Chapter 2
TWO
My phone rings the second I come home. I look at the screen and steel myself.
“Hi, Mom.”
We chit-chat a bit while I prepare dinner. Tonight’s special is ramen noodles and a Dr. Pepper. I open the can with a satisfying crack and put the phone on speaker.
“So how’s the diner?”
Mom has worked as a waitress at Jensen’s Diner for as long as I can remember. While other kids spent their weekends at the park, I spent mine in a booth near the pie display, coloring on paper placemats while Mom worked double shifts.
“Oh, it’s—” She pauses. “Great.”
I stop halfway through opening the ramen packet.
“Mom?”
There’s some rustling on the other end. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. Now tell me—”
“Mom,” I interrupt. “What’s going on?”
She sighs. “The diner closed down.”
I drop the packet in shock.
“Why?”
“Jensen wanted to retire. He tried to sell it but didn’t get any offers, so he decided to just close it down.”
“He can’t do that,” I say, appalled.
“He owned the place, hun. It was his call. He’s also quite old—almost eighty. You can’t really blame him.”
Watch me.
“You should’ve told me. I would’ve gone back one last time.”
Mom laughs softly. “You haven’t visited once since you moved away.”
“I’ve been busy,” I try to explain, though I feel like absolute shit saying it. “My job is very demanding, and it’s hard to get time off.”
“It’s all right. I’m just happy you’re out there doing something with your life. So please, tell me about what’s going on with you. How’s work?”
“Work’s great. I still love it,” I lie. I never did. I hate my job with the burning passion of a thousand suns. “I’ve gotten more responsibility recently. I’m doing a press thing on Friday.”
“Oh, that’s amazing. I’m so proud of you, Carly.”
“Thanks,” I say, though it tastes bitter in my mouth. I pick up the dropped noodles as a thought hits me. “So where do you work now?”
“Oh, here and there. Mr. Roberts was kind enough to give me some shifts at the hardware store, and I’ve been helping the young couple at the end of the street when they need someone to babysit their two little boys. They’re rowdy, I tell you. Just last week I—”
I tune her out while she tells her story. I’m too preoccupied with the fact that she’s definitely not making enough money to sustain herself right now.
I wait for her to finish talking.
“That’s hilarious.” Probably. “So, I was thinking. I make good money, and I want to start giving back. You raised me, and—”
“Oh, honey, you don’t owe me a dime.”
“I know that, Mom. But I want to help out. Please let me.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Normally, this is where she would argue. She’d tell me to save my money and remind me that she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself.
But she doesn’t. Instead, she says:
“Okay.”
And that’s when I know—she’s in real trouble.
I sit at the tiny kitchen table long after the call with Mom ends, my ramen slowly turning into a sad, swollen brick in the pot.
The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional sound of traffic from the street below.
I should eat. I should shower. I should start going through the Laker project files Mr. Bennett sent me.
Instead, I open my banking app.
My balance looks decent at first glance. Good, even. That’s the thing about having a well-paying job. For a few seconds, you get to feel like someone with options. Then you start subtracting things.
Rent. Utilities. Credit card. Groceries. The gym membership I keep forgetting to cancel because apparently I enjoy donating money to a place I only visit when Annie blackmails me. The tiny amount I try to put into savings every month.
And now Mom.
I transfer the money before I can overthink it. Not a huge amount. Just enough to help with groceries, maybe the electric bill.
The confirmation screen pops up, and my phone buzzes almost immediately.
Mom
My sweet girl. You didn’t have to do that
Thank you. I love you so much
I send her a heart and then turn to my laptop, where the Laker project folder is still open. There are press materials, environmental reports, community feedback, and a half-finished document titled “briefing notes.”
My phone pings again, this time with an email from Mr. Bennett. The subject line alone makes my eye twitch.
LAKER PROJECT: ADDITIONAL MATERIALS
I open it and find another five attachments waiting for me.
Lovely.
It’s been three days since Mr. Bennett told me I would be doing the press briefing.
Being assigned the task obviously didn’t mean I was relieved of any of my other responsibilities, so all the preparation had to be done outside of work hours.
That proved a little tricky, though, since I already spend most of my free time working.
On paper, I have a nine-to-five job. In reality, it’s more of an on-call situation.
So, to make time for my new responsibilities, I’ve sacrificed sleep. Who needs it anyway?
Me. I do. I need sleep.
It’s Friday morning, and the press briefing is in one hour.
I’ve read everything I can find online about talking to the press: I know how to “build bridges” without making it obvious, how to dodge questions we don’t want to answer, and how to seem relaxed and personable without being unprofessional.
I’ve memorized all the details about the project.
I know which parts to emphasize and which to downplay.
I’ve picked out a perfect outfit that’s both stylish and understated. I am ready. So ready.
But I can barely keep my eyes open.
Annie called me a zombie this morning, and I’m afraid that she’s right. I stayed up until three in the morning practicing my answers, and now I’m paying for it.
I take a sip from my coffee. It’s disgusting, tar-like. But I figured I needed the extra caffeine.
Mr. Bennett walks out of the elevator and heads toward his office. When he passes my desk, he stops and gives me a disapproving look.
“You have the press briefing in an hour.”
I know. I have never known anything more than I know that.
“You look tired.”
“I’m not,” I lie.
He clearly doesn’t believe me, which is fair. I’m almost falling asleep at my desk.
“Are you sick?” He puts a hand on my forehead. I’m instantly weirded out. He removes it after feeling how cool—and a little bit clammy—my skin is. “Am I going to regret giving you this responsibility?”
Probably, yes.
“No, sir. I’m just going to drink my coffee first, then I’ll go set it up. I won’t let you down.”
The hours that follow feel like a fever dream.
I think I might have blacked out at one point.
I remember meeting with a bunch of bored journalists at the proposed construction site.
I remember answering questions and showing blueprints.
But I can’t remember what I said or how they reacted.
It feels like I just babbled a lot. Did I even make sense?
At least I didn’t fall asleep. That’s something.
My computer pings.
Josh Stanton: Heard you did a press thing today! That’s big! I smell a promotion
I snort.
Carly Michaels: I’m pretty sure Mr. Bennett’s just sick of doing them himself. I also don’t know how it went. Haven’t seen any articles yet
Josh Stanton: I’m sure you killed it
Josh Stanton: Still up for drinks tonight?
Carly Michaels: Idk. I’m kind of tired, and I also have a ton of paperwork to get through
Josh Stanton: Come on, just one drink?
I bite my lip. Maybe one drink wouldn’t hurt? It would be a nice distraction while I wait for the articles.
Carly Michaels: All right, one drink
It’s crowded, the music is too loud, and the stool I’m sitting on feels rickety. Josh is on my right, gesturing wildly as he tells a story about some tech-thing that happened at work that I don’t understand. The rest of the table, mostly other people from the IT department, listens intently.
I sneak a peek at my phone under the table, trying to gauge when it’s socially acceptable to leave. As I wake the screen, I see I have two missed calls from Mr. Bennett.
Fuck.
I ease off the stool. “I gotta take a call—be back in a second.”
Finding somewhere to take a phone call in a rowdy bar is easier said than done. I end up stepping outside.
Mr. Bennett picks up on the third ring. “Speak.”
Always the charmer.
“Hi. I’m sorry I missed your calls. Was there something you needed to discuss with me?”
“I wouldn’t have called if there weren’t. I’m assuming you were busy with something very important since you didn’t bother answering.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, you could say that.”
A group of girls leaves the bar, laughing loudly. The sound from inside spills out to the street.
“Where are you?”
“Outside,” I say, hoping that it’ll be enough. “What did you want to discuss?”
“Are you out drinking?” he asks. “Is that why you didn’t pick up?”
I stifle an annoyed groan. Who does he think he is? My dad?
“I’m out with some of the guys from IT. It’s Friday night, and we’re having a drink, yes.” I try my hardest not to let the irritation bleed into my voice. “Now, what did you want?”
“Who?”
Oh my god, what is his deal?
“Josh, Tate, Jordan, and—” I frown. “I think his name is Tom? Or maybe Tim?”
“Tim.” He goes quiet. “I called because I need you to be prepared to meet the press again on Monday.”
I rub my hands up and down my arms. I left my jacket inside, so I’m freezing my ass off. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I said that you’re meeting with the press on Monday. You’re going to give them updates on the Green House building. It’s a fucking nightmare financially, so you better prepare yourself for that.”
The line goes dead.
I take the phone from my ear and stare at the dark screen before heading inside again.
“You look like an icicle,” Josh says as I sit down at the table. He shrugs off his zip-up hoodie and drapes it over my shoulders. It smells like cheap cologne. “Who were you talking to?”
“Mr. Bennett. He asked me to do another press thing next week.”
Josh lights up. “That’s great! You must have done really well if he wants you to do it again.”
I immediately pull up the website of one of the news outlets that covered the press briefing. They have an article posted, so I click it and start skimming. It’s very positive. I go to another website, and it’s the same there. All the press coverage I can find is overwhelmingly positive.
I let out a sigh.
“Thank fuck.”