Halston

The phone numbers of two men are scribbled across two crumpled receipts as I empty out my pockets. Being hit on at work is flattering, but the last person I’m going to date is some guy who prefers his BBQ wings with a side of tits and ass.

Definitely not boyfriend material.

Sliding my tip money from my other pocket, I count out one-hundred fifty-eight dollars and add it to my secret stash.

Almost five hundred dollars cash rests in an old makeup bag buried at the bottom of my sock drawer. Two weekends in a row waiting tables at Big Boulders has gotten me that much closer to getting a damn car. If I can save up three grand and Uncle Vic matches it, I should be able to get a used Honda or something that’s going to last me for years to come.

I don’t need anything fancy, just something that’s not going to fall apart when I’m cruising down the highway going seventy-five miles per hour leaving Rosefield, Illinois in the dust.

I flip to the calendar, adding up the remaining weekends for the summer. As long as I can keep this job on the down low another month or so, I’ll be golden.

And one of these days, when I finally get my hands on my birth certificate, I’ll head to the bank so I can finally open an account and keep this money someplace safer than hidden under a pile of neon, no-show Nike socks.

There’s a bus stop two blocks down from here, just outside our gated neighborhood, and Vic and Tab think I’m working at the Waterfront Sea Food Restaurant downtown. Heaven help me if my cover is ever blown, but thank God I don’t have to keep this up forever.

Covering my savings with a stack of pajama pants, I head downstairs to Aunt Tabitha’s Sunday supper, though I’m not hungry. We munch on everything between tables, and we’re always hungry because we’re running around like animals. Courtney knows the caloric content of almost all of the entrees, and she’s been happy to point out which ones to avoid.

“We have to maintain our girlish figures,” she said. “That’s how we make the big bucks!”

Taking a seat at my usual spot, Bree’s nose crinkles. “It smells like fried food in here.”

My uniform stays at work, in my locker, but maybe the stench of bar food has seeped into my hair and pores?

“We had a special on fried calamari,” I lie, spreading my napkin over my lap and offering a smart-mouthed smirk.

Bitch.

I’d love to see Bree wait tables anywhere. She wouldn’t last more than a minute.

“How can you just sit there, smelling like that? Don’t you want to shower?” Bree won’t let off.

“Bree.” Uncle Vic says her name and clears his throat. “That’s enough. I’m very proud of you, Halston. You’ve shown real initiative. You’re a hard worker. That’s going to get you far in life.”

“I was thinking of getting a job too.” Bree straightens her posture, staring across the table in my direction. “Maybe babysitting or nannying or something? Something with kids. And it makes sense since I want to go into education.”

Uncle Vic smiles his proud, fatherly smile, reaching over and placing his hand over hers.

“That’s my girl,” he says.

Tabitha places a dish of herbed chicken resting on a bed of garlic couscous between us all before taking her seat.

“Vic, would you like to say grace?” Tabitha asks.

Bree folds her hands and nods her head, and when I peek up at her, I find her staring at me, so I give her a dirty look before kicking her under the table.

Vic and Tab are in their own little world, and by the time they make the sign of the cross, they’re none the wiser.

I choke down Tabitha’s dinner before excusing myself to my room and jumping in the shower—because I want to, not because Bitchface told me to.

When I’m done, I change into pajama shorts and a tank top and check my Karma app. I haven’t heard from Kerouac in almost a week now, but I’m trying not to obsess over it. I’m assuming he’s busy with work stuff, being an “educated professional” and all. Plus, he’s complicated. I’m complicated. Nothing good—or real—is going to come of this anyway. It’s nothing more than a time waster. A boredom crusher.

From: [email protected]karma.com

To: [email protected]karma.com

Subject: Where for art thou?

Time: 6:48 PM

Message: I feel like you dropped off the face of the earth this week, and I can’t help but think it had to do with my missionary sex confession. I turned you off, didn’t I? I should’ve said reverse cowgirl. Fuck. What was I thinking? Have I lost you forever, my sweet Kerouac? Will you ever give me a second chance? Obviously, I’m kidding. Kind of. I miss chatting with you. And I had a sex dream about you the other night. I mean, the guy had your stock model’s face and sounded a lot like Ryan Gosling, but it was you. And before you ask, yes, it was “doggy style.” Ugh. But I enjoyed it. Anyway, just thought you should know.

I push my laptop to the side and grab a book off my nightstand. I’m halfway through Daphne DuMaurier’s Rebecca for the fourth time because for some reason I’ve yet to get sick of it. Fifty pages later, Karma dings.

You have an email from Kerouac! Click here to review!

From: [email protected]Karma.com

To: [email protected]Karma.com

Subject: Re: Where for art thou?

Time: 7:27 PM

Message: Dearest, you could never turn me off. Just the mere idea of fucking you like an animal until you collapse with satisfaction is enough to hold my interest. Okay, enough with the cheese. Not ignoring you. Family’s in town. I hope to resume our virtual fuck sessions in the next week. Feel free to email me still. I’ll respond when I can. In the meantime, I’d like a full detailed report of that dream you had for my records. Also, I thought about you this morning in the shower. Don’t think I’ve ever come so much in my life. What are you doing to me? I’ve never wanted to fuck a complete stranger so badly in my life.

From: [email protected]karma.com

To: [email protected]karma.com

Subject: Re: re: Where for art thou?

Time: 7:33 PM

Message: I was going to make you wait until tomorrow for a response, but honestly, I’ve never been into playing games and it’s getting late and I’m tired because I work a soul-sucking job (that’s going to be my excuse for everything from now on, btw). I think I’ve earned it. Anyway, I don’t have time to type up a detailed report of my dream because, quite frankly, I have better things to do with my time and based on previous conversations, your imagination seems to function just fine. Going to bed now. Enjoy family time. Hope you were blessed with a “normal” family and that you’re not counting down the hours until they leave. Later.

Closing the lid, I stick my computer on the charger and climb back into bed. I don’t realize it right away, but my lips are curled at the sides and there’s a faint fluttering in my middle.

What the fuck is this shit?

No.

Just … no.

I’m not falling for some Internet stranger—especially one using a stock photo for a profile picture.

Clasping my hand over my eyes, I exhale, silently telling myself to get a goddamned life.