
Riley
“For one?” The teenager behind the counter gives me a deadman stare. “You want to order a twelve slice pie with extra cheese to go for like…one person?”
This is my life. This is what it’s come to.
I stare back at the teenage girl taking my order at Johnny’s Pizzeria, the one down the street from my home which I risk losing to the bank if I don’t find a new stream of income quickly, with thinly veiled contempt. She’s wearing way too much mascara. If Veronica were here, she would already have the makeup remover wipes out and cleaning her face. Then she’d give her a makeover. I’d rather just slap it off her face. Because…mood.
“Did I stutter?” I ask, performing feats of wonder to remain calm.
“Uhhh…no.”
Portion shamed by a teenage food Nazi. This is the kind of week I’m having.
“Then yes, one set of plastic utensils, one Dr Pepper, and a large pie to go… and don’t say like. It’s unprofessional.”
As if I’m not already in a foul mood having been fired for doing my job––rather well, I might add––now I’m forced to justify my food choices to a person who still stinks of her mother’s milk.
After getting my way with the teenager, I drag my sorry self to Veronica’s place where I learn, at the tender age of twenty-six-years young, that there’s such a thing as an emergency date.
“The hell is an emergency date?” I ask, leaning back onto her bed while I watch her put the finishing touches to her hair.
“He’s hot, he’s a corporate attorney, and I haven’t gotten any in a month. If that’s not an emergency, I don’t know what is.”
She shakes out her long pin-straight brown hair, sweeps one side behind her ear, and checks herself in the bedroom mirror.
“Look at this,” she says, indicating to the image in the mirror. “These are my best years. I can’t let this go to waste.”
Boy, do I have a lot of lost time to make up for then.
I get off the bed and stand next to her, side by side in the mirror. In comparison, I look like Cousin It. My hair is a hot mess in a top knot, dark bags lurk under my eyes. I’m wearing my ancient red hoody so faded it’s now pink. I didn’t even take a shower today. I won’t discuss the state of my legs. Shaving has not been a priority. I’ll leave it there. Depression has gotten its hooks in me and it’s not shaking loose. I miss Maisie. I miss my job. I do not miss the bastard who fired me.
“So you’re not even a little tempted by my large pie with extra cheese? I mean…it’s hot and it’ll make you feel good inside.”
She gives me that Vega look. The one that says I’m hopeless. Maybe I am. Who knows anymore. Todd from the museum called me a few times and I haven’t answered or called him back. Dating isn’t a priority. Besides, my options are slim at best. Everyone I grew up with in Staten Island is either in jail, a cop, or a fireman. A big fat no to all three boxes.