Chapter 10
BECAUSE WILSON IS ETERNALLY tasked with ruining my life, I don’t get to go to The Rundown for work the next day. I’m scheduled for an opening shift at Monte’s that I couldn’t wiggle myself out of.
Now there’s an hour to kill before my shift begins, and I’ve decided to spend it torturing myself—also known as straightening my hair. Luckily, this time I have a distraction: my newly budding status of relationship expert . I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor in my bedroom, directly in front of the mirror, with my laptop propped open to iDiary . As I feed a new curl through the iron, I read a message and start thinking of a response.
The current one has me stumped. User @allisonjones wrote in about a friends-with-benefits situation she’s stuck in. The dilemma is simple: he caught feelings and she didn’t. Now she’s unsure how to let him down gently while still maintaining the “friend” part.
No matter how far back I think, I can’t remember a specific moment where Jill or Julie went through something like this. Probably because friends-with-benefits wasn’t something they were oversharing with their thirteen-year-old sister. Every solution I come up with just feels wrong. Like, leading him on obviously doesn’t work, because that’s cruel. But then ending things won’t work either, because then @allisonjones loses the friend and the benefits.
When I’ve finished straightening my hair and have thought myself into a spiral, Julie opens my door, and I discreetly shut my laptop with my foot. She walks into my bedroom like she owns the place, looking very summery in a yellow sundress. “It smells like a campfire in here,” she says, wrinkling her nose, then spotting the flat iron. “I really don’t understand why you do that to yourself. Your curls are so pretty.”
“ Your curls are so pretty. Mine are frizzy and unmanageable,” I say. Then I realize that since she’s here, I may as well ask the expert. “Question for you. Before Massimo, did you ever have a friend-with-benefits?”
Her hand flies to her mouth. “Do you have a boyfriend? Oh my gosh... do you need relationship advice? Tell me everything!”
“I’m asking for a friend at work,” I lie.
“Oh.” Julie’s face falls. “What’s going on?”
“The other person caught feelings,” I explain. “She doesn’t know how to end things without losing a friend.”
With a grimace, Julie makes herself comfortable on the edge of my bed. “Her first mistake was thinking friends-with-benefits can work,” she says. “It never ends well. Like, ever.”
“So how does she fix it?”
“I don’t think she can. Once you cross that physical line, it’s so hard to go back to the way your friendship was before. I tried it out once when I was, like, twenty-one? Anyway, didn’t end well. He was...” She trails off, staring down at her hands in a way that’s very un-Julie-like.
“Everything okay?”
She manages a laugh, smiling down at me. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t expect it to be this hard to talk about. Wow, it was a long time ago, and somehow, it still stings.”
I turn my body to face her, tucking my legs up to my chest. “What happened?”
“He was one of my best friends,” Julie says carefully. “And I lost him. We completely ruined our friendship. I still regret it to this day.”
“What do you think went wrong?” I ask. I’m not sure if this is research for my blog anymore or genuine curiosity.
“We forgot how to be friends after that,” she explains. “I’m sure there are people out there who can make friends-with-benefits work, but for most people it feels impossible. And it sounds like your friend is one of them.”
“So what do I tell her?” I ask.
“Well, she immediately needs to stop sleeping with them. I’d probably give it some time to air out. Maybe a week or two. See how they’re both feeling after that, and if a return to platonic friendship is possible. If not, she might lose the friend.”
That’s what I was afraid of. “Relationships are so complicated,” I grumble. Running this blog has taught me that so many people are unhappy. Why does anyone bother to stick around in a partnership where you feel so unsatisfied?
“They are,” Julie says, picking at a loose thread in my comforter. “Especially at your age, when you have a million things to figure out. My advice? Leave the serious commitment to your mid-twenties. It gets a lot easier to love someone else after you’ve spent some time getting to know yourself.”
I rest my head on her knee. “You’re going to make such a great mom someday.”
Julie laughs. “Where did that come from?”
“I don’t know. It’s true, though.”
She nudges my head. “You’ll be a very cool aunt, but not too cool. Jill is going to be such a bad influence on my kids. My God, Jackie. Promise me you’ll be a voice of reason and not encourage bad behavior?”
I can already picture Jillian sneaking them junk food when Julie isn’t around. Or letting them stay up late watching R-rated movies. “Promise,” I say.
“Speaking of— How’s it going with Jillian?” Julie begins to whisper. “Any updates on the Camilla situation?”
“Jill isn’t home. You don’t have to whisper.”
“I’m scared,” she says. “I don’t know how, but it feels like she’s always listening.” She peers around my room, actually shuddering, as if Jill is hiding in the closet, waiting to jump out and scream Gotcha !
“Anyway,” she continues, “have you learned anything new?”
“No,” I say honestly. “They spend a lot of time together. Like, they eat lunch together. Jill seems to have a different relationship with Cami. Like it’s less formal than the other girls. But that could just be because of their history, and I’m reading too much into it.”
“Less formal how?”
“No one goes into Camilla’s office unless she asks them to or they knock first. Jill just walks right in.”
Julie thinks on that. “That is weird. But you’re right, it could just be because of their history... You’re going to have to snoop around more.”
“More? I don’t want to jeopardize my job,” I whine. I’m actually starting to really enjoy working there.
“Then be careful,” she says with a wink. “And don’t forget, we have that bridesmaid’s dress appointment this weekend.”
“I know,” I say. I’ve been dreading it all week, simply because I’m not looking forward to trying on a bunch of pink dresses and having to look at my reflection from every single angle in a too-bright dressing room.
I give Julie a squeeze on her knee. “Thanks for the help. Wanna keep this streak going and give me a ride to work?” I ask.
Julie eyes the still-hot flat iron discarded on my bedroom floor. “Isn’t it counterproductive to spend all that time straightening your hair just to shove your head into a frog costume?” Julie says, fluffing my hair out around my shoulders. It now hits right beneath my boobs, which means it’s time for a haircut.
“Yes,” I say. “But I’ll continue to do it anyway.” Simply because my natural hair makes me feel like I cannot step foot in public. When you spend your entire childhood only receiving compliments when your hair is straight, you begin to take a hint.
“Speaking of work...” I check the time and realize my shift begins in fifteen minutes. “We needed to leave like, ten minutes ago.”
I tell Julie I’ll meet her in the car and quickly type up a response to @allisonjones. There’s a voice in my head that warns me not to—that part of Julie’s life was hard enough for her to talk about. I’m not sure if she’d appreciate me repeating it elsewhere. But isn’t it worth it if it stops someone from making the same mistake she did? If it saves someone else the heartbreak? If that’s the case, I’m nearly certain Julie would be okay with it.
I post the answer to iDiary and head to work.
With three minutes to spare, Julie is dropping me at the front doors to Monte’s Magic Castle. I head straight for the break room to don my costume and start my usual ritual of willing the tiny hands on the clock to move faster. But when I walk into the break room, the sight before me stops me dead in my tracks.
Our old, rickety white table is gone. The mismatched chairs thrown around it are gone, too. There is now a couch positioned against the back wall, two square tables with matching chairs, and a gigantic TV mounted on the wall that’s playing a soccer game. Even our fridge has been replaced with a stainless steel one—and it has a built-in water dispenser! There are two Keurig machines on the counter and, oh my gosh, a tray of muffins.
“Am I dreaming?” I ask. A few of my coworkers are hanging out on the couch, but it’s Justin who answers.
“I thought the same thing when I saw it yesterday.” He lifts the lid off the tray and grabs a blueberry muffin. I can smell it from here.
“What happened?” I ask. I’m in complete disbelief. Justin holds the lid for me, and I grab a chocolate chunk one for myself. Yes, chunk . Not chip. There’s a big difference.
Olivia, one of the entertainers seated on the couch, says, “Wilson happened.”
I almost drop my muffin. “ Wilson did this?”
Justin eats half his muffin in one bite. “I couldn’t believe it either. I mean, the dude got us a TV. How is this the same guy who’s tripping when we spend too much time in the bathroom?” He plops down on the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “He better not get on my case for watching the TV he put in here.”
I... I don’t know what to say. I was so mentally prepared for Wilson to screw up as our new manager that I never once thought to entertain the idea that he might—
That he might—
God, even the thought is unbearable.
That Wilson might actually do a good job.
Or maybe this is just his sneaky way of getting us to like him. Either way, my guard is up. No one owns that much beige without having a trick up their sleeve.
When my costume is on, I hit the floor. There are two parties tonight, which is pretty average for a Thursday. Every game in the arcade is in use, and my cheeks are starting to get sore from all the fake smiling. Time and time again, I am grateful to my parents for forcing me to get braces when I was thirteen. If I had known my face would live on forever in the iCloud accounts of a hundred moms, I probably would’ve gotten my teeth whitened, too.
When I finish posing for a photo, I feel a hand tap my shoulder. I’m expecting another eager parent. Thankfully, it’s Kenzie. Only she doesn’t look like herself. Her usual smile is gone, and her eyes seem a bit red and puffy.
“Hi, Jackie,” she says.
“Hey,” I say, slightly surprised when she pulls me into a hug. “Are you okay?”
She laughs it off, tugging at the strap of her purse. “All good, yeah. Just had a rough night. I was hoping you’d be here today, actually. Congrats on your fancy new job. What are you doing at The Rundown ?”
“Working as an assistant,” I explain, making note of her subject change. “My sister works there as a writer and got me the job. Plus, I don’t have to dress up as a frog, so, you know, couldn’t say no to better working conditions.”
“I know Wilson gives you shit, but you’re rocking that frog costume,” she says, managing a small smile. This coming from the girl who is truly so gorgeous it’s difficult to make eye contact with her? That compliment has done more for my ego than anything else that has happened in the last eighteen years of my existence.
“Thanks. I think the color green is growing on me.” To turn the conversation back to her, I add, “So, what are you doing here? Wait—is there another party for Wilson’s family? Please say no.”
“No, thank God. But how’s the week been with Wilson in charge?” Her voice sounds casual, but her eyes are alert, like my answer to this question is very, very important.
“It’s been better than I expected,” I say, taking a break from trash-talking Wilson around his girlfriend while she seems so upset. “He redid the break room, which is pretty cool.”
“Do you love the TV?” she says. “That was all my idea.”
At that, I get excited. “I knew it! No offense, but I knew Wilson would never put a TV in the break room.”
Kenzie tucks a black braid behind her ear. “His first idea was to get floor-to-ceiling shelves and fill them with books.”
“Yeah, that sounds more like him,” I say.
“Speaking of...” Kenzie looks down at her hands. I notice she’s gripping a white envelope. “Is he here right now?”
“I saw him leave a few minutes ago,” I say. “Probably on his lunch break.”
Kenzie looks like that’s exactly what she didn’t want to hear. “Damn it. I have to give him this, but I’m in a rush and can’t stick around... Do you mind?”
“Do I mind what?”
She holds up the envelope. “Giving this to him when he’s back?”
That does mean I’d have to speak with Wilson, and I’ve been purposely avoiding him for mortal-enemy reasons. But Kenzie looks a little bit stressed, like this would be a huge help. And as much as I dislike Wilson, I kind of like his girlfriend.
“Sure.” I grab the envelope and tuck it safely into my pocket. “But you should know I’m very nosy and may read it.”
“No, you can’t!” She says it so loud, a few kids playing nearby stop to stare at us. “I just mean— It’s private, okay? Please make sure he gets it.”
“Sure, yeah.” After an awkward second passes, I add, “I was only kidding about reading it.”
“I know you were. And thank you for doing this,” Kenzie says as her phone vibrates. “Shit—I have to go. Thanks again, Jackie. You’re the best.”
“No problem,” I say, waving as she heads for the exit.
A few minutes later Wilson walks through the door. He’s holding a brown paper bag, tailing it to his office in a flash of long legs and disheveled hair. My gosh, why is everyone in a frantic rush today? I run behind him, trying to catch up, but these stubby frog legs are betraying me. I settle into some embarrassing combination of a waddle-run and manage to wedge my leg in before his office door shuts.
The shriek Wilson lets out when he spots me standing in the doorway is marvelous. Where is Suzy and her camera when you need her?
“Jackie,” he says, hand to his chest. “Holy—you scared the shit out of me.”
“Hey, that’s the first time you’ve actually called me by my name.” Maybe we are moving past frog territory. Maybe now, as a manager, Wilson will embody some professionalism and begin referring to me as—
“First and last,” he says. “What do you want, Froggy?” He takes a seat at his fancy boss desk, and I very much dislike this power dynamic we’ve got going on here. Wilson is pulling food out of the paper bag—a sandwich wrapped in parchment, a can of soda.
“You eat lunch in your office? Don’t you have like, friends to eat with or something?”
He pops the can open. “All my friends are back in the city,” he explains. “The friends I had in Ridgewood have moved away for college. If you must know.”
Then he pulls out a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.
“Cool Ranch?” I ask in disbelief.
Wilson unwraps the sandwich. “Yes. What now?”
“That’s my favorite flavor,” I say, incredibly offended.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Are you expecting me to offer you one? Because I’m not going to.”
“No. I’m simply disgusted that we have something in common,” I say.
I can’t help but laugh when Wilson literally throws the bag of chips into the garbage can. “I hate that flavor,” he says, “and we have nothing in common.” He instead chomps down into what appears to be a turkey sandwich on herbs and cheese bread. I purposely don’t mention that is also my go-to order.
Over a bite of food, he says, “Glad to see you’re still feeling better.” An unnecessary reference to my sick call the other day.
“My doctor said he’s never seen antibodies like mine,” I say.
“Very weird flex.”
Maybe if I stare hard enough at the sandwich, he’ll choke on it.
“How’s the other job?” he adds, adding fuel to the fire. “Have you decided to quit yet?”
“You do realize you’re my boss and could fire me whenever you want?”
Wilson stops chewing. “You’re right. Jackie, you’re fired.”
“Ha ha ha, hilarious.”
Wilson just smiles to himself, proud of his joke, before turning his attention to the stack of files he skims over while eating. His hair is falling into his eyes again, and I begin to hear Suzy’s voice echo throughout my head: You failed to mention how cute he is.
I try to view Wilson through unbiased eyes. I guess he is really tall, which is probably good. His brown hair turns golden when it catches the light, and it curls behind his ears in little waves. A thick row of eyelashes frame his eyes, which make them pop on his face. Another girl—Kenzie, for example—would probably say his eyes are nice. And when he bites into his sandwich, his teeth are straight, pearly white, behind full lips that are so pink it’s like he’s wearing lipstick.
Wilson runs a hand through his hair, messing it up a bit. I swear I catch a whiff of some product he uses that smells really good, too. The top button on his dress shirt is undone, which is very unusual—
“What are you doing?”
I snap back to attention to find Wilson—the real, very annoying, and not attractive version of him—gawking at me.
“You have a piece of lettuce in your hair,” I lie.
“Oh.” He ridiculously starts patting his head. “Is it gone?”
“Still there. Maybe pat harder.”
He keeps patting. When I’m finally unable to contain my laughter and it erupts out of me, Wilson catches on. It takes about half a second for his eyes to narrow into a rather impressive glare.
“Get out .”
He continues to eat his sandwich. I hover in the doorway like a sleep paralysis demon.
“Is there a specific reason you refuse to leave?” he says curtly.
That’s when I remember the letter. I toss it onto his desk. It lands smack on top of the document pile. “Kenzie gave me this,” I say. “It’s for you.”
He stands up so quickly he nearly knocks his chair over. “Kenzie’s here?” Wilson says.
“She was here,” I clarify. “She handed me that letter, told me to give it to you, then left.”
“Oh,” Wilson says, sinking back into his chair. He studies the envelope, holding it up to the light as if it’ll reveal a secret message. Then he’s back to looking at me like I’m a monkey in a zoo. “Well? Do you mind?”
“What? Oh . Yeah. I’ll, uh, just leave now.”
The truth is, I’m so deeply invested in this situation that I need to know what it says. But I’m also not going to give Wilson the satisfaction of asking , so I launch my master plan: standing right outside his office door, trying to catch some vocal reaction that’ll hint at what Kenzie wrote in the letter. When ten minutes have passed and Wilson has been as quiet as a mouse, I conclude that it must’ve been some boring, mushy love letter. I’m walking down the hallway when the office door abruptly slams open and Wilson steps outside.
I pretend to act innocent. “Oh! I was just about to go back to work and—”
But Wilson isn’t listening. In fact, he’s walking too quickly, rubbing at his eyes, and heading for the back door. “Jackie, not now,” he says, his voice taking on a new edge.
I instantly follow behind him. “Where are you going?” When he opens the exit door and pushes through it, I add, “You can’t just leave!”
But that’s exactly what he does. Wilson walks straight out the door. As I’m about to follow, Anita comes running down the hallway. “Where’s Wilson? The kiosks are out of tickets, and there’s a dozen teens up my ass about refilling them. They’re so high on sugar I think they might kill me.”
“Um.” I stare desperately at the door Wilson vanished through. “Wilson left.”
Panic flashes across Anita’s face. “What do you mean he left?”
“I mean I just watched him run out of his office and leave through that door.”
“But Wilson is the only one who knows how to refill the machines,” she says. “And those kids are feral , Jackie.”
I see my chance at leaving early disappear before my very eyes.
“Well, he’s not the only one.”
Anita pauses. “ You know how to refill the ticket kiosks?”
I nod. “Monte Jr. taught me once months ago. I think I still remember how to do it.” Anita looks at me like I’ve begun speaking a made-up language. “Don’t be so surprised that I’m somewhat good at my job,” I say.
“No offense, but I’m beyond surprised.”
“I’ll handle the tickets,” I grumble, already annoyed at Wilson for ruining my night. “Go drink some water or something. Your face is like, six different shades of red.”
It takes me about twenty minutes to get the kiosks up and running. It would have been faster if I had spent less time cursing Wilson under my breath.
Honestly, his little date with Kenzie—or whatever he ran off to do—better be worth it. Because of him, I’m stuck doing manager-level duties while earning nonmanager pay. All while surrounded by a horde of kids on a sugar high and their equally annoying yet less-sugared-up parents.
When I see Wilson tomorrow, I just may kill him.