Chapter 2
ELLA
“Order up! Two anytime breakfast specials with extra bacon for table six!”
I grab the steaming plates from the pass, doing my signature move where I balance them on one arm while snagging the coffee pot with the other. It’s not graceful, but it gets the job done. After five years of waitressing, I’m essentially a caffeinated ninja.
Sedona’s Red Rock Diner is absolutely slammed today, which means good tips but also means I’m probably going to smell like bacon grease for the rest of my natural life. Not that I’m complaining. Bacon grease is basically the perfume of success in the food service industry.
“Coming right up, gentlemen!” I sing out, weaving between tables like I’m competing in some weird Olympic sport.
The two guys at table six are clearly locals.
Paint-spattered work shirts, the kind of deep exhaustion that comes from starting work before sunrise, which is mandatory when you work construction in Arizona.
“Fresh off the griddle,” I say, setting down their plates. “I convinced Tony to give you extra hash browns because honestly? You both look like you’ve earned it today.”
The younger guy looks up with genuine surprise. “Extra hash browns?”
“Absolutely. Anyone who’s working outside in that heat deserves all the carbs we can legally serve.”
“You always this optimistic?” the older guy asks, grinning at me.
“It’s a medical condition,” I tell him solemnly. “Chronic cheerfulness. Very serious. My mother says I was born smiling, which actually sounds super creepy when you think about it.”
Okay, that was probably too much information for someone who just wants to eat his eggs in peace, but sue me—I like making people laugh. Life’s too short to pretend you’re cooler than you actually are.
I’m topping off coffee mugs and mentally calculating how many more tables I need to turn before my break when I spot my best friend, Lisa, waving me over with what I’ve come to recognize as her “Houston, we have a problem” face.
Great. The espresso machine is either broken again, or someone complained about my “aggressive friendliness,” or, God forbid, someone found another hair in their scrambled eggs. I keep telling Tony he’s got to start wearing a hair net. Please let it be the espresso machine.
“What’s up?” I ask, sidling up to the coffee station where Lisa’s frantically pressing buttons like she’s trying to defuse a bomb.
“It’s making that noise again. You know, the one that sounds like a dying whale mixed with a garbage disposal.”
“Ah, the symphony of broken dreams.” I give the machine a gentle pat. “There, there, old girl. We’ve all been there.”
Lisa doesn’t laugh at my machine-whispering, which is concerning because Lisa laughs at everything. She once snorted iced tea when I told her about the time I said ‘love you too’ to the pizza delivery guy because I was on the phone with my mom.
“El, can we talk during our break? It’s kind of important.”
The way she says “important” makes my heart sink a little. In my experience, nothing good ever starts with “we need to talk” unless it’s followed by “about the big raise you’re getting” or “about the castle you just inherited in Scotland.”
“Sure,” I say, trying to sound casual while mentally preparing for disaster. “Let me just charm Tony into fixing this machine and we’ll grab lunch.”
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of coffee refills and small talk, but I can’t shake the feeling that something’s about to change.
And not in the good way, like when they fixed the freezer door so it stops trying to amputate our fingers.
More like in the way that makes you want to hide under your covers and pretend the world doesn’t exist.
By noon, we’ve escaped to our usual booth in the back, armed with turkey clubs and iced tea. Lisa’s doing that thing where she arranges her chips in perfect little rows, which is basically her version of stress eating.
“Okay, spill,” I say, unwrapping my sandwich. “And please tell me it’s not about Derek again, because I’m running out of creative ways to say ‘dump his sorry ass.’”
She takes a deep breath. Deep breaths are never good.
“My sister called from Vegas this morning. She’s having complications with her pregnancy.”
Oh. Oh no. The way Lisa says it makes my stomach drop, because Lisa’s sister Jenny is the sweetest person alive, and she’s been trying to have a baby for years.
“Is she okay? Is the baby okay?”
“They’re both okay for now, but she’s been put on strict bed rest for the rest of her pregnancy. Like, can’t-get-up-except-to-use-the-bathroom bed rest. And Mike’s been laid off for three months, so they can’t afford help, and...”
I can already see where this is going, and my heart is breaking for Jenny while simultaneously sinking for completely selfish reasons.
“She needs me, El. I’m the only family she has out there, and she’s scared, and I can’t just leave her to handle this alone.”
There it is. The bomb I was waiting for, except this time it’s wrapped in completely understandable family loyalty and love, which makes me feel even worse for the selfish part of me that’s panicking.
“When do you leave?” I ask, though I already know the answer is going to be something terrible like “immediately” or “yesterday.”
“Tomorrow morning. I’m driving straight through—should get there by evening.”
Yep. There’s that punch to the gut I was expecting.
“Tomorrow,” I repeat, like maybe if I say it slowly enough, the word will change meaning. “As in, the day after today. The day that happens in approximately eighteen hours.”
“I know the timing is awful with our vaca plans and all—”
“Don’t worry about that,” I interrupt, and okay, maybe my voice is a little higher than normal.
We’ve been planning our Barbados trip for over a year.
We have a Pinterest board. We have a savings fund—meager as it is.
We’ve been buying lottery tickets for months, hoping and praying for a windfall that never comes.
Still, the fact is, all we have right now are plans. Neither one of us makes enough money for the kind of dream vacation we both wish we could take. And with Jenny’s pregnancy issues, now Lisa won’t have the time or the money for a getaway anytime soon.
“Are you sure you’re not mad?” She looks miserable, which makes me feel guilty for wallowing in my own disappointment.
“Of course, I’m not mad. It’s not like we have plane tickets and a hotel booked. We’re just dreaming, right? The vacation will wait. You just do what you need to do for Jenny. I’m not going anywhere, obviously.”
She nods, looking slightly relieved. “You’re the best, El.”
“And you’re going to be exactly what your sister needs,” I tell her, because that’s the truth. Lisa’s the most responsible, caring person I know. She’s the one who remembers birthdays and keeps plants alive and always has Band-Aids in her purse. Jenny’s lucky to have her.
Meanwhile, I’m the one who once accidentally killed a cactus. A cactus. The plant that’s literally designed to survive neglect.
It’s a good thing neither of my little sisters back home in New Jersey are of childbearing ages because I’m the last person anyone would call for help in a medical crisis or otherwise. But give me a diner full of hangry patrons at the peak of the lunch rush and I’m your Huckleberry.
I go back to my customers, telling myself it’s no big deal that it’ll be six months or more before my dreams of a sandy beach and tropical breezes can be close to reality. I’ll just keep working hard and saving my tips until Lisa gets back and we can continue dreaming of Barbados.
By the time I get home, I’m feeling sorry for myself in a way that definitely calls for wine and bad reality TV. My apartment usually cheers me up. It’s small but sunny, decorated in what I like to call “thrift store chic meets eternal optimist.” Tonight it just feels empty.
I’m halfway through a glass of wine and a particularly dramatic episode of someone’s dating disasters when I remember the lottery tickets in my purse.
One for Lisa, and one for me. I bought them on my way home from work today, just like I’ve been doing every week for most of this year.
The jackpot drawing is tonight, although it’s hard for me to get excited about it when Lisa is currently on her way to Las Vegas.
The TV is droning about tonight’s drawing, and I figure why not check? It’s not like I have anything better to do except console myself and eat ice cream for dinner. I dig the tickets out of my purse and plop back onto my tattered couch.
I check Lisa’s ticket first. Only one number matches. A bust, as usual. It’s not until I look at my ticket’s numbers that my heart rate kicks into high gear. I’ve got the same number match on mine. Plus another one. And a third.
Oh my God. Four numbers match.
I sit up straighter, my wine forgotten. Check again. Five matches.
And then… Holy shit.
All six numbers match exactly. I won.
I won?
“No,” I say out loud to my empty apartment. “No way. No freaking way.”
But the numbers are still there, mocking me with their perfect alignment.
Six tiny digits that apparently equal tonight’s jackpot of two million dollars.
My pulse is thudding in my ears, my palms are slick against the paper, and there’s this fizzy, electric rush in my chest that makes me feel like I might actually launch off the couch.
Two million dollars.
I stare at the ticket like it might burst into flames or reveal itself to be an elaborate prank.
This kind of thing doesn’t happen to people like me.
This kind of thing happens to people in movies, or urban legends, or very special episodes of TV shows where they teach you about the corrupting power of money.
I grab my phone to call Lisa, then remember she’s probably elbow-deep in packing and family chaos.
Besides, what would I even say? “Hey, remember how we always joked about winning the lottery? Well, I just did, and now I have to figure out what to do with more money than I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and also I’m pretty sure this is going to change everything, and I’m kind of terrified? ”
Yeah, that’s definitely not a conversation for tonight.
Instead, I just sit there, clutching the ticket and trying to wrap my brain around what this means. No more worrying about rent. No more choosing between groceries and gas. No more watching other people live the kinds of lives I only dreamed about.
And suddenly, a completely crazy idea hits me.
Barbados. Not the budget version Lisa and I had been planning, with shared hotel rooms and carefully counted meals.
The real version. The kind where you fly first class and stay somewhere with room service and infinity pools and people whose only job is to bring you drinks with little umbrellas in them.
Can this be real? Is this my actual life right now?
I fire up my laptop before I can talk myself out of it, and start browsing luxury resort websites like I actually belong there. First-class tickets that cost more than my car is worth. Hotel suites with private balconies and ocean views. Spa treatments with names I can’t pronounce.
This is insane. This is completely, totally insane.
But fuck it. I’m absolutely doing this.