Chapter Three
Angela
Getting drinks with Brady has almost made me late for work.
After leaving him at Finnegan’s, I hurry back to campus, unlock my secondhand beach cruiser, and bike the twenty minutes to my apartment.
I use that term loosely. It’s actually a rundown converted garage on my landlady’s equally rundown property on the outskirts of Dos Torres.
Lizette inherited the property from her parents, but thanks to a nasty divorce, a minimum-wage job at a diner, and a drug-addicted adult son, she doesn’t have the money to keep it up.
Fortunately for me, that means cheap rent, few questions, and no roommates.
Lizette lives on the main part of the property, a three-bedroom ranch house that may have once been lovely but desperately needs a new coat of paint, a new roof, and a carpenter with magical powers.
The front lawn is various shades of brown, including piles of dark brown, courtesy of her son’s Rottweiler, Ganja.
The backyard, which abuts a vast expanse of dry wasteland that had once been cattle pasture, is equally hideous, with rusted old lawn furniture and dying fruit trees.
I unlock my door and bring my bike inside.
It’s dark, all the blinds closed to keep out the sun and the broiling heat.
I switch on the single window unit, and it greets me with its sputtering, watery, chugging noise.
The carpet has to be twenty years old, a dull gray with brown stains that I hope aren’t blood, or worse.
The popcorn ceiling is discolored by cigarette smoke and chipping in places.
The beige paint on the walls has water stains from the leaking windowsills.
I go into the kitchen and open the rusting refrigerator to grab a bottle of water that I proceed to chug. The peeling linoleum floor is cool on my bare feet, and I lean against the faded, chipped Formica counter and feel the sweat slide down my face and neck and back.
I make a quick salad and eat it at the cloth-upholstered bistro table that I found outside the neighbor’s house with the trash.
As I eat, I think of the mansion where I lived my entire life until three months ago.
It’s everything this place isn’t: opulent, spacious, cool in summer, warm in winter, every appliance new and gleaming, every piece of furniture as stylish as it is uncomfortable.
It has a pool, an outdoor kitchen, a tennis court, and a four-car carriage-house garage.
Each bedroom has an en suite bathroom with a stone-floor shower and jacuzzi tub.
It’s also probably bugged and no doubt being watched by FBI agents.
I sigh and remind myself of that fact as I make my way to my least favorite part of my apartment: the bathroom.
My shower is narrow and as stained and chipped as everything else in this place.
I just stopped wearing flip-flops in it a few days ago, more out of resignation than confidence in my cleaning abilities.
The water comes out in hot and cold pelting spurts rather than a warm, soothing stream.
Nevertheless, it feels good to unbraid my hair, peel off my sweat-drenched clothes, and wash off the dust, heat, and stress of the day.
Once I’m showered, I blow my hair dry. This time I remember to turn off the window unit; the several times I’ve failed to do so have resulted in a blown fuse and the need to go outside to the spider-infested electrical box to flip the switch.
By the time I’m dry, deodorized, moisturized, made up, and spritzed with the custom-made Jo Malone perfume I brought from home, it’s almost seven o’clock. Time to go to work.
Kelsey gives me a disapproving look as soon as I walk in the door. “You’ve been holding out on me!” she complains.
“What?” I say.
“Brady McDaniels!” she says, following me as I head to the restroom to change my clothes. “He finally asked you out after two weeks of sniffing around here.”
“We’re in class together, Kelse,” I say, smoothing my braid and refreshing my lip gloss in the cracked mirror. “He asked me to get a drink and that was it.”
“Don’t be so sure about that,” she says, smirking at my reflection.
“Why the hell not?”
“I think he likes you.”
“He seems to like everyone,” I say doubtfully. I head out of the restroom and toward the office, Kelsey in tow. I lock my tote and purse in the desk drawer with Kelsey’s. “He’s just a friendly guy. Besides, I’m not interested.”
“You looked hella interested, girl,” she says. “You looked like you wanted to lick the words coming out of that man’s mouth.”
“We both went to college in New York. It was fun to reminisce. That’s all.”
“Yeah, he looked like he wanted to do a whole lot of reminiscing with your ass,” she says with a saucy grin that makes me laugh.
The night passes quickly, as weekend nights at work always do.
In the three months since Cliff offered me this job despite my lack of waitressing experience, I’ve gotten pretty good at it.
I can balance a tray filled with drinks without spilling any, jot down orders quickly, and be friendly without inviting flirtation or any other unwanted attention.
The fact that I’m paying my way with this job makes me that much prouder of it.
We close at two o’clock, clean up, and head out.
I ride my bike home and go to bed, fighting off the fear and loneliness that always engulfs me when I lie in my bed at night.
God, I miss my shrink. And my six-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.
And my Louboutin-destroying labradoodle.
I miss comfort and safety, no matter how superficial they are. A thin blanket is better than nothing.
Doing this on my own means being alone, and alone is terrifying.
But alone I must be. I have no intention of returning home, so I don’t need to forge great relationships that would give my dad leverage over me.
I have no one to run to if I fail, no one to call in an emergency, no one to cry to when the stress is too much.
Every dollar I make goes to my survival, and I have very few dollars to spare at the end of each week and no one to go to if money runs out.
I’m on a tightrope, and there’s no net if I fall.
I finally pass out and sleep until noon.
Saturday consists of an online Pilates class, studying, and food shopping.
When I get to work at seven o’clock, Finnegan’s is already filling up with the usual mix of grad students, fake ID–bearing undergrads, and neighborhood regulars.
Kelsey and I and another couple of waitresses are back and forth between the bar and the tables constantly, raking in tips and having fun doing it.
The DJ who Cliff hires on weekends is playing everything from Duran Duran to Dua Lipa, and the dance floor is packed with people getting their drunk dance on.
Around midnight, I notice that Brady has come in with some guys I vaguely recognize from school.
They’re drinking and laughing and flirting with some girls at another table.
A flash of jealousy whips through me, taking me by surprise.
I shake it off, reminding myself of what I told Kelsey just yesterday: I’m not interested in Brady McDaniels.
“What do you need, honey?” Cliff leans toward me from across the bar so he can hear my order.
He’s in his late fifties with close-cropped gray hair, a face lined from years in the sun and surf, and weathered blue eyes.
In the daydreams I’ve been prone to recently, he’s my dad and his wife Darya is my mom and we live in a trailer park near the beach.
I refinish surfboards for a living when I’m not working in the bar. Cute, right?
I give him the order, and I’m about to go clear some empties and take orders for next rounds when a stout, heavy body presses against me from behind.
“Hey!” I try to move away. Hairy, heavily muscled arms wrap around my midsection. Ugh. Gross.
“Where do you think you’re going, baby?” a beer-drenched voice says in my ear. He pushes me against the bar, his hands latching onto my hips. “Just came to see where our beers are. And maybe get a dance with you.”
“Get off me,” I demand, but I have no room to elbow him or even stomp on his foot.
“Cliff!” I call down the bar to where he’s pouring my IPAs, but the music is too loud.
The drunk idiots next to me are too busy trying to get laid by the drunk girls they’re with.
The bouncer, Russ, is checking IDs at the door, and I can’t catch his eye.
I push the guy’s hands off my hips, but that just makes him wrap his arms around me and grind against me, taking the dance I refused to give.
I’m just about to pour a discarded beer over his head when suddenly the music stops and the DJ’s microphone screeches.
“Hey, everyone!” I look up at the stage in shock. It’s Brady, his arm around the DJ. “If everyone could turn their attention to the bar for a minute, my man with the unfortunate plaid shirt who looks like a fun-size Dwayne Johnson just got engaged. Let’s give him a big round of applause.”
Everyone starts hooting and hollering.
“Congrats, douche,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and jerking my chin toward the stage.
“What the f—” Mr. Muscles turns away from me to find a spotlight on him and the entire bar looking his way. “Is he talking about me ? Who the hell is that asshole?”
“Hey, son, come on back to your table,” Brady says, waving him away from me. “You and Hortense are a special couple. You deserve this. Folks, can you feel the love tonight?”
Everyone either cheers or aww s.
“Play it, man,” says Brady, handing the mic back to the DJ. And sure enough, Elton John starts crooning from the speakers. Mr. Muscles stalks away from me in a fury. I watch as he tries to make his way to Brady, but his path becomes blocked by couples swaying to “Can You Feel the Love Tonight.”