CHAPTER SIX
The waitress startles me nearly enough to tip my coffee all over the table — I’m sure it’s an odd breed of college homesickness working its way through my system.
I told Dad I could take care of myself now — or, more accurately, that I want to take care of myself. I’m twenty-two. I never had to struggle like my friends. Phoebe, who should be here any second, grew up poor and managed to never resent me for having more money by the year while her family stayed where it was. She didn’t get her first job at Key Notes for “something to do” or “to teach me responsibility” like I got mine. And she isn’t a clerk at Très Chic because she loves clothing, though she does. For Phoebe — as for pretty much everyone other than me — working is survival.
While waiting for Phoebe, I started thinking about my forthcoming independence. About whether it was sensible or bizarre to insist on getting my own place when I already have one with doors I can lock for free. Whether it was grown-up or merely stubborn to demand a job at my father’s company rather than working with Phoebe at Très Chic.
A boutique job belongs to a kid, whereas a job at a real estate development company is something a proper adult might strive for. But then again, the development job was at my daddy’s company. Would I hold a token job with no true purpose or responsibility … or was I doing what I told myself I was doing, working my way up from the bottom, climbing rungs in a business I’d love to own once upon a someday?
Was I taking a chance and working hard … or merely the beneficiary of obvious nepotism?
That’s what I was thinking when I first sat in the booth, alone, looking out across the full tables at the trendy Nosh Pit — a place that didn’t exist when I left for school. So much of Inferno keeps changing. The town used to be home, but not exciting. Now it’s a hot spot.
I was thinking about how I’d find an apartment, then pay for it with my own money.
I was thinking about tomorrow, about the job my father would find for me, and whether it was best to accept whatever it was or jockey for something better. Or maybe it would be too good, and I’d have to ask if I could start with something worse.
I got to thinking about advancement. About working my way up from the bottom.
And where was the bottom in Life of Riley? You could say it was a position like receptionist, but the real ground floor is in construction. I don’t know all the logistics — yet — but I’m pretty sure Dad used to subcontract then moved construction in house when he realized how much he was blowing on middlemen. Compliance and union issues had been a real pain; I’d been hearing about them on and off when calling or visiting home.
If I really wanted to start at the bottom, I’d come to work with a hammer.
I’m not planning to do that, but that man I met today? Brandon Grant? He started in construction. So it’s possible. It does my heart good to see that my legacy is a true meritocracy. Do good work at Life of Riley, and you can rise to vice president. Bearded or not.
For some reason, Dad’s question about that beard snags in my mind. He was joking, of course. Brandon, if he gets the position, really should at least trim his beard, though. It looked a little overly … well … construction guy-ish. It’d help his chances. I don’t think he needs to shave it. I don’t normally like beards, but on him, it works. He has those soft blue eyes topped by eyebrows that aren’t bushy, or timid. A thoughtful brow, really. Like he was, as Dad said, used to being quiet and absorbing what others said then pondering his way to decision. Short brown hair. A way of behaving that’s not quite shy, but not at all forceful. Strong and silent, judging by my scant moments of exposure.
“Top you off?”
I’m so lost in thought that the sudden snap to reality causes me to slap my coffee cup with my hand. I jump a bit in my seat, then turn to see a red-haired waitress standing beside me.
The waitress seems rattled. She’s holding a coffee pot in one hand and has placed the other across her heart. Other than the coffee pot, she might be someone out for a stroll down the aisle. The Nosh Pit’s trendiness extends to the waitress uniforms: knee-length and pretty-enough-to-pass-for-real dresses, almost formal. They come with slim black belts, and her no-skid restaurant shoes actually have an open toe and a small heel. The heel must be optional because I also see women in flats, and the waiters are in pressed shirts and what look like shoes worthy of a street side polish stand.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
I smile. It comes naturally. Many of Dad’s friends treat restaurant staff like shit, but several of my friends have served. And besides, this girl is probably just a few years older than me. If I’m going to stay in this town and make a proper name for myself, she and I might one day orbit the same circles. Everyone works their way up, and from what I understand, the Nosh Pit is far from the bottom.
“It’s no problem,” I say. “Just off in the clouds, I guess.”
“Would you like more coffee?”
I nod. While she’s filling my cup, I notice a name stitched into the dress. It should look terrible, but the designers managed to make the stitching look almost like a monogram.
“Abigail,” I say.
She looks up.
“Do you go by Abby?”
“I like Abigail better.”
I’m just about to say I admire when people use their full names rather than shortening them when Phoebe shows up. She isn’t delicate, and nearly sideswipes the server, as if she thought Abigail was about to steal her seat.
The server blinks. Her red hair is straight and understated. She has a spray of subtle freckles, and it almost looks like she’s tried to cover them in makeup that’s mostly worn off during her shift. Her nose is tiny and porcelain; the freckles lie across them in a delicate blanket. Normally, I’d never want red hair or freckles for myself, but they look stunning on Abigail, and I’m momentarily jealous. I’m all white teeth and blonde hair. Put me outside on a sunny day, and I swear, I’ll vanish.
“Hi,” she says to Phoebe. “Can I get you anything?”
“Coffee.”
Abigail hangs around for a baffled moment then turns to go. I’m left facing Phoebe, who’s perusing the menu even though I know she won’t order a thing. She told me to meet her at the upscale diner despite having eaten dinner at home. When I suggested we meet at a Starbucks instead, she laughed in a pitying way that suggested I was too uncool to know better.
“Hi,” I say, making a point to stare her down.
Phoebe looks up with just her eyes then folds the menu and sticks it off to the side, in the rack with the salt, pepper, and sweeteners. She looks properly up at me then crosses her arms on the table. Phoebe has intense, deep-set brown eyes and a deceptively stylish mop of brown hair. It looks like a mess but is carefully choreographed.
“So,” she counters.
I always get the feeling I’m keeping Phoebe from something. It’s easy to forget that she was the one who called me last week, demanding to know when I’d be home so we could hang out again. It’s easy, now, to forget that she called me again today, before I was half-unpacked, and demanded I meet her here the minute I finished.
“So yourself,” I say.
Phoebe’s mouth cocks then she’s sliding her tongue into the corner as if thinking, or cleaning her teeth. The impasse breaks, and she sits back.
“What you been up to?”
“Oh, just four years of college. You?”
“Selling clothes.” Her eyes tick toward the red-headed waitress, who’s neared the kitchen. I really do like her uniform. I’d wait tables if I could wear that. “You met Abigail?”
“You know her?”
“Of course I know her. I know everyone in town.”
“No, you don’t,” I counter. Phoebe has always been antisocial. Or, more accurately, she’s antisocial with anyone who doesn’t seem especially hip, which is most people. “You’re an asshole.”
Her demeanor breaks, and she laughs. “I’m on the upswing. I started taking this course with a life coach online.”
“What kind of course?”
“On how to be a life coach.”
That sounds like a pyramid scheme, but I keep the thought to myself. The idea of Phoebe as a coach, life or not, gives me chills. But she’s always into something, always searching.
“Anyway, I’ve learned to open up. Network. You know?”
This is even harder to believe. My father’s employees network, not Phoebe. I try to imagine her handing out business cards and suggesting lunch. Maybe that’s what we’re doing now. Have I been networked?
“Sure.”
“I know all the players.”
“And the waitresses here. They’re players?”
“Servers know everyone. They hear all sorts of juicy shit.”
I sit forward. “Okay. Then tell me some ‘juicy shit’ you’ve learned from networking here.”
“Abigail walked out on rich parents and a full ride at Princeton. Oh, and an asshole boyfriend who was apparently sticking it in everything.”
“Telling me gossip about the person who told you the gossip doesn’t count.”
“Okay,” says Phoebe. “See that girl over there?”
I look where she’s not terribly subtly nodding. There’s another waitress at the diner’s far end, past the stylized chrome stools lining the counter. This waitress also has red hair, but it’s far redder. I wonder if there’s some sort of a dress code for hair, but the only other female server I can see is tall and thin, sharp but gorgeous features and dark-brown hair, her uniform adjusted for maximum tit exposure. On second look, it turns out the waiters and even the cooks all seem beautiful. It’s like eating at a modeling convention. Only the toad-like owner isn’t worthy of a glossy cover.
“Yeah?” I say.
“That’s Maya. Got herself knocked up in high school, and the guy ran off or something.”
I think I remember that. It might even have happened in my high school, certainly before I left. As business-expanding networking goes, Phoebe’s intel is worse than useless.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say.
“I didn’t get knocked up,” she says, her posture as defensive as her tone.
“All you’ve learned while I was gone centers around the Nosh Pit. You’ve achieved the networking equivalent of watching a teen soap opera.”
Phoebe grabs a sugar packet and throws it at me. It hits me in the face before I can block it then falls into my coffee, paper and all. Phoebe raises her hands, making her stylish black pullover drape from her arms like a bat, and says, “Score!”
“Seriously? Are you still at Très Chic?”
“Just until I get my coaching credentials.”
I want to fast-forward past this part. It’s embarrassing. Phoebe has had so many great ideas that haven’t panned out, it’s amazing that she still believes every new thing will be the one that finally works. But I don’t pity her. Phoebe is a happy mess. I’m more or less organized, now with a college degree in business, but I feel like more of a mess. Phoebe’s delusion means she has it made. My clarity, by comparison, kind of sucks.
“You’re not impressed? I talk to everyone. Either I talk to them while they’re buying clothes — ”
“ — at a fancy boutique store that most people can’t afford.”
“ — or they’re eating in here or at other places where the staff is my ear to the ground. So yeah. I’m Grand Central, Honey.”
I glance at the waitresses. I wonder if they know they’re part of Phoebe’s delusional master plan. I wonder if they realize they’re apparently Phoebe’s good friends, or even that they know her at all.
“Who do you want to know about? Try me, Bitch.”
“Nobody.”
“Your dad. Want to know what he’s been up to?”
I wonder if that’s a threat. She could say anything.
“No thanks.”
“Because, you know, maybe he’s been dating.”
“I don’t want to hear it. Not from you, anyway.”
“How about Police Chief Wood?”
“I don’t care.”
“Stygian Hart?”
“Who the hell is Stygian Hart? Is he the big crazy guy?”
“Frightening. Not crazy.” She points at me as if this is an important distinction, or as if I’ve accidentally insulted an institution. Then she crosses her arms. I’ve seen this before. It means I’m not playing along and need to hop on board. I love Phoebe. She’s always been one of my best friends, but she’s also always been nuts. I remember the time she insisted we engineer her Big Wheel to fly.
I sigh. Then something occurs to me. Something I’d been wondering about anyway, so I might as knock two birds from my sky.
“Okay, I say. Brandon Grant.”
“What?”
“You want me to test you? Fine. Do you know Brandon Grant?”
Of course she won’t. But this will shut her up, and we can get back to talking about sensible things. This is the problem with Phoebe: She walks into everything with assumptions, and it’s her conversational opponent’s job to defeat her or lose gracefully. Ironically, this same trait is an asset at Très Chic, where beating her customers into acknowledging her superior sense of fashion increases both her reputation and commissions.
A small smile cracks across her dark-painted lips. Her brown eyes light up. “Of course I know Brandon.”
And she does, too. I can tell the difference after so much time knowing Phoebe. The devilish way she’s looking at me now makes me uneasy, though — as if she knows something about my inquiry that I’m not eager to admit. Or, worse, as if she knows him from firsthand experience.
I started this. I try to make my voice casual. “How?”
There’s a long, drawn-out moment wherein I can tell Phoebe is trying to torture me. In that second, I’m sure she’s slept with him. She’s kissed those lips. She’s felt those strong hands on her skin. She’s gripped those arms — arms that even through his suit, I knew would be hard and tan from his time building houses.
But then Phoebe’s head tips, and she kind of lets go. Abigail has returned with Phoebe’s coffee and flinches, as if she thinks Phoebe is about to faint.
After Abigail is gone, Phoebe sips her black coffee and says, “I know him through his sister, Bridget.”
“Oh.”
“Foster sister, actually.”
“He was a foster kid?” For some reason, this doesn’t make me feel bad for Brandon; it immediately elevates him in my mind. Now he didn’t just climb up from construction to potential veep. Now he’s almost a rags-to-riches story. You couldn’t get more all American than that. You couldn’t be more respectable, having mined all you had from nothing.
Phoebe nods. She takes another sip. “Bridget is going to be one of my customers.”
“What does that mean?”
“She was window shopping all the time, so I started talking to her. I decided I liked her style. She’s tough. So I stole some stuff for her. But she told me to piss off. Those are the words she used: ‘Piss off, Phoebe. I’m not some sort of charity case.’ She was superinsulted. But she’s doing some big audiobook right now?”
Phoebe says it like a question. I don’t respond, so she waves it away. I recognize the formation of another trademark Phoebe Reese open loop. I’ll probably never learn about the big audiobook, how she does them, how someone makes big money “doing” an audiobook, or why she’ll one day be a great customer.
“Anyway,” Phoebe says. This is how Phoebe ends a conversation.
“My dad’s considering Brandon as his new vice president.”
“He’s hot, isn’t he?” Phoebe says out of the blue.
“He’s cute.”
Phoebe points at me with the finger of inspiration and says, “You should hit that.”
“Oh. Okay.” I laugh.
“Seriously. I’d hit that.” She puts her fingers on her chin then shifts her jaw to the side, thinking. “A few years ago? — yeah, maybe it was a few years ago — your dad was building Forking … Forking Paths?” She raises her eyebrows to see if that’s right, but I have no idea what projects Life of Riley has built while I’ve been away. “Anyway. It’s right on my walk to work. They started up front, building the model home they use to show people around, I guess? And all the guys were out working with their shirts off. And then I spot this lumberjack guy. Your boy.”
I want to say he’s not my boy, but the words give me a thrill. As does the description I know is coming.
“They’re all sweaty, you know? Oiled up like … like strippers or something.”
We both giggle, and the next table looks over.
“I got that view for a little while then the crew moved into the interior homes. So I changed my walking route. I just walked until I found him.”
I want to ask what his chest looks like. What his arms look like. But really, this isn’t something I should be indulging. He might be my father’s vice president. Do I want to be that girl, ogling the man in charge? So much for making it on my own; everyone would assume I was angling for something if they caught me drooling.
“Anyway, yeah, I know him. Ha.” And that’s when I remember that this started as a challenge, with me positing that Phoebe didn’t know everyone after all.
The moment pops like a balloon. She’s moved on, now stirring three packets of sugar into her coffee. She drank half of it black, and now wants it sweet. But not just sweet — diabetes sweet.
I laugh. I look around a little, spotting the servers one by one. I let a minute pass, ready to talk if Phoebe tries to start a new topic. But she doesn’t, so I choose my time then casually speak.
“So I should hit that,” I say, quoting Phoebe, trying to make it sound like I think the idea is ridiculous. But it’s the very idea of my finding it ridiculous that’s crazy, seeing as I was eighteen the last time Phoebe and I hung out. I did tend to drool over guys a lot back then. I still kind of want to, honestly. But that’s exactly what Dad expects me to do, and drooling over his up-and-comer isn’t the best way to prove myself as a pro.
“You said he’s moving up in the company, right? So, yeah. Hit it. You’ve got access.”
“I don’t hook up with guys because I have ‘access.’”
Phoebe makes a little pfft sound.
“Besides, I just got out of a relationship. It’s time to just be me.”
“You don’t have to be him,” Phoebe says. “Just hit it.”
But that’s not me, and Phoebe knows it. I want to ask more, but that’ll make this more obvious. I’ve said enough. I’ve shown my interest. I’m not here to be boy crazy. I’m not here to be a flighty little girl. I’m here to be a professional.
If my father thinks he knows who I am, it’s my job, right now, to convince him I’ve become someone else. Someone capable of being responsible and level-headed. The kind of person who doesn’t change her walking path every morning in search of bare-chested men to ogle.
But before saying anything else, I look down into my cream-colored coffee, stirring slowly, and seem to see Brandon Grant in its depths. Stripping off his vice-presidential, powerful, ambitious shirt and picking up a hammer, a saw, anything that makes his muscles flex and his skin gleam with perspiration.