I smile down at her until my mind drifts back to the day my father left. All of those times as a child I wondered why Mom hadn’t begged him to stay. She knew what I’m only now starting to understand.
We accept the love we think we deserve.
That quote had resonated with me for so long, and I wasn’t entirely sure why. I thought I was deserving of love. It wasn’t my fault my father walked away. There were years I blamed my mother. If only she’d given him what he wanted. Maybe then he would’ve stayed.
But she’d given enough. She’d supported our little family all on her own while he bounced from one low-paying job to another, often with big gaps of time in between.
Job. Shit!
I glance at the clock. Holy moly. What was supposed to be a quick visit to check on Mom has turned into a much longer affair. I need to get to work. “I’ve gotta run, Mom. I’ll call you tonight.”
She smiles softly. “Be careful, Graceland.”
I rush for the door, feeling a little taller than when I walked in.
“No, no, noooo. Not today.”Dropping my forehead to the steering wheel hard enough to leave a mark, I pray to the God who reigns supreme over all oddballs and Elvis lovers for the miracle I need to get this jalopy started. “Please, you old battle-axe. Please, start,” I plead.
There’s no way I can be late. I’m almost certain that Attila the Hun, Tiffani, is working this morning. While merely a shift manager at my part-time job, she acts as if she’s been appointed store dictator. I sit up taller, a little ounce of positivity filling my veins. Maybe I’m wrong, and sweet Avery will be there today. I can only hope.
Vrmmmmm.
Springing up higher in my seat, my eyes fly open at the unexpected shock of hearing the ignition turnover. “Holy shit!” I squeal. “Sorry. I mean, Holy Mary, Mother of God, thank you! Thank you.” I really need to get back to church. See what a little positive thinking can do, Grace?
I slam my foot on the pedal and gun it, hoping I can still make it on time. It’s possible, right? The irritatingly red dashboard clock practically guffaws in my direction.
8:55.
Unless this old hunk of junk can suddenly teleport the ten minutes to my job, it’s not happening. “Come on, Avery,” I mutter to myself as if she can hear me. “I just know you offered to pick up themorning shift for Tiff.” I chew on the tip of my nail in contemplation. Maybe she came down with a scorching case of Montezuma’s revenge. Of course, you’d have to actually take a vacation to get Traveler’s diarrhea. Why should she do that when her favorite pastime is torturing her coworkers?
Tiffani is the type of personMean Girlswas written about. A superficial shrew with a heart made of stone. To the untrained eye, she’s pretty. A cacophony of clothing, jewelry, makeup, and surgical enhancements afforded by Daddy’s money. But underneath lives a trifling tormentor. It isn’t enough for her to have been born into privilege. I honestly think she’d take great glee in seeing my already sad lot in life get worse.
As I reach my parking spot, I throw the gear into park, grab my keys and nearly empty purse, and hightail it toward the door.Avery, Avery, Avery,I internally chant. Keep thinking positive, Grace. It got the truck going, right?
“You’re late.”
Well, shit on a shingle.I’ve barely stepped into the upmarket boutique, sweat trickling down the back of my neck from the lack of air conditioning in that pitiful excuse for a vehicle, when my gaze connects with Lauren’s.
The store owner.
Dadgummit. Is it too late to wish Tiffani was here? “I’m so sorry, Lauren. My car wouldn’t start. I?—”
“That was the excuse she gave last time.” My body jolts at the unexpected but entirely too familiar sound of Tiffani’s voice behind me.Honestly, universe? One of these two wasn’t enough? You had to have both of them here to greet me?“Real original, Grace.” Normally I wouldn’t hide my eye roll at her jibes, but I don’t need to borrow any more trouble than I already have today.
I try inconspicuously to wipe the back of my neck, discovering my overheated truck is no match for the stress I’m currently wilting beneath. As horrendous as it is, I cannot afford to lose this God-awful job today. Tossing my meager belongings under the counter, I mutter, “I need a new car. But I just don’t have enough saved for a downpayment yet.” Not sure why I’m bothering to share my woes, as I doubt either of these women have ever struggled financially a day in their lives.
“Yes. I guess there’s not much left after spending all your paycheck on your designer clothes.” Tiffani cackles.
My gaze drifts down my form to my plain white short-sleeve blouse currently plastered to my skin in a sweaty mess. Thankfully, my khaki capri pants are in better shape. I was excited to find them in my size on my last visit to the Goodwill store. After several washes, it unfortunately still carries that familiar thrift shop scent, despite the spritz of body mist I’d applied. I’m sure the August heat hasn’t helped.
I’d tied a sunflower scarf my friend Tuesday had given me through the belt loops for some color and whimsy. This outfit is fairly sedate compared to many I wear. More befitting a high-end boutique of this scale. But beggars can’t be choosers when you’re selecting other people’s discarded clothing. And I can’t keep wearing the one little black shift dress I own that I interviewed in. However, given my current financial state, and Mom’s medical costs, there’s no getting around this. I mean, my spending is tighter than bark on a tree right now.
“It’s not so bad, Tiffani,” Lauren says. I turn to thank her until she continues. “Not like most of the things she parades around in. Honestly, Grace. You’re a beautiful girl. Why you choose to dress that way. And in public, no less.”
My body’s temperature had started to cool down thanks to the store’s crisp air conditioning until this conversation. Yet my blood has started to boil, and now I’m heated again. Not simply from embarrassment, but the sheer rage that these two pretentious asshats have the nerve to talk to me this way. They’ve never had to walk a day in my shoes. They’re far too entitled to stoop so low as to shop in a secondhand store to make sure they have enough money to get by from one week to the next.
If my slimeball ex hadn’t packed up my thingsandhis and driven away in my Camry, I’d have more time to save. Sure, the little bluesedan had over 200,000 miles on it, but it was a far cry from the broken-down Dodge truck he left me with. But look at the bright side. My arms have never looked better after driving a vehicle with no power steering.
“Just don’t let it happen again,” Lauren tosses over her shoulder as she walks toward the back office. “The tardinessorany more of those ridiculous outfits.”
