On my way to the employee door, I run into Nessa. “Hey there,” I say with a smile. “What are you up to?”
She points to a hole the size of a fist in her pantyhose, a nylon run stretching the length of her leg and disappearing into her shoe. “Gotta change.”
“Impressive. How’d that happen?” I open the door to the basement and we make our way down.
“Snagged it on a bottle opener. You on break?”
I nod. “I needed one. My ex showed up and cornered me.” A repulsed shiver jolts my spine. I really owe Jaeger one.
“Oooh.” Her face scrunches. “That bad? You tell the guy you’re not interested?”
“I kind of froze. By the time I got it together, someone stepped in.”
I walk Nessa to the vending machine—yes, there’s a pantyhose vending machine. Nylons are a requirement with our uniforms, as if microthin material covering asscheeks will make the uniforms classier. Pantyhose mishaps like Nessa’s are a frequent occurrence.
She pushes in a few quarters and out pops a pair of extra-small, sheer black nylons.
My mouth twists, the encounter with Drake Peterson nagging me. “Nessa, have you ever had an executive hand over his business card and offer to help you?”
“What?” she says with an uneasy smile. She pulls the pantyhose from the box. “Um, no. When did that happen?”
“Right after my ex showed.”
She stares. “Okay, you have man problems.”
“Right?”
“Right.” She opens her locker and kicks off her heels. “Maybe you need to step up your inner lioness. You have this sweet, vulnerable disposition, which is kind of awesome because you’re beautiful and you don’t act like it, but people might take advantage.”
Cali once told me I never showed the A-hole who I really am. She thinks I’m a badass because I kick her butt at sports, but that’s not saying much. Cali has no athletic ability. “What do you mean?”
Nessa tosses the mangled hose on the bottom of her locker. “Escape your comfort zone and do something you’ve never done before, or would never do.” Her eyes light up. “Join a theatrical group, or sign up for online dating… scale a mountain.” She nods as if her ideas are brilliant. “Put yourself in a position that forces you to step out of your box. The confidence you build will reflect on the outside.”
I’m kind of wondering where Nessa is coming up with this stuff, because she doesn’t look like a closet Buddhist, but she has a point. I don’t put myself out there enough—my mom had that market cornered.
I could try something new, though. If showing outer confidence will help me cope with sleazy men, I’m all for it.
No way in hell am I joining a theatrical group—kill me now, please. But something that requires coordination? Not running, I do that every day and it’s not much of a challenge, but something I’m scared to try? Mountain climbing’s not a bad idea…
“Thanks, Nessa. I’ll think about it. I’d better get going, Cali’s probably waiting for me.”
Nessa waves goodbye and I book it to the cafeteria.
Cali managed to take a break and even found a table in the crowded room. When I walk up, she’s working on one of her intricate sketches, this one of a mountain landscape with a million of the tiny geometric shapes she uses to create images. I have no idea how she does it. Cali has serious artistic talent she never acknowledges. She calls her sketches “doodles,” and throws them out as if they’re trash. I’ve literally pulled the most beautiful picture of our college campus out of the garbage that she’d thrown away. One of these days, I’m going to get her to realize how good her drawings are.
Cali finishes the last few shapes and sets the sketch aside. “What happened with the A-hole? I saw him swoop in, but I couldn’t get away.”
“He wanted to see what I was doing after work. Asked if I’d meet up with him.” I shake my head, but Cali doesn’t seem to be paying attention. I take in her distracted gaze. “You okay? You seemed a little upset when I flagged you earlier.”
She gives me a weak smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m fine.”
Her mood is strange, but she’s probably just stressed from the crowd tonight.
We gossip about my genius ex for a bit, then Cali heads back to work.
I finish my food and run to the bathroom. On my way to the casino floor, an advertisement on the employee corkboard has me pausing at the bottom of the stairs. It’s for the Alpine Mudder, with an image of guys climbing a plank wall, wearing Braveheart kilts and blue face paint, mud smeared on their arms and legs. I’ve seen this advertisement on Facebook. It’s some extreme obstacle course with mud and partying—the kind of event a bunch of ex-rugby players would be into.
I’d never do this. The Alpine Mudder is competitive (which I love), dirty (which I hate), and dangerous (not my thing).
