5. Emmy
Iwalk back to my car, doing my best to ignore this sinking feeling in my chest.
I knew he’d disappoint me. I knew nothing would come of it. And if I allowed myself to feel much of anything other than irritation, I’d probably be sad that it’s over, this little flirtation that was never going to amount to anything.
It was ridiculous to have hoped he’d be different. That he’d be kind and trustworthy, unlike the rest of this town’s residents. I still haven’t put together who he was—there were only a hundred of us in my graduating class and surely I’d remember a guy who looked like that—but he was definitely one of the assholes who made my teenage years hell. It’s a distinct feeling inside me when I picture his face, some ancient hurt I can’t put a finger on yet.
Regardless of who he is, the modern ceiling tile he put in is entirely wrong—the theater is supposed to have a vintage feel to convince everyone Inspired Building cares about Elliott Springs’ history before we start tearing down their dumb landmarks—which means it’s one more problem amidst a mountain of problems I don’t have time for.
Therefore, I need to rope in my assistant.
The morons we hired to do the theater put in the wrong ceiling. I need the contract. Find out who owns Long Point Construction too.
Stella
We can only fire so many people in a single week, Em.
One of their guys called me “Princess”, Stella.
Ah. I guess I’m just glad you’re not making me dig a grave.
I arrive at home, laden with groceries. My mother is heavily immersed in TheReal Housewives of Orange County and doesn’t acknowledge me.
“I was going to do steak and baked potatoes and salad for dinner,” I announce. Given my cooking ability, I’m sticking to the basics. “Do you know if the grill has propane?”
“Steak and potatoes?” my mother scoffs. “Are you trying to make me explode?”
“A small filet only has three hundred calories, Mom. A small potato has a hundred.”
“I didn’t keep this figure eating steak and potatoes. I’ll just eat the salad. And if you were smarter, you’d just be eating the salad too.”
I swallow down a sharp retort.
Jeff was the lucky one, with a metabolism that must have been twice my own. It was a running joke between him and my mother, the sheer amount of food he could pack away. “You must have a hollow leg,” she’d coo, as if his ability to eat was some illusive, adorable quality. “I don’t know where you put it.”
He could inhale eight tacos in a matter of minutes, but if I reached for a second one, her mouth would twist. She’d observe me, repulsed, always with that coffee cup in hand, her ability to not be hungry a source of great pride.
It made any hunger I felt seem sick. Unfeminine and distasteful. “Do you really need that?” she’d ask, and I’d put the taco back. And then I’d watch Jeff eat, and my hunger would turn darker and needier until it was beyond my control.
I hate, so much, how little has changed.
I now don’t want the steak or the potato. I will eat them only to show her that her words are meaningless, but the endless hunger that will follow it already gnaws at my bones.
* * *
It’sdark when my phone rings. I fumble for it blindly, uncertain if it’s night or early morning.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” Stella chirps. I wonder if she’s calling this early to punish me for making her work last night. I reach across the bed to open one of the blinds. Outside, it’s barely light out. Yes, she definitely did it on purpose.
“Tell me,” I reply.
“So, you were right about the tile. It’s not what you chose. The bad news is that they ran into some supply issues and Julie, the decorator, okayed the switch.”
I groan, reaching for the bottle of water on the nightstand. Julie didn’t have the authority to make that switch. “And did you get the contact info for the owner?”
“I sent it to you. It’s the guy you’ve been dealing with. Liam.”
“Fuck.” We hired Long Point Construction because they’d been in business since the seventies. Liam wasn’t even alive in the seventies, so I never dreamed he owned it.
“You know him?” she asks.
I swallow.
In New York, I’m Emerson, the controlled workaholic who makes work calls from her in-office treadmill every morning and takes shit from no one. As much as I like Stella, I’m not about to ruin it all by telling her I was once the high school punching bag, the girl who took shit from everyone. “I know of him. I think he’s older.”
“He can’t be too much older. Julie said he’s hot.”
I didn’t realize Julie had met him. Something sours inside me. This is clearly Liam’s schtick—he’s flirtatious and charming with every female client because it makes his life easier. She probably flew out here on the company’s dime, slept with him, and let him call all the shots after that—let him offload some cheap-ass tile he had on hand and cut a thousand other corners. I hate that I fell for as much of it as I did. Me.
“Speaking of Julie,” I reply, “you can let her know she’s off the job. I’m not working with her again.”
Stella laughs. “I figured this was coming, but she’s under contract. You can’t just fire her without cause.”
“I have plenty of cause. She changed my plans without asking me and just made me look like an asshole. Plus, we’re going to have to eat the cost of the new tile, and I’m going to be the one Charles blames. And not for the first time. This is probably her third costly mistake this year.”
Julie does need to go, but I’m honestly not sure what I’m angrier about: her mistake or the fact that I almost got taken in by Liam too.
Not even almost. I did get taken in by him. You’d think I’d know better by now.
Apparently, I will never learn.