“Yep, just a few minutes ago.”
“Are you working at the hotel today?”
“Unfortunately.” I smooth down the stiff uniform I’m wearing. It’s one that makes me feel like a knockoff Jennifer Lopez inMaid in Manhattan. Except I’d never be caught trying on the expensive furs of the guests who stay at the wealthy hotel where I work. Keywords:I wouldn’t get caught
Also, I’d never fall in love with a rich, heir-to-a-dynasty guy likeChristopher Marshall. I think we can all agree that he was the worstin that movie and unfortunately, that’s been my experience with most of the wealthy people I’ve encountered during their stays at the hotel where I work.
Gabriel nods, sipping his coffee. “One day you’ll be able to quit.”
Right.That’s hardly believable.
“How’s the budget look?”
“Rough.”
He sighs and drags a hand through his messy, dark brown hair. He may only be a year older than me, but I can see the stress of the last few years in the fine lines around his hazel eyes and the weight that he carries on his shoulders.
“Should we take another look tonight? See if there’s anywhere else that we can cut back?”
We’ve already cut out all extra spending. Subscriptions? Cancelled. Name brand food? Don’t buy it. Friday nights out drinking with friends? Don’t know them.
But I nod and force a smile, because while I’d love to quit my job at the hotel today, I know Gabriel’s also miserable working in construction for a boss who refuses to promote him and stickshim on the worst projects in the city. We’re doing what we must do to survive, and we both know it.
“Sure, we can do that.”
“Alright. See you tonight. Stay safe on your commute,” he says with a smile.
“You too,” I respond, trying not to think about him weaving through congested traffic on his motorcycle.
Gabriel’s a big guy, more than capable of handling himself in the chaos of New York City life. But he rides a chrome Harley Davidson Cruiser—a sleek beast of a motorcycle that he’d saved up to buy when he was just eighteen years old and couldn’t part with after our parents passed away.
It’s the same one that his ex-wife almost made him give up when they first married. And not because she thought it wasn’t safe, but because she didn’t like the attention it seemed to attract from other women around town.
The thought of him weaving through the gridlock of overcrowded city streets during rush hour has always made my stomach churn. We’ve already lost our parents; I don’t want to lose any more family.
But I understand the need for an outlet, for those fleeting moments where your brain shuts off and you let go. That seems to be what Gabriel gets from riding these days.
He lifts his mug in a casual wave as I head out the door to my trusty car. Trusty, but definitely not glamorous. It’s a 2004, an antique now, the black paint is peeling, and the brakes let out an embarrassing squeal every time I put it in reverse.
Those are on my list to have Gabriel fix but when he gets home after dark, exhausted and hungry, I don’t want to add one more thing to his list of to-dos.
Still, the car is mine—and more importantly, it’s paid off. My dad had always said that the most valuable vehicle is the one you own outright. I don’t care that my insurance appraised it at less than one grand value, that it leaks oil all over our driveway, or that the rust on the undercarriage is threatening to win its life-long battle with the streets of Brookhaven. It gets me where I need to go, and that’s enough. Especially on days like today when I can’t wait for the train.
I start the engine and make my way toward the city, heading to the Manhattan-based hotel where I occasionally work as cleaning staff on Wednesdays and Fridays.
I hate this job, but not because I think that I’m above it. Cleaning is one of the most vital and underappreciated professions out there, and I have endless respect for those who do it full-time. My problem is the thanklessness of it all.
No one notices how the sheets are folded just so, the meticulous attention to wiping down appliances and vacuuming floors, or the small gesture of a mint left on their pillow. It all feels impersonal since there’s no human interaction, a stark contrast to the second job waiting for me later in the day, the one that I went to school for and really enjoy.
After an hour and a half commute and six hours straight of scrubbing crystal-adorned apartments and high-end guest rooms, I’m finally racing back to my house in Connecticut.
When I pull into the driveway, I waste no time unlocking the front door and peeling off my cleaning uniform, tossing it into the laundry room, which is already overflowing with dirty clothes that I’m behind on. I quickly change into a simple, button-up black top, then rush over to my laptop. I have just one minute to spare before my first virtual therapy session. Of course, my clients are already waiting for me to join them.
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Beeker. It’s so nice to see you again. How are you both doing today?” I greet with a smile.
“We’re doing alright, Rhiannon,” Mr. Beeker says, while Mrs. Beeker fidgets nervously, looking down.
I know that these appointments are a source of anxiety for her, but I feel like we’re making progress, working through years of miscommunication and missed connections in their marriage.
