CHAPTER THREE
Scarlett
I haven’t left my roomsince I closed myself inside this morning, and now the sun is beginning to go down, along with my hope of any job openings in the city. There are no job postings on any local sites, and I’ve called dozens of hotels in the Boston area to see if they were hiring. This city is completely staffed with front desk and management personnel. Other than room service, there are very few hotel job openings. I felt in control this morning. I had hopes of finding something better. Now, I only feel a gigantic pit in my stomach. No salary, no unemployment, and I pretty much blew through my savings on rent this past year. I’m damned.
I grab my phone that’s still warm from the last pleading call and dial Mom’s number. My heart flutters in my chest with apprehension that Dad might answer, but Mom usually tries to get to the phone first, waiting for my infrequent calls.
“Hi, Scarlett,” Dad answers, of course, and the flutter in my chest builds into a pounding sensation. “Everything okay?” That’s how little I call. When I do, something must obviously be wrong.
“Yeah, everything is great. Is Mom around?” There’s silence for a brief moment, and I wonder if the phone went dead. “Dad?”
“Yes. Sorry, no, your mother is in the middle of making me dinner. Is there something I can help you with?”
Help me? That’s a laughable question. If I told him what happened, he’d tell me it’s my own fault for going into hospitality management. Then he’d tell me to go back down there and demand my job back. He thinks that because people crap their pants when they see him coming, I should have the same effect on people. I might have a firm hand, but I know when to back down. He doesn’t. “No, that’s okay. You can just tell her I called.”
“Scarlett, you can lie to me all you want, but I can hear in your voice that something is wrong. What is it?” I hate how he thinks he knows me. He was never around, not as a Dad should be. He cared more about business and money than his family. We were just there for him on the side.
“It’s nothing,” I reply quickly, possibly too quickly to sound truthful.
“You got fired, didn’t you?” He’s probably just familiar with the way a person sounds after he fires them. That’s his favorite thing to do.
“No. I have to go.”
“Then, what is it?”
I know Mom can’t do anything to help me, but we’re close, and sometimes I just want to talk to her, but Dad keeps tabs on her and everything else in our lives, and the last thing I need is him getting involved with my career in some way. He’s a horrible husband, just as he is a father to me, and there are times I want to just rescue Mom from him, but she pretends like life is fine, even when I know it’s not. Sometimes, I feel like I abandoned her when I went off to school, but she was hellbent on me leaving and not coming home. I know it was because of Dad’s ways, but she’d never admit that to me either. “It’s nothing. I have to get going. I was calling to say hi.” I hang up before he can say anything else.
I drop my phone into my lap and shove the heels of my palms into my eyes. I can’t just leave here—Boston. The thought itself is making my stomach hurt. I have Boston in my blood. I can’t just transplant myself into Southern soil and start life all over again. Though, I could ask myself what “life” I’m talking about. It couldn’t be the stupid one-night stands I’ve gotten good at, nor the one-week relationships I attract. Other than Brendan, I have my job, and that’s about it.
The apartment has been eerily silent since Brendan left for work a few hours ago, but I’m hungry and need to release myself from my self-imposed imprisonment so I step out, forgetting about the racket I heard Brendan making this morning. I’m quickly reminded, though, as I find boxes stacked and labeled with drawings of the contents. He seriously wants me out of here. What the hell? I thought he was fooling around this morning.
I walk towards the stacked boxes, spotting a note on the top of a shorter pile.
Scar,
I know you thought I wasn’t being completely serious this morning, but some parts of your life have been sucking the sparkle out of you these past couple of years. I need that dimpled smile to come back—the one that lights up a room when you walk in. I’ve been worried about you, and this all feels like life is falling into place the way it should. Therefore, I feel strongly that you need this job and change. Please, go talk to Dick, look him in the eye this time, and reclaim what is yours.
Love you,
Brenny
No. This is ridiculous.
Just, no. I’m not doing this. I’m not just moving halfway down the coast because I can’t find a job here. With no other ideas to spin on, I spend the next several hours pacing, thinking, and clicking refresh on my inbox, with the hope of receiving a response from one of the hotels that weren’t hiring. Maybe something opened up today? It’s still a big nope. Maybe I’ve been blacklisted in the hospitality industry. I would think I’d have to do a lot worse than show up late a few times, but there’s literally nothing. This is a nightmare.
After completely exhausting myself and coming to terms with employment opportunities taking longer than ten hours to pop up, I plop down on the couch and flick the TV on. Maybe Ishouldjust go back into the hotel tomorrow and be firm, tell them I want my job back, and I won’t be late again. Not that I didn’t say that this morning, but I didn’t get a warning of any sorts, and I thought that was common practice. I know I’m in the wrong. I shouldn’t have been late all those times. This is on me.
I hear the front door open and close just as the fourth binge-worthy episode of ‘Housewives of Beverly Hills’ ends. Expensive Italian shoes clack across the old floors. Brendan is likely following the glow from the TV through the dark apartment.
He appears in the stream of light and leans against the wall molding where the hallway meets the TV room. “Hey, babe.” He crosses his arms across his perfectly fitted dress shirt with starched creases still prominent from his morning ironing ritual. “You look like shit.”
“You look great too,” I offer with a snide groan. Brendan is always dressed to impress. Even when his hair is a mess, it still looks like a perfect mess. Plus, he’s prettier than any girl I know, and it’s not fair.
“I quit,” he says.
I have no clue what he’s talking about, and I’m sure the look on my face reflects my inner thought. “What are you talking about?”
“I quit my job,” he says.
