3. Alba
THREE
ALBA
I stared at the ball of paper on the office floor, and my temperature went up a half dozen degrees.
He hadn’t even bothered to throw it in the trash can next to his desk.
And a few feet away, the boots I’d cleaned had multiplied.
There were two sets of dirty work boots, and they’d leaked their melted, dirty snow into the carpet fibers again.
Argh!
I vacuumed the office and straightened the boots, but I refused to clean the carpet under the footwear.
After all, I’d promised I wouldn’t. And when I bent over to pick up the note I’d written him, I paused with my hand hovering over the scrunched-up paper.
Then I stood and stared at it for a second.
And I left it there.
He wanted to tell me how little he thought of me? Well, two could play at that game.
Sure, I was the one with the entry-level job who couldn’t exactly afford to get fired, but who was keeping track, anyway? Not me. I was willing to find out how much further I had to fall.
I finished cleaning the office, then continued on to the rest of the floor. When I got home, I showered, punched my pillow into submission, and glared at the wall, willing myself to fall asleep.
And I thought of him. The guy from the restaurant, who’d come back and sat in my section again. Vaughn. He was such a jerk.
And I’d…liked it?
After he’d left, I’d felt a little lighter. The annoying customers with their unrealistic demands hadn’t bothered me quite so much. Some of the aggression I’d felt had dissipated.
At least he’d been good for something. I closed my eyes, wondering if I’d see him again, then caught myself. My eyes popped open again and I glared at the wall.
No . No, I didn’t want to see him again. Sure, he was attractive and I enjoyed the way he gave as good as he got. But I’d learned my lesson with James. I was done with men. Especially the beautiful ones who lived in a different reality from me.
James had wanted me for my money. I knew that now.
But I’d believed his pretty words about our future and our love.
I’d been so starved of affection that I’d convinced myself it was real.
I’d thrown my life away to declare my love for him, and it had turned out to be pathetically delusional and one-sided.
I was so, so ashamed.
We hadn’t gotten physical until after I broke it off with Cole, because I’d asked my fiancé for the same courtesy and I had a shred of decency.
But it had been an affair. I’d been engaged to a man I didn’t love, and I’d poured my affection into the text messages and late-night phone calls and stolen dates at dive bars, hoping my friends and acquaintances wouldn’t see me but secretly thrilled that they might.
James and I kissed and pawed at each other, whispered in each other’s ears.
And it had all been a lie.
Vaughn had money, so if he was interested in me—which he wasn’t—he’d want me for something other than my parents’ fortune, but he’d still want to use me and discard me. To remind me that I was small and weak and pathetic.
Both of them would toss me aside—or already had—as soon as I was no longer useful to them. Just like my parents had done.
I wouldn’t put myself in that position again.
The next day was my day off from the restaurant. I woke up aching from head to toe, bleary-eyed and shivering. My blanket wasn’t cutting it, and I knew I couldn’t afford to put the heating up any higher (I’d learned this last winter, when I got an eye-popping bill that took me weeks to pay off).
What I could afford was an overpriced coffee and maybe a pastry from the café down the block.
As a bonus, the café was warm, and it had comfy couches that might be vacant on a weekday like today.
My feet hit the floorboards, and I shivered.
I pulled some jeans and a long-sleeve top from my pile of laundry on the floor, then stared at the tangle of garments.
They were work clothes mixed with a few of my favorite sweaters, all of which were starting to smell a little musty.
And in a tiny studio apartment, with a kitchenette within arm’s reach of the bed, there was no escaping musty. Ugh.
“Fine,” I grumbled to myself, and I gathered the whole mess into my laundry basket and humped it to the basement so I could put a load on before getting my coffee.
I left my basket on top of the machine, then bundled myself up to face the elements and went outside.
The espresso machine hissed as soon as I entered the café, then stopped to let me listen to the low murmur of conversation and the ambient music in the background.
I got in line, ordered my coffee and a cinnamon apple braid, then scanned the space for somewhere to sit.
At one of the long purple sofas on the far side of the room sat a woman on her own.
Black, industrial-style light fittings shone down from above her head.
Her hair was piled high on her head, brown streaked through with highlights of blond.
As I approached, I noticed her ears were adorned with dangles and studs all the way up the shell, and her lips, painted dark red, pursed as she frowned at her laptop screen.
“You mind?” I asked, pointing to the opposite side of the couch.
“Be my guest,” she replied with a casual wave.
When my name was called, I got up to get my drink and came back, then moved to sink into the cushions—and bashed my foot against the table leg.
I yelped and stumbled, and my coffee cup wobbled on a saucer that clearly hadn’t been designed for that specific mug.
The clinking of ceramic on ceramic was the only warning I got before the tall, slender mug tipped and spilled all over me.
I swore, grabbing the cup when only a sip of two of my drink remained.
The rest of it stained the front of my clothing.
I stared at myself, and my shoulders dropped. A groan slipped through my lips. Tears prickled, and heat crawled up the back of my throat. I hated that. I didn’t want to cry—not in public. Not over spilled hot milk.
The woman with the earrings leaned back on the sofa and looked at me. Sympathy shone through in her smile. “Tough morning?”
“Tough year,” I replied.
“Let me buy you a new one. What are you drinking?”
“You don’t have to do that?—”
“I want to,” she said, and smiled again. “I’ve had bad days where a tiny act of kindness would’ve made all the difference.”
“Do I look that bad?” I said, forcing a laugh.
“Honey,” she said, “you look awful.” Her smile was bright, and it was impossible not to huff a laugh in response.
I relented. “It was a latte with half a pump of sugar-free vanilla syrup.”
She smiled at me, got up, and came back a few minutes later with a drink for herself—and one for me. In the meantime, I dabbed my clothes and wiped my jacket off, and then I was able to sit semi-comfortably despite the stains.
At least I hadn’t worn any of my good clothes.
When she handed me the new drink, I almost started crying. “Thank you,” I said.
“I’m Deena.”
“Alba,” I replied, and we shook. She adorned her fingers with rings the way she did her ears—maximally.
Three out of five fingers on each hand had at least one ring on it, a mix of gold and silver, some of them featuring semiprecious stones in bezel settings.
Her clothes were easy and comfortable, and they looked like a mix of vintage and decently made basics.
She wouldn’t have fit in with my previous social circle—too few designer labels—but she oozed style. I wished I’d put more effort into my appearance, but Deena didn’t seem to mind.
“What are you working on?” I asked after taking a sip of my fresh latte.
She waved a hand. “Boring work stuff. I want to know why your year has been so terrible.”
I groaned—and she laughed. My own lips curled into a smile, and I realized it was the first time in over a year that it had felt easy to talk to someone.
“I had a falling out with my family,” I admitted, my throat tightening even with that vague mention of what had happened. “They kind of…disowned me.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “For real?”
I nodded.
“Ouch.”
“The guy I was dating then dumped me, because apparently he was only with me for money and connections. Of which I now have none.”
Deena leaned her elbow on the back of the couch and crossed her legs as she angled her body toward me. “I recently got dumped,” she told me. “It wasn’t anything serious, but it still hurt.”
I ran my finger along the handle of my mug and stared at the drink Deena had bought me. Then I looked at her. “Why do guys suck so much?”
She snorted. “One of life’s mysteries. Maybe one day I’ll learn.”
I grinned. “It’s like this guy who came into the restaurant where I work yesterday. He totally got off on tormenting me.”
Deena arched her brows, and I told her all about my interactions with Vaughn aka Cheap Suit. Then I found myself telling her about the crumpled ball of paper in the executive’s office and was gratified when she laughed so hard tears formed in her eyes.
“And you just left it there?”
I nodded. “I haven’t gotten any angry phone calls this morning, so I’m guessing he hasn’t called to have me fired.”
“I like you,” she declared. “What are you doing this weekend?”
“Working, mostly.”
“Well, we need to get together.” Deena pulled out her phone and gave it to me, telling me to put my contact details in.
I felt…nervous. A shy smile kept teasing the corners of my lips, and it wasn’t just the temperature in the coffee shop that made me feel slightly flushed.
I’d lost all my friends over the past year.
Without money, I couldn’t dress like them, or go to the same events as them, or meet them on impromptu international vacations.
The friends I thought were close with me drifted away from me over the weeks that followed my parents’ disownment.
It was like my fall from grace was a communicable disease; they might end up poor if they spent too much time with me.
So, for the past year, I’d been largely isolated.
Deena was the first person to actually treat me like a person who had value.
I had coworkers, sure, but most of the time I was so clueless about how things worked that they treated me like the village idiot.
I treated me like the village idiot. It was hard to feel confident when it felt like I’d been thrown on another planet and expected to know how to survive.
Deena was cool and confident and kind, and her offer of friendship made me feel like for the first time in a long time, I had something to lose. I really wanted to meet up with her again, if only to have someone to tell about my unprofessional antics.
We parted not long after. My laundry had been moved out of the washing machine and tossed into my laundry basket on top, which felt slightly violating, but what didn’t feel slightly violating these days? It’s like the whole world was designed to make me feel less than human.
I put the clothes in the dryer and went up to my apartment to make myself some food and grab a nap before my cleaning shift.
When I woke up, my clothes still weren’t dry.
I frowned, put some more money in the machine, and turned it on for another ninety minutes.
The next time I checked them, same deal.
Growling in frustration, I took my still-damp clothes, brought them back to my apartment, and laid them over every available piece of furniture before rushing to get ready in time for work.
And realized I hadn’t made myself any food for dinner.
For the millionth time, my eyes prickled at the tiniest thing.
How did people do this? How did the majority of the population stay on top of everything that needed to be done?
I’d grown up with cleaners, nannies, gardeners, drivers, cooks, and assistants. There had always been a whole team of people ready to do all the things required to make life function, and sometimes I’d still found it hard.
Now I only had myself.
In a way it felt good; I’d learned just how much I could rely on myself in the past year.
I’d figured it out. I’d survived…but I was exhausted.
It was all the cooking and cleaning and rushing and work.
I had to organize all my bills and utilities.
Then I was supposed to work out, take care of my health (with what money?), and somehow form social connections?
Impossible.
By the time I made it to work, the glow of my interaction with Deena had faded.
I was back to the reality of my daily grind.
A sleek black sedan idled in front of the building’s entrance, and I hid my grimace at the sight of it.
I used to have a driver who would sit there waiting for me.
Now I had a subway card, a hip that clicked, and feet that always ached.
I swiped my after-hours access card and entered the building, trying not to think about all the things I’d left behind.
The elevator doors closed as I pressed the button for the forty-second floor, and I squared my shoulders to ready myself for another body-breaking shift.