“Break room,” I say.
Iris goes to retrieve them from my bag while I help a new batch of customers. By the time I get back to her, she’s tearing off pieces of bread and popping them into her mouth.
“Which one is that?” I ask.
In answer, she holds out a piece for me to take a bite. Even hours old, the bread is soft and the piney taste of rosemary blooms on my tongue.
“Bide,” I say. “Just wait until you get to the cheese rolls.”
“So theSpitfirelist lived up to expectations?” she asks, taking a sip of her drink which does nothing to conceal the smirk capturing her mouth.
“Come on, I haven’t talked about it that much.”
“If you say so,” she chimes. “Are you going to compare notes when the updated list comes out tomorrow?”
And to think I had almost forgotten the freckled and flustered highlight of my day. “Yeah, probably not going to happen since I accused the guy writing this year’s reviews of stalking me after I helped him get a cab and changed in front of him.”
“Shut up.” Her jaw unhinges for a moment before her eyes sparkle with excitement. “Do you think he could be L. Hughes? Did you flash your celebrity crush?”
“I didn’t flash anyone. He saw me in a bodysuit and leggings.” I groan. “God don’t make me think that it could be him. Also, L. Hughes is not a celebrity.”
I like his writing. It’s refreshing to see a man engage in traditionally feminine topics without bashing them. Simple as that. And yes, maybe I’ve commented on a few articles, but that’s normal.
“Please tell me he’s hot because if it was L. Hughes and he wasn’t, you’ll have nothing to masturbate to anymore.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Oh my God. I tell you I accuse him of stalking me and you ask if he’s hot?”
“So you do get off to the idea of him?” Her smile tips into a self-satisfied, almost feline, smirk. Okay, sure, she’s right, I’ve thought about a man who could be L. Hughes. I think competence is hot. Why would I be into a loser? But it’s not like I have a reference since, unlike the other writers, there’s no picture of him to accompany his byline.
“Not the point.”
“Being vigilant as a single woman is smart, though I think confronting him isn’t great. But you hang out with strangers for a living; I can only expect so much from you.”
“Your faith in me is always appreciated.”
“So,” she says, waving her hand in a circular motion, urging me to answer.
I pause, taking a moment to conjure up a memory of Cab Guy. “He looked like someone just woke him up after he fell asleep in a library. And he had all these freckles, like a billion. Not hot, but handsome.” I shake my head. Why am I even entertaining this conversation? “But that doesn’t matter. I ate good food. I got paid,” I say firmly. I walk out from behind the bar and grab a few abandoned glasses off a hightop table. “And now I’m working.”
“Working? You? Never. If you don’t hear back from the admissions office soon, I’m going to go there in person. Whenyou go back to school at least you’ll be able to sit and make connections with people in your classes.”
“It’s the holidays; it’s normal for there to be a delay.” My eyes fix on the counter as I scrub at a red, sticky spot of dried Grenadine.
Truth is, I got the email notification that my admission status had been updated on Monday, but that would mean I’d have to log on and check it. Even after transferring from Brown to an online state college to save money, it took me four years of putting away every dollar I had to pay off my loans. I’d taken the privilege I’d grown up in for granted, and once my dad was arrested, I didn’t know the basics of how to be a person. It was embarrassing.
The first time I tried to wash my own clothes I used bleach instead of detergent and ruined the entire load of laundry. I’m proud of the simple skills I’ve learned—the basics of checking cost per ounce on items at the grocery store, knowing exactly which gas station I could save a few cents at, using my local library’s computer to submit a final exam when my laptop broke and I couldn’t afford repairs.
Getting my master's in counseling will open doors, but it’s the biggest financial risk I’ve taken. I initially wanted to start a new online program, but Iris encouraged me to apply for my dream program here in New York, and thus reclaiming a college experience I never fully had. I have nearly enough saved to completely cover the first two years of tuition and rent, but only if I get financial aid.
After years of building a new life, I’m not sure I’m ready to take the risk. And there’s the fact that it will be the first time I’ve settled down anywhere. I’ve grown used to being unmoored.
A master's program means committing to one place. One topic. One cohort of people. It means committing to being thesame person day in and day out, and I’m not even sure who that person is. Or worse, if I like that person.
Last time I was in school, I was lazy and stuck up, cheating my way through the entrance requirements. What if that part of me is still lurking beneath the surface just waiting to break free the moment I relax?
“You’re going to get in and you’re going to go. It’s not like you can bartend and date people for money forever. Those are things you’re going to age out of.”
“I don’t know, I think I could break into an older market,” I joke.
