The Fortunate Ones
Page 40

I take a step toward the bar and he turns. My stomach dips as his warm brown eyes meet mine. They’re so sad and heavy that I can barely stand their weight. He scans down to where my suitcase sits beside me and his brows arch in surprise as he registers the fact that I’m leaving. Hope explodes inside of me—STOP ME, PLEASE—but when he glances back up, the emotion in his eyes is gone, erased in the blink of eye. Now, he looks right through me. To him, I’m already gone. Then, to nail home that fact, he turns away. No nod, no wave goodbye.
I stand there immobile for a few seconds and then, when I realize how pathetic I look, I reach for the handle of my suitcase with a shaky hand and nearly sprint out of the lobby. As soon as I slide into the back of the taxi, the tears start to flow. The old cabbie is at a complete loss for what to do with me.
“All right, there, there. Where to?”
I tell him.
“Aww c’mon, lady. I can’t hear you with all that blubbering.”
I cry harder.
“Jesus. Why do I always get the basket cases?”
He sighs and tosses back a couple of crumpled Subway napkins for me to use to blow my nose. They smell like roast beef.
“Listen, okay, I’m no Sherlock, but you’ve got a suitcase, so I’m going to head to the airport.”
“Th-Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, pulling away from the hotel. “Looks like Vegas bagged another one.”
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.