Chapter 12 #3
First, I’ve got to get rid of this notebook. Felix and Mr. Wilshire walk toward the front doors. I pivot and cut up to the loss prevention desk through the software section.
“Can you give this to Felix?” I ask Donnie. I sprint away before he can respond and head for the computers department. He’s not there, or in home theater, or audio, or appliance. I blow into the warehouse and let the door slam into the rack. He’s nowhere.
Poor Wil.
But! Ninety-four, I think, mentally patting myself on the back. Not bad.
I like working here, and I’m good at this job, even if it was supposed to be a stopgap while I found a real job—not that any of the dozens of resumes I’ve sent out have produced results. And I deserved my promotion.
But Brianna left me a note this morning that the electricity bill is due in three days. I’ll have to write a check and hope they don’t cash it until after payday. My car is a thousand miles overdue for an oil change. And Diet RC just isn’t as good as Diet Coke.
I go back to the media department to earn my meager paycheck. Something’s got to give.
Not long after, while I’m unboxing a shipment of Disney movies and loading them onto a cart in the warehouse, Donnie pages me for a phone call. Sam’s at lunch and Eric’s doing a carry-out, so I use the warehouse phone.
“Thanks for holding. This is Abbey.”
“Abbey!” It’s Brianna, and she sounds out of breath. “I know I shouldn’t call you at work, but I just checked the answering machine and there’s a message for you from someone at a radio station. She wants to set up an interview ASAP!”
A grin spreads across my face. Finally! “Really? They called?”
“Her name’s Susan. Here’s the number.”
I scribble the number on a Post-it note and hang up as Sam comes back from lunch. I scrunch the note into a ball in my fist, stand up, and face him with a grin.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” I laugh, awkward and stilted. “Why would something be wrong?”
The intercom buzzes. “Sam to the Dugout.” It’s Jeremy. “Sammo to the Dugout.”
Jeremy to the rescue.
“What the hell?” Sam asks. “I’ve got shit to do, and he knows it.”
“Ha ha, don’t we all?”
Sam walks toward the door but turns back, brow wrinkled. “What is going on with you? You’re extra weird today.” He doesn’t wait for an answer.
I dial the number. Susan picks up after two rings.
“So glad you got back to me so promptly,” she says. “We’re conducting interviews later this week. Are you available Wednesday morning at ten?”
“Yes, absolutely.” I’m absolutely not. I’m scheduled to open. I’ll have to ask Aurora or Cesar to switch shifts with me.
“Wonderful,” she says. “I’ll send an email with the address and parking information. Let me verify that it’s AbbeyRhodesStudio at AOL dot com? Clever.”
This is the solution to all my problems. I’ll nail that interview, give my two-week notice, schedule an oil change, and get to work in a cool old building downtown for a cool radio station and meet cool musicians.
I’ll make more money and beef up my 401(k).
I’ll go to concerts again. Surely I won’t have to deal with skeazy, handsy nephews and CEO’s sons.
I’ll leave Hometown and start fresh and truly forget about everything that’s happened in the last couple of months.
Except… 94. And I like it here. Maybe there’s a way that I can work my way up and make more money. The fast track.
I shake my head. What a ridiculous idea.
I finish unboxing the movies and wheel the cart out to the floor to shelve them before my shift ends. Not long after, while I’m worrying about what I’m going to wear to my interview, I hear, “Hey,” behind me in that soft, unassuming way of Wil’s, and jump.
My face heats. He’s standing so close that I can smell his delicious cologne.
In my mind, I’ve already gotten the job at the radio station, and I’m hit with a wave of guilt for even thinking about leaving.
And then a rush of what if—what could happen when Wil’s not my boss.
I don’t look at him, don’t look away from the stack of movies.
I’m turned upside down.
“Hey,” I reply, trying to be cool, casual, unaffected by his nearness.
“You want to get a drink at La Cuchara?”
Now I look up. “Are you asking me?”
He looks around. “I don’t see anyone else here.”
“Wh-why?” I stammer.
He raises an eyebrow. “I could really use a drink after today, and I thought maybe you could, too. To celebrate earning a ninety-four on the media eval. Believe me, that’s worth celebrating.”
A drink. With Wil. At La Cuchara. With Wil. Alone with Wil.
I have to say no.
“Yes. I’m done at five.”
He nods and looks at his watch. “See you at the bar in fifteen.”
“Fine,” I say, “but I’m paying my own bill.”
“Even if this is a way for me to thank you for your hard work?”
“If you can’t accept my terms, you can go drink at La Cuchara by yourself.”
“Okay,” he says.
I’m surprised at how quickly he agrees, and something in my chest flutters.
I make it to the time clock at exactly 4:53, the earliest I can clock out. Wil’s waiting for me at La Cuchara, and I can’t help but wonder if this means more than he’s letting on.
And what I’ll do if it does.