Donut Girl and the Bosshole

Chapter 1

FAITH

At twenty-eight, I was supposed to be climbing the corporate ladder in marketing, but the universe had other ideas, or at least my ex-boyfriend—we’d dated for six months— and his new girlfriend did.

Mark had been my boss until I’d caught his pasty ass balls-deep in his boss, the CEO of Piranha Advertising, Amanda, on his office desk.

She’d promptly told me what a loser I was and fired me, and he hadn’t even apologized or bothered to remove his penis from her while she did it. Rude.

I’d had to suck it up and take it. I wasn’t sure which sucking was worse—the sucking she’d have to do to Mark from now on or the sucking up I’d endured that day. In any case, shutting up and taking it was getting old.

So here I was, about to hand out my twenty-fifth résumé for the day.

I was avoiding marketing because they’d refused to give me a reference letter, as if it were my fault I’d caught them going at it.

Not that I was ready for corporate life again.

It was best I swam with other goldfish in a smaller pond for a while until I learned how to grow my own shark teeth.

Shutting out the pain in my aching legs, I imagined the cup of hot chocolate waiting for me in Café Nero…

and the little girl’s room. Sure, I was short on money, but I deserved a treat for the effort I put in today.

Paying for one hot chocolate and a donut wasn’t going to make any difference to whether I ended up having to retreat to my hometown with my tail between my legs or not.

A strong gust of chilly springtime wind buffeted me, turning my umbrella inside out, ruining my sweet musings.

My hair whipped in my face as I wrestled the umbrella under control and flipped it the right way.

Success! I held it at an angle to the wind.

Now my face was protected, but my back was getting wet. The day that kept on giving.

I was almost at the café when my phone rang. I dodged a woman walking her dog and stopped under a maroon awning, pulling my cell from my handbag. Argh, it’s the Momster. Just what I needed at the end of a painful day—more torture. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hello, Faith, dear. I hope you’ve been job hunting.”

Not “how are you” or “how has your day been.” I pulled the phone away from my mouth and sighed, lest she hear and give me a lecture on respect and manners. I returned the phone to my ear. “Yes. I’m about to hand out my last résumé.”

“Where have you applied? I hope you haven’t been shooting too high. You don’t want to waste time.” Ever my supporter. Ha. If only.

“Two dry cleaners, three pharmacies, ten cafés, two Gristedes, a dog-walking place, and six restaurants. I have one café left.”

“Well, that’s something. Are you wearing a skirt?”

“No. It’s freezing. I’m wearing pants.”

“How many times have I told you—you’re seen as more employable if you wear a skirt. Brandy never has trouble getting a job.” Argh, double whammy—Momster wholeheartedly embracing patriarchal ideals and reminding me that my younger “stepsister” was better than me in every way.

I sucked up my angst—defending myself never ended well. If I wanted to stave off another lecture, I’d have to pacify her. “I’ll wear one next time. Promise.” I placated myself by rolling my eyes.

“You do that, and let me know how you go. Surely you’ll hear back from one of them, even if you were wearing pants. Honestly, Faith, the number of times we’ve been through this.” She sighed—a sigh I was more entitled to than her.

I didn’t tell her that I’d visited another twelve places yesterday—in my don’t-employ-me trousers—and they all said they had no openings right now.

Today had been much of the same, except one of the restaurants said they might need a server, and they’d let me know within the week.

Maybe this last place would be the one that said yes from the get-go. A girl could dream.

Actually, that was a lie.

According to my mother, my last boss, two of my previous boyfriends, and the rich father who rejected me and Mom before I was even born, I wasn’t good enough to dream big—there was no way I was capable or deserving.

I was Miss Realistic Shoot for the Kneecaps Not the Stars.

I had a T-shirt made. I wasn’t even kidding.

Nevertheless, I was going to find a job if it was the last thing I ever did.

I couldn’t go back home and live with Mom and her long-term partner, Bob, in Mom’s two-bedroom cottage.

He loved to swan around with no shirt, his bulbous, hairy beer belly out and proud.

And sometimes, he didn’t even bother with shorts.

I shuddered just thinking about him in his tighty-whities.

The other reason I avoided the place was that his twenty-four-year-old daughter, Brandy, lived with them.

She wasn’t my biggest fan. I had no idea why, because I was always nice to her.

The second bedroom, the one that used to be mine, was now hers, and she didn’t share.

I was basically on my own, except for Amy, my best friend. I’d been staying with her for the past month after Mom’s got too hairy and stepsisterish.

“Faith, are you there? Hello? Did you hang up on me again?”

“No, sorry. Just thinking. Anyway, gotta go. I’ll call you….” In a month or two.

“Okay. Chat soon. Keep your chin up, but remember—aim low, and you won’t be disappointed. You and I aren’t made for great things, darling. Love you.”

I sighed quietly—she never said that to Brandy. I hated living small, but whenever I tried to break out of that mindset, shit went south, and Mom got to say “I told you so.”

“Bye, Mom.”

I took a deep breath and tried to slip the phone back into my tote, but instead of sliding into the bag, it clipped the edge and clattered onto the pavement, face down. The clunk it made wasn’t a good clunk. Why was I so clumsy? Idiot, Faith. Be more careful.

I bent, picked it up, and turned it over, hoping for the best. Positive was my middle name.

Two large cracks marred the screen of my four-year-old iPhone.

My shoulders dropped. I had no money to fix it.

I squeezed my eyes shut, blocking the moisture that wanted to escape.

I was not going to cry. I had one more stop, and it could be the one that ended my run of bad luck, because that’s all it was, right?

Just an unfortunate chain of events that freakily happened one straight after the other.

I didn’t really believe that, but carrying the I’m-not-good-enough mindset into this last stop wasn’t going to help me get a job.

Others could smell self-doubt. Chin up, Faith.

Before I could put my phone back into my bag, it dinged with a message.

Momster. Against my better judgment, I opened it.

It was worse than I thought. Not only was it not a last-second message of support, it was a picture of my stepsister wearing her office getup.

I didn’t bother responding that she wore stripper heels, and her mid-thigh-length skirt was so tight that if she sat down, her underwear would be very visible.

Her pink shirt was pretty but was a size or two too small in the upper, mountainous region, the space between the buttons gaping.

If they popped, someone was going to lose an eye.

The pic was accompanied by text: This would get you more jobs. Love, Mom.

Maybe not the jobs she thought, but I wasn’t telling her that.

I dropped my phone, successfully this time, into my bag, banishing it from sight.

Raising my umbrella and my head, I straightened my back and set off for Café Nero.

When my sock squished, I ignored it. I wasn’t a total loser.

I could do this. Besides, I wasn’t shooting too high.

A barista job would mean money to help Amy with the bills—it wouldn’t be enough to get my own place, but it was a start.

It would also mean discounted coffee and hot chocolates… maybe.

I turned onto East 27th Street and spied the café. Finally.

Being late afternoon, there were only a handful of people occupying tables and one person standing at the counter, waiting to be served. I lowered my long, black umbrella and closed it, then took my last stapled resume—all two pages of it—out of my bag.

Here went nothing.

I smiled, hoping it made me look less tired.

I stood in line. A well-dressed executive-looking woman in her late forties with shiny auburn, just-from-the-salon hair ordered her coffee.

I was next. The young guy behind the counter took her order and passed it to the barista to his right, but instead of asking what I wanted, he decided to take a short vacation.

He turned to his co-worker. “Did you get the ingredients for the burgers?”

He stopped making coffees to answer. Great, now he was distracting the whole production line. “I couldn’t get the onions. They ran out.”

His forehead wrinkled, and he rolled his eyes. “Who runs out of onions? It’s literally the easiest thing to get, man.”

The barista shrugged. “Not our day, bud. What can I say? The burgers will still be fine, won’t they?”

My own personal torturer scratched his head. “Ahhhh, I think so, man.”

For crying out loud. I eyed the door to the bathrooms and squeezed my pelvic floor. I was edging from needing-to-go territory to busting, about-to-have-a-gushing accident territory. I squeezed my waterlogged toes in my wet sock—that reminder of water wasn’t helping either.

Argh. I wanted to interrupt, but that might turn them against me, and I needed a job, like yesterday. I shuffled my feet side to side. Maybe some subtle movement would attract attention without seeming rude?

“Yeah, it’ll be fine. Onions, shmonions. Am I right?” The barista chuckled.

“Yeah, onions, shmonions.” The cashier fist-bumped his friend, and I wanted to fist bump both their heads.