CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
There’s no way James hates me more than I hate myself, but it’s probably pretty close. Things between us were always going to end—we both knew that. I’m not going to forfeit my dream of living abroad and traveling, and he shouldn’t give up the hope of finding someone who’s ready to take a leap. He doesn’t have time to reassure the scared girl tiptoeing backward off the high dive.
Since Vegas, nothing has changed, and nothing will change, which unfortunately means there’s no point in trying to reach out to him. Still, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.
Instead, every day since I returned follows one of two patterns. If I have a shift at the country club, I roll out of bed, eat soggy leftovers, slip into my Twin Oaks uniform, and sit in front of the mirror to practice my fake smile. If it’s my day off, I stay in bed, job hunting until my fingers are numb from filling out questionnaires and typing emails and letters of intent. The agency says they have a few leads for me, but I don’t believe them. I’ve taken matters into my own hands, searching message boards and au pair websites for active listings. At this point, I’ll take a job tutoring kids in Siberia if it means I can leave Twin Oaks.
I even contemplate leaving my job before I find a position. I have some money in savings, and I figure if I use it wisely, I could go four or five months before it’s completely depleted. It’s a tempting option, but I won’t do it. I put that money aside for travel and I refuse to use it now, for this. I can endure a few more weeks at the country club, especially considering I’ve already gone five whole shifts without coming in contact with James. According to Ellie and Marissa, they haven’t seen him around either.
I don’t know how I feel about that. He could be staying away because he can’t stand the sight of me, or he could be staying away because he actually doesn’t care to see me. Or, worst of all, he could be going about his life with no thought of me at all.
It’s been eight days since Vegas.
By now, I expected to be well into phase two of Operation Get Over James, but I’m still held up in phase one: Stop Thinking About Him Every Minute of Every Damn Day. It doesn’t help that his company has been all over the news. Apparently his TED talk at the conference went really well. I broke down and watched it one night in an incognito browser tab, like maybe that way I wouldn’t have to acknowledge what I was doing. I wanted to see some hint of emotion in his eyes, but he was nothing but professional, not even a hint of bags under his eyes. I made it through the entire speech, filled with pride for how eloquently he spoke, and then I promptly slammed my laptop closed and tossed it aside.
Early the next morning I saw an article on the front page of the Texas Monthly website highlighting a union between BioWear and a large foreign tech NGO based in London. Apparently, they were also in attendance at the conference in Vegas and James’ presentation piqued their interest. Their focus is on creating technology for underserved populations, and they’re equally motivated to develop the BioShield. The article predicted that with the new infusion of capital, BioShield could be ready for trial deployment within the next few years.
I’m ecstatic for him, and I want him to know that.
BROOKE: I heard about the deal. Congratulations. I know how excited you must be to see your dream get one step closer to reality.
After I send it, I keep my phone near me at all times, checking it every few minutes to see if a reply has come through. After two days, I decide he’s probably not going to respond.
Still, I don’t regret sending it.
I try to distract myself with more job searching, and I finally catch my first lucky break a few days after I read the article about the merger. My agency calls to notify me of a family looking to hire an au pair. It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for since I lost my last position. The couple, Diego and Nicolás, are moving back to Spain at the end of the summer and would like to bring an American tutor back with them. Their two adopted daughters have been learning English while in the United States, and Diego and Nicolás are anxious to continue their education in Spain.
“You’re one of only a handful of our tutors who are willing to relocate,” the head of the agency points out. Yes, technically that’s true. When I first put in my application, I made myself completely available for travel around the United States or abroad. “Frankly, you’re not going to get another opportunity like this,” she insists. “We’ve had a hard time placing you, and this position is perfect. The children are young and according to their fathers, they’re eager to learn.”
I ask for a few days to think about it, which she grudgingly gives me, along with a harsh warning about the job slipping through my fingers if I’m not careful.
I’ve been job hunting like crazy, so I should be thrilled by the prospect of starting a new position with a family, but my fight with James and our subsequent falling out means I can barely work up the shadow of joy.
I’m distracted as I get ready for work and bike to Twin Oaks. I’ve always wanted to travel as much as I can while I’m young, so it’s slightly unsettling that I’m not jumping at the opportunity to move to Spain. There’s a good reason for my hesitation, but I don’t let it surface. Instead, I lock my bike up and head inside.
“Guess who’s finally showing his face,” Ellie says, dipping her head into the employee locker room.
I stiffen and focus intently on the contents of my locker. When I’m sure my voice won’t break, I finally answer. “Oh yeah?”
“Yup. He’s in the dining room. There’s a luncheon benefitting the less fortunate.”
“Is he alone?”
She hesitates before she replies, “No.”
Just past the swinging door that divides the kitchen from the dining room, there’s a small dark alcove where servers use a mounted tablet to put in orders with the chef. I stand there, half hidden behind the wall, spying on James as he enjoys lunch with Lacy Nichols. They’ve been placed at one of the tables near the fireplace, slightly secluded from the crowded charity luncheon taking place around them. They’re in profile, which affords me the perfect vantage point. Lacy looks radiant in a fitted light pink wrap dress, and her blonde hair tumbles down her back in old Hollywood curls. I reach up and self-consciously touch my messy bun.
James is wearing a charcoal gray suit. I wonder if he just came from the office or if maybe he took the day off to spend it at the event with Lacy.
“Spying on them?” a server asks behind me.
“Who?” I ask innocently, my gaze on James and Lacy unwavering.
He chuckles and brushes past me to deliver food. “The fortunate ones.”
Just then, Lacy leans forward and wraps her hand around James’ on top of the pristine white tablecloth. The swinging door behind me whips open and a commotion draws my attention away from their locked hands. Three servers follow after the head chef, a stout, angry man I’ve only had the displeasure of being around a handful of times. Apparently the club poached him from a Michelin-starred restaurant, and he has the ego to prove it.
I watch as he orders the servers to straighten their shoulders and “act like you’ve been here before. Jesus.”
“Yes, Chef,” they reply with clipped, respectful tones.
With impatience, the chef steps forward and points to each dish, reminding them of what they’re holding on their trays. “Bouillabaisse with poached lobster. Crispy oysters with vegetable salad and citrus mayonnaise. Sea bass with prawn tortellini, fennel purée, and white wine sauce. Serve Ms. Nichols first, and then Mr. Ashwood. If they ask about a dish and you don’t know the answer, for the love of god, keep your mouth shut.”
Then he turns and finally sees me standing there, watching. “You,” he says, pointing to me. “Come help serve.”
I pale. “Oh, I can’t. I’m stationed at the cabana.”
He’s taken aback at my audacity, his oily face turning bright red with anger. “I didn’t study at Hyde Park to be refused by a fucking cabana girl.”
He shoves a small tray at me and releases it, so I have no choice but to grasp it tightly or let it crash down to the floor. The servers eye me with mild curiosity as they pass and then I fall in line, using the last server as a shield between me and our final destination. I could bolt at any moment, but it doesn’t seem worth it; I don’t want to incur the wrath of Mr. Michelin Star.
We descend upon James and Lacy, and I hover in the back, behind the servers and the chef. I can barely see James, which means he can’t see me. Thank goodness.
The chef steps forward and addresses them. I’m shocked at how quickly he can change his tone. Out here, he sounds gentle and kind. “As promised, we have the next round of courses for you both to sample.”
Lacy claps gleefully. “Oh wonderful! It looks amazing.”
“Yes, we’ll just clear these dishes off for you. I’m sorry, that should have been done already. Let me just—”
He turns and peers around the servers, pushing one of them aside until he finally gets to me.
“You,” he clips out impatiently. “Come clear these.”
Another server steps to the side and my cover is blown. There I stand, a few feet from James and his date, wearing my pleated skirt and Twin Oaks Polo. I know how I look: bags under my eyes, messy hair, slightly skinnier than I was a few weeks ago. Still, I try to lift my chin as I step forward and reach for the empty plate in front of James. He’s so close I can smell his cologne, and yet he doesn’t say a word. Maybe he’s shocked to find me here suddenly, but then again, so am I.
My hand shakes as I clear the dishes out from in front of him, and I come an inch away from toppling his wine glass. He reaches out to steady it, for which I am eternally grateful. I’m pretty sure the chef would flay me right here if I spilled wine on James Ashwood.
“Thank you,” he says with quiet formality as I stand and turn to Lacy.
Our eyes lock, and she tilts her head in recognition.
I hurry and collect the few dishes in front of her, but before I can turn and scurry away, she leans forward.
“You’re Martha’s stepdaughter aren’t you? Ellie? I’m Lacy, I’m a member of the Philanthropic League with her.”
I smile tightly. “Ellie is my sister. I’m Brooke.”
“Of course.” She drags her gaze down me in assessment and then smiles. “Martha mentioned you both work here.” She eyes my uniform and her nose twitches almost imperceptibly. It’s like she’s allergic to starched polos. “How fun, it’s almost a family business.”
I wait for James to chime in and announce that he knows me as well, but his imposing silence is worse. I’ve been wondering what it would be like when we finally came face to face, and now that it’s happening, all of my worst fears are coming true. He’s still holding on to the anger. I hurt him in Vegas, and for that, I’m sorry. I need him to know that.
“James, how are you?” I ask, peering over at him beneath my lashes.
Look at me, I beg. Look at me so you can see how sorry I am.
“Fine,” he replies with a bored dismissal.
“James?” Lacy asks. “Do you two know each other?”
“We’re friends,” I reply with a small smile.
“Is that so?” Lacy asks, her perfectly manicured brow arching in surprise. Her gaze scans back and forth between us, alight with cunning mischief. “I would have thought it was frowned upon for employees to befriend club members.”
Just then her hand shifts so quickly and so deftly that I know I’m the only one who sees it, and then her napkin goes tumbling to the ground. She claps her hand to her chest. “Oh, goodness, I’m so clumsy today!”
She apologizes, but she makes no move to retrieve it. We all freeze there for a long moment before it becomes clear that she expects me to bend down and pick it up.
“Allow me to get you a clean napkin,” I suggest as my mind races to find an escape from the humiliation.
“Don’t bother, this one is just fine!” she insists.
Her message is received loud and clear: it’s not about the napkin, it’s symbolic. In this moment, I’m the help. I’ve never felt so degraded, and a part of me wants to leave right here and now, but the chef clears his throat and I know I have no choice. I bend slowly, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. I wrap my hand around the napkin just as Lacy’s heel shifts one inch to the right, pinning it to the ground. I tug it once, and when she doesn’t release it, I tug again, harder this time. Her heel lifts at the last second, taking the resistance with it. My momentum carries me back and I land on my ass, the dishes sliding off my tray in a mess of crashing porcelain and leftover food.
Some kind of disgusting green goop flies up and blankets my hair, and the edge of the heavy tray drops heavily onto my ribs. James leaps to his feet to help, and as he hooks his hands under my arms and lifts me up, more dishes clatter to the ground.
I aim a furious glance at Lacy, but she’s wearing a perfect mask of shock and concern.
“Oh my gosh, you poor thing! Are you okay?” she asks. “My clumsiness must be contagious.”
James brushes bits of food off my shirt and skirt before I realize what he’s doing. When I do, I yank my arm away from him and take a step back. By this point, the chef has gone completely apoplectic. He flits around me, yelling obscenities and calling me a “stupid philistine”. In a last-ditch effort to preserve a modicum of dignity, I fling as much food off my body as I can and then storm out of the dining room. I’m still due to start my shift in the cabana any minute now, but I could not care less. Right now, I have a job offer to accept.