Chapter 34
“Fight Song” - Rachel Platten
Saylor
“Beggars can’t be choosers” is one of my mum’s favorite sayings. Now, I’m a nickel away from being an actual beggar, which is why I find myself staring at the red-and-white-striped polo shirt and cherry-red baseball cap the manager hands me with what feels like a boulder sinking to my toes.
I take them with a forced smile and walk to the bathroom he points out.
Inside, I tug off my jeans and T-shirt and replace them with the restaurant’s standard-issue uniform, complete with red polyester pants that must have been modeled on a gorilla, because they certainly don’t appear to have been created for humans.
The hat doesn’t want to fit over my hair, but I shove my curls in until it’s precariously perched on top of my head.
Once I’m dressed, I glance in the mirror and immediately wish I hadn’t.
I look like a fucking clown.
But at least said clown will be getting a paycheck, and right now, that is the only thing standing between me and homelessness. So I’ll be a damn clown if I need to be.
My new manager, Larry, leads me around the restaurant, explaining the different stations and their responsibilities. I will be starting on the lowest rung of the ladder: as a cashier. I don’t tell him that I much prefer the interaction with customers to that of flipping greasy burgers.
Fortunately, it only takes me a few minutes to figure out the cash register, which looks satisfyingly similar to one I had as a kid.
(I don’t tell him this.) Once he’s assured himself that I’m not going to screw up everyone’s order or run off with all of the money in the till, Larry walks away and leaves me alone.
It’s midmorning, so there aren’t many customers, which is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because it allows me to take my time with the people who do come in. A curse because it gives me too much time to think.
I took the position at Donnie P’s because there was not a single job posting that sounded appealing, and this one promised the quickest pay.
The plan is to pick up as many shifts as I can and search for something else during every spare minute I have.
As soon as I’m able to, I plan to leave the stench of grease and cooking animal flesh behind.
Without Nate’s salary and the housing allotment, it’s up to me to cover all the rent. The day after I got home and mailed the divorce paperwork—with an additional ten stamps, just in case—I was served with papers of my own from Nate.
The bastard just had to have the last word.
“You can’t be that surprised,” he told me when I called him that night.
“I’m not,” I said. “Just not sure why you’re so smug about it.” According to his interviews online, he was devastated and heartbroken. I’d seen through his charade, but I was a little surprised he wasn’t bothering to keep it up for me.
“I just think it’s funny that your actions are finally coming back to kick you in the ass.”
I lifted a brow. “And what actions are those?”
He sniffed out a laugh. “You know damn well what they were. You fucking cheated on me for everyone to see.”
“Not exactly,” I said, but he wasn’t listening. That’s the thing with Nate. He’s only interested in what he has to say. Everyone else can fuck off.
“Whatever. I say good riddance to the whole thing. Our marriage was a fuckup from the beginning, so you won’t catch me crying over it,” he said.
“Really? I thought that was exactly what you were doing in all those videos.”
A vein in his neck twitched, and his mouth grew tighter. “I was caught up in the moment.”
I laughed out loud. “Bye, Nate.” The laptop shut with a satisfying click.
I’m finally free of him, but part of me can’t help but wonder if I’m any better off.
Sure, my husband isn’t draining all our money before I can buy necessities with it, but I’m currently punching buttons on a machine covered in a grimy film while my insides feel like they’ve been through a blender. So how much better off am I really?
Several hours later, Larry announces that I can take twenty minutes for lunch. I’m the last one to be given a break, but at least I’m alone. I take my food outside, needing fresh air after hours in the greasy haze, even if it is cold enough out here to see my breath.
I check my phone while munching my veggie burger. There’s a text from my mum asking me to get in touch with her. I calculate the time difference and give her a call after verifying it’s not too late.
“Hey, Mum,” I say when she answers, bracing myself for her lecture on my life choices. I’ve been lucky they’re away and that neither of them goes on social media much, but it’s only a matter of time before one of them reads a headline. Apparently, that day has arrived.
“Hi, honey.” Her voice lacks its usual upbeat charm. She pauses for a few moments before speaking again. “How are you?”
I glance around at the rubbish blown up against the dirty wall of Donnie P’s, then at my clownish uniform and dirty sneakers. “I’m good. How are you?”
She doesn’t take the bait. “You can probably guess why I’m calling.”
“To tell me how amazing the Great Wall of China is?”
“Funny.” She does not match the humor in my tone. “What happened, Saylor?”
“What did you see?”
“It doesn’t matter. I want to hear the truth from you.”
I sigh and crumple up my burger wrapper. “It’s a long story, Mum. I can tell you when you get home.”
“You’ll tell me now.” I can picture her at this exact moment—her arms crossed, biting on a nail, those familiar worry lines etched across her face.
With all the time I’ve had to think, you’d assume I would have mapped out the best way to explain the situation to my parents. Turns out, when actually faced with that scenario, even my best laid plans go to shit.
“It wasn’t meant to go the way it did,” I finally say. “Things just . . . happened.”
“But you’re always so careful, honey. How could you do that to Nate?”
My parents have always loved Nate. He was the son they never had, and I knew this news would hurt them more than it would hurt him.
He always knew exactly how to charm them, and I never had the heart to tell them the truth after the two of us started having problems. I realize the error of that decision now.
“Mum, Nate and I haven’t been working out for a long time. I filed for divorce before I ever left, but there was an issue with the paperwork.”
She’s stunned into silence for a few seconds. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because I knew how much you liked him. Besides, you would’ve just worried about me.”
She can’t deny that, so she just says, “I’m worried about you now.”
“I’m fine, I promise.” If wearing a ridiculous outfit for ridiculous pay is considered fine, then I’m thriving.
“And . . . Rhett?” The hesitation in her voice breaks my heart. Or maybe it’s hearing his name on someone else’s lips. Or being forced to think about him. “Are the two of you together?”
I swallow against the sudden lump in my throat, sending moisture to my eyes. “No, we’re not.” It’s nothing more than a whisper. I don’t trust my voice right now.
I never told my parents what happened at summer camp, and after Rhett dumped me without a proper goodbye, I was grateful there were no witnesses to my shame. Any knowledge of Rhett that my mother has was gained from the internet.
“Why not?” she asks.
I choke out a laugh. “Because he didn’t want anything to do with me after he thought I lied to him.” The knife buried in my heart jiggles a little, sending a sharp pain through my chest.
“And how do you feel about him?”
I lean back against the block wall of the restaurant and tilt my face up to the dark clouds gathering overhead. “I love him, Mum.”
“Oh, honey.” Her voice is soft and gentle, and it nearly breaks me.
“I chased him away.” I swipe at the tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. Good thing I didn’t put on mascara this morning. I doubt Larry would be thrilled about me working the till with raccoon eyes. “But that was to be expected, I guess.”
“Why do you say that?”
I shrug, even though she can’t see me. “Everyone always leaves me eventually.”
“Oh, Saylor.” Her voice adopts that disappointed mum tone. “Love doesn’t push people away—it invites them to stay. If someone can’t handle your love, they’re not meant to hold it.”
Keeping my face turned skyward, I let her words sink in. “Maybe my love is too messy to be handled.”
She sniffs into the phone, unimpressed with my reasoning. “Coming from someone who has been a recipient of your love for your entire lifetime, I say lift your chin and go show the world what they’re missing out on. It is their loss, not yours.”
“Thanks, Mum,” I say, and mean it. Whether she’s right or not, it has lifted my spirits to hear her voice. “And thank you for not telling me you’re disappointed in me.”
“Baby, there isn’t much you could do that would make me disappointed in you.”
“Robbing a bank?”
She lets out a muffled snort. “I’d be disappointed you didn’t invite me.”
* * *
The next hour is busy with a late lunch crowd, and I don’t have much time to think about our conversation.
A mother with several small children comes in.
They take a long time choosing what they want, and my heart goes out to her.
She looks frazzled trying to corral them while simultaneously placing her order.
As she’s counting out her money, I fill the cups with soft drinks and place them on the counter.
She hands one to the oldest child, who can’t be more than five or six.
It is filled to the brim, and I wince as he takes it from her.
He’s only walked a few steps toward their table when he loses his grip on the cup. Red liquid splashes all over the floor.
He starts crying, and his mum looks like she wants to join him. One of my coworkers grabs a mop while I fill another cup. As the drink dispenses, my mum’s words come back to tickle my brain cells into thinking that maybe she’s right.
If someone can’t handle your love, they’re not meant to hold it.