Chapter Two
Not Roman being inspiring. Gross.
Elodie
Lights flicker in the Iferous Tech hallways as I walk down them toward the classroom I call home for two hours every Wednesday, and I wonder what sort of safety lectures I would get if Roman could see this place after they close most of it down for the day, leaving only necessary lights on for those of us attending evening or night classes.
Probably I wouldn’t even get a lecture. Probably I’d just get thrown over his oaf-like shoulders and taken off the premises, caveman style.
He’s such a high-handed jerk .
A high-handed jerk who isn’t in front of me right now, though, which means I can take a breath, zen out, and look on the bright side. The very many bright sides, even.
For one, I’m at the beginning of my second semester of business school, and I only have one in-person class this time.
Last semester there weren’t as many courses offered online, so I had to be physically present at three classes a week, which is hard to juggle when you have a full-time job and aren’t telling anyone you’ve enrolled in college at the ripe old age of 28.
I wouldn’t call it embarrassing, but I would call it not something I want to admit to or talk about, especially when I’m surrounded by genius-level mathematicians and genius-level chefs and genius-level everyone , basically, who all went to college in their early twenties, got degrees in their chosen fields, and immediately put them to work.
I know most of the people around me don’t seem bothered by my… me , but I also know what I present as: ditzy blonde girlie pop flitting from hobby to hobby, kissing boys and falling for scams and having not a care in the world as she does it.
And, sure, that’s me. Except for the “not a care in the world” bit.
I’m happy , not carefree. I give strangers my money if I think they might be in a tough spot, and then I go home to stress about whether or not I’ll be able to pay rent.
I kiss boys that I think might be the one , then cry into a pint of ice cream when they are decidedly not .
I try new things, new hobbies, new pastimes, in the hope of filling the thing in my chest that longs for something to fit just right in me, balancing the things that fall too far on the side of “oh, Elodie, that ridiculous girl.
" Spoiler alert: nothing balances that scale.
I’m just… me. Who I am. Happy, yes, but not stupid enough or smart enough to be content with that happiness. Instead, I’m somewhere in between—in the space where I know I need more , but I don’t know what that more is.
Which is what brought me here. Totally of my own accord and not because some idiot jerkface boy walks around his kitchen with so much confidence and surety, educated and experienced in a way that put me in reluctant awe and made me think, I want to be like that .
Because I would never ever, ever, ever, ever (and on for eternity), think like that about Roman Cameron Vann , of all people.
Except for, you know, maybe that one time.
Not important.
What’s important is that something sparked in me one day, all on its own, with no outside influence—ahem—and that night I locked myself in my room, pulled out my laptop, and emailed the owner of Sweet & Salty about the education program they boast on their NOW HIRING flyers.
“You wanna go back to school?” Cordelia had asked, eyes sharp on me. “Not to be mean, honey, but… are you sure?”
I was, obviously, sure.
“We cover 75 percent of tuition if you go to Iferous Tech,” she told me. “And you get a pay raise for every semester you complete. I can get you the paperwork that lays all that out, if you’re absolutely positive you want to go through with this…”
I assured her I was absolutely positively going to go through with it, and she got me the paperwork. I signed what I needed to sign, wincing as I dug into my savings for the last 25 percent of tuition, then before I knew it, I was at my first day of school.
The first day turned into the first week turned into the first semester, and I met with Cordelia again to sign on for a second.
“I’ll be honest, El, I didn’t expect you to stick with this,” she told me. Shocking news, that. She totally was giving I-believe-in-you vibes before. “But I’m proud of you,” she continued. “I’m proud of what you’ve accomplished here, and impressed with your dedication, hard work, and commitment.”
Not gonna lie, I did tear up a little. It’s not often that someone tells me they’re proud of me—not often that I earn any sort of pride. Definitely not often that I prove someone wrong about me.
She talked about management potential in the future.
How she’d be honored to have me working for her long-term.
How she’d like to make that happen, if I can keep up with my courses and my work and continue proving to her that I’m not a lump of pretty girl useful only behind the counter smiling at customers and upselling them on muffins.
Despite the fact she clearly didn’t believe in me before—not that I blame her, most people don’t—I was thrilled at a more secure future with Sweet & Salty.
I love my job. I love the people and the bustle of a rush hour.
I love watching customers try Roman’s food and seeing their faces as they immediately decide they’ll be back.
I like watching couples playfully fight over who’s going to pay, and I especially love when the ovens get fired up in the morning, filling the shop with the smell of cinnamon and sugar.
I love Sweet & Salty, period—the atmosphere, the work environment, the ebb and flow of chaos.
The singular downside to working there is Roman, and even that isn’t so bad. He’s cordial and professional at Sweet & Salty, and I’m cordial and professional back.
It works in a big way for me that Cordelia would want me as a potential manager in the future.
Especially if that means, while not technically Roman’s boss, I’d be on the same hierarchy tier as him.
Because, sure, he doesn’t boss me now, but we both know he could if he wanted to.
If I were a manager, he couldn’t even if he wanted to, and that nuance means everything to me.
So the reasons to continue my courses pile higher and higher, and my motivation grows in tandem with them.
It helps that I like my classes, too. Not the workload, but the learning.
The feeling of accomplishment when a lesson clicks and I can apply what I’ve learned to a real-world scenario.
I never feel smarter than when I get it .
It’s a total rush. Better than that time I went skydiving, even, and I didn’t think anything would top that.
Turns out, education is adrenaline-inducing. Who knew?
I reach my classroom, step through the door into the slightly better-lit area, and head for my regular seat.
In middle school, I always liked to bounce around the classroom, never choosing the same seat twice until I’d cycled through all of them.
My peers, I found, were not the biggest fan of that behavior. People like order. Sameness. Routines.
Barf.
Still, I adjusted, picking a seat and making it my own in every class there on out. Something I did when I got here, too, to avoid the wrath of my youthful cohorts.
To avoid the boredom of sitting in the same place every time, I make further adjustments, like making sure I always have something new, cute, and fun to put on my desk.
Just a little something—a figurine from a box of tea, a bobblehead my brother gave me, a fortune from the Chinese restaurant Ruby and I like to go to sometimes.
It brings a spot of cheer to my gloomy little area so that I can make it through.
Then, later, I’ll pick a table at random for my lunch break at Sweet & Salty to satisfy my chaos needs.
It’s all about balance, really.
As I slide into my desk, a classmate slides into his self-designated desk next to mine and smiles at me. I smile back, ignoring the pang of discomfort that bites through me at the sight of him.
“Elodie! My girl!” he declares, blue eyes sparkling above freckled cheeks.
I clear my throat, setting a pilfered mini bottle of soy sauce on the corner of my desk. “Hello, Soren.”
Hello, past mistakes come to haunt me.