Chapter 3
“invisible string” - Taylor Swift
Saylor
God, it’s good to be on my own again. Nobody else’s dishes molding in the sink. No more waiting for a bathroom that always seems to be occupied. No more waking up cold because all of the blankets were pulled off in the middle of the night.
Nate shipped out two weeks ago, and it’s been like a dream. The only part that hasn’t improved is the money, or rather, the lack thereof.
It’s hard enough to live in the city on a full-time income, but part-time? Nearly impossible. Hence, me sitting in Sondra’s office right now, my foot twitching in time with the second hand on the clock above her desk. I’ve been waiting for a few minutes already, and it’s nearly five.
She ends her call with a sigh and sets the phone back down. “Sorry about that. Another donor.”
I frown. “Pulling their support?”
She gives me a weak smile. “We’ll be fine.”
A month ago, a local newspaper ran a story on Restore Hope, which would normally be a good thing, but this particular story featured an interview with a previous addict we’d tried to help but who wasn’t interested. We’ve lost nearly 25 percent of our support since then.
“I guess now isn’t a good time for me to ask about a full-time position?” I say.
Sondra’s shoulders sag, and the corners of her eyes mimic the motion. “Saylor . . .”
“It’s fine.” I hold up my hand before she can apologize. “I totally understand.”
“You deserve it,” she says. “We just don’t have the money right now.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
Restore Hope relies fully on donations. Losing a quarter of our annual support probably means some of us will be losing our jobs. I was hoping I’d finally be able to schedule a dentist appointment, but it looks like I’ll need to restock the ibuprofen instead.
“You’ve been here for two years. I want nothing more than to offer you a full-time position.”
My tooth throbs in response.
“The only way I can afford to promote you is if someone else quits.”
“Sondra, it’s fine. I’ll just pick up more shifts at the thrift shop.
” I sound more optimistic than I feel. I’m pretty sure I’ve taken all the available shifts already, but I’m certainly not going to ask Sondra to fire someone so I can take their job.
I stand up and cinch the flannel around my waist tighter.
“I feel terrible about this,” she says.
I offer her a bright smile. I’m disappointed, but it’s not like I’m going to leave Restore Hope just because of this. “You’re not losing me. I love my work.” I head for the door, which is open six inches thanks to a latch that has been broken for as long as I can remember.
“Saylor.”
I turn back to Sondra, whose face wears a pinched expression.
“I have to let you go.” Her voice wobbles on the last word.
My mouth falls open. “What?”
“We can no longer afford your salary, small as it may be.”
I sink back into the chair I just vacated, not sure I’m hearing her correctly. “I’ve been here for two and a half years. I just thought—” I break off, not sure how to put it into words that I thought others would lose their positions before I did.
“Unfortunately, your responsibilities are more easily turned over to someone else than some of the other positions.”
I stare at her, half expecting her to laugh and say the whole thing is just a joke.
“Besides, I think this will be the best for you anyway.”
I find my voice again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Have you had your tooth looked at yet?”
Instinctively, I raise a hand to my jaw. “I was going to, until I lost my job.” I can’t resist a tiny glare in her direction.
Sondra shakes her head and gets to her feet. “You’re wasting your life here.”
“I’m helping people. How can you call that a waste?”
“Oh, love.” She tries to smile, but it looks more like a grimace. “You’re twenty-five years old. You have your whole life ahead of you. Now isn’t the time to scrape together pennies to be able to buy ramen for dinner.”
I open my mouth to protest, but I’ve had ramen for the past five nights.
“You know I don’t want to do this—”
“Then don’t,” I say.
“You need to be able to support yourself. And Restore Hope just isn’t able to do that for you right now.”
“I’ll survive.” I lift my chin to prove my point. “I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?” Never mind the fact that my rent is due at the end of the month and I don’t have a fucking clue where I’ll find the money to pay it.
“I’m sorry. You deserve so much better than what I’m able to give you here.” Sondra shakes her head, blond wisps falling from her low bun and framing her face. “There are some boxes in the storage closet for your things.”
* * *
I cannot believe that the sum of the five years I’ve spent at Restore Hope Initiative—two and a half volunteering and two and half as a paid intern—can be packed into two cardboard cartons and hauled away.
I have poured my heart into this organization.
My friends work here. I care about our mission.
And yet somehow, I find myself walking the dingy hall of the Hamilton Building where Restore Hope rents a suite, carrying my heavy boxes and dragging an even heavier heart.
Sondra said she’d pay me through the end of the month, in lieu of advance notice, to give me time to find something else before my rent is due. She also admonished me to get to the dentist, but at this moment, the throbbing in my chest is much worse than that in my mouth.
This building used to be a school, but now it houses a bunch of different businesses and organizations. It still bears mementos of its past life—broken water fountains in the corridors, heavy wooden doors with narrow windows, metal placards that used to mark classrooms.
It’s in bad need of updates, but like many buildings in this part of the city, it’s not high on the list of anyone’s priorities. The boxes in my arms prevent me from seeing where I’m going, but I’ve walked this hallway so many times, my feet know each and every inch.
Unfortunately, they have forgotten about the loose rubber strip at the top of the stairs, which again trips me up, causing me to pitch forward and my cartons to fly out of my arms. My arms windmill, trying to find purchase.
They collide with something solid and warm.
Strong hands prop me up, keeping me from tumbling down the stairs and joining the mess of my things at the bottom.
“Easy.” The low, rumbling voice is masculine, with a slight rasp. The man straightens me, then joins me at the top of the stairs. I catch a whiff of his scent—leather, cedar, and a hint of peppermint. The bowler hat on my head shifts as he readjusts it.
My heart is racing a thousand miles an hour, and even though I can see past my hat again, I’m too embarrassed to look up at my rescuer. God, what kind of idiot tries to traverse stairs without being able to see where they’re going?
“You okay?” he asks.
I take a deep breath. The least I can do is thank him. I tilt my face upward to meet his eyes, and the words on my tongue dry up.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I look around the hallway for the camera crew. There’s no way this is real. There’s no one filming, which means I must have fallen down the stairs, suffered a concussion, and am daydreaming this part. I shake my head and try the stairs again, careful to hold on to the railing this time.
“Wait,” he calls out, because of course he does. This is a dream.
I move down the steps gingerly—I don’t want to further injure my head, even if this is a dream—and begin collecting my things, now scattered across the tile floor.
Footsteps squeak behind me, but I don’t turn around. By now, he’s probably turned into a fantasy man with flawless skin, a million-dollar smile, and bottomless brown eyes. The dream versions are always crazy and completely untrustworthy.
“Let me help.” My hero squats down beside me and begins to gather the random office supplies and trinkets strewn everywhere. His right hand has a tattoo of a pair of dice. It brushes against mine as we both reach for the same pen. His skin feels surprisingly warm for a dream.
That warm hand stretches out toward me, offering to help me to my feet. I accept, because this is a concussion-induced vision, after all. Why wouldn’t I take advantage of it? His grip is firm and solid, and the sensation of a thousand scurrying ants travels up my arm.
When we’re both upright again, he graces me with a panty-dropping smile. Twin dimples pop out on both his cheeks. Did I actually remember that detail, or is my brain tripping and adding fantasy elements now? I have likely spent too much time thinking about—
“Rhett Cole.” He keeps hold of my hand and gently squeezes it, his smile only increasing in wattage as I stare at him. Does he think I don’t know who he is?
Fourteen-year-old Saylor is screaming right now. She does not believe this is a dream. This is her fantasy come to life. Rhett Cole, in the flesh, right in front of her. She would throw her arms around his neck and say something stupid like, “I knew we’d find each other again.”
The acidic taste of bile hits the back of my throat. Stupid, stupid girl.
I yank my hand away and shake my head, knocking my hat askew once more. I clamp it down before it can fall off. If this were a fantasy, he would remember me, not reintroduce himself like we’re strangers. Which means—
“Oh my god,” I say. “Is this— Are we—” I squint at him. If you try to look at something too closely in a dream, it disappears. He stays where he is, cocky grin growing wider the longer I stare. Dark brown waves have fallen into his face, but he makes no move to brush them aside.
“Are you a fan?” he asks, that stupid smile somehow managing to grow even cockier.
Am I a fan? As in, have I followed him on TikTok, watched his videos on repeat, and occasionally imagined seeing him on the street? Do I have his brand-new album on my Spotify?
Of course not. I am a modern woman. I don’t moon over men. I’ve lived an entire life since the last time I saw Rhett Cole in the flesh.
And so, it seems, has he.