At work the next day, I find the usual gang talking animatedly in the breakroom. “What’s going on?” I ask, stepping between Jake and Ollie.
“The North kid stole a golf cart with one of his idiot friends and crashed it last night,” Brit tells me with an eyeroll. “Shocker, he’d been drinking.”
I frown, trying to picture the boy she’s talking about. “Isn’t he, like, fourteen?”
“Thirteen,” she corrects. “And when security called his parents about the little shit, their only response wasboys will be boys.” She shakes her head. “I hate boys. And men. I hate all of them. The parents, too.”
“Well, come on, Brit. Mom and Dad were on their fourth round of martinis,” says Ollie. “They were in no state to discipline their child.”
“If I were the mother of Gregory North, I’d need a constant stream of booze to put up with my satanic spawn,” says Jake.
Ollie shakes his head. “And to think…he’ll probably run a Fortune 500 someday.”
Everyone sighs in unison, contemplating the unfairness of it all, so I lift their spirits by presenting my tinfoil-wrapped loaf. “I brought banana bread.”
“Bless you,” says Ollie, taking the dessert out of my hands and immediately unwrapping it. I pre-sliced it for easy access, and he grabs a piece, taking a giant-sized bite. “Heaven. It’s heaven.”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, Violet,” says Jake, grabbing his own slice, “but I love you.”
“Thank God that bitch didn’t get her way,” says Ollie. He’s already finished off his first slice and going in for seconds. “I don’t know how I’d function at work without the promise of baked goods. I’ve grown too accustomed to this lifestyle. There’s no going back.”
I blink at him, confused by his comment. “Wait, what did you mean by that? Thank God that bitch didn’t get her way?”
Ollie’s face goes blank, and he chews carefully, glancing at Jake. “Oh, um. Nothing.”
I narrow my eyes, looking back and forth between the two troublemakers. “What are you guys not saying?”
Jake sighs. “I just can’t say no to that face. Remember the incident with Kathleen Blair?”
“You mean one of the most traumatic moments of my life?” I try not to cringe at the memory. “How could I forget?”
“Right. That. Well, Kathleen wasreally seriouswhen she said she wanted you gone. She talked to Rachel afterward and demanded you be let go.”
At once all the blood rushes out of my face, and I wobble on my feet, suddenly feeling a little light-headed. Kathleen tried to get mefired?Shedemandedit? “How did no one tell me about this?”
“There’s more,” says Ollie.
My eyes bug out, and I press my hand to my heart, trying to calm my pulse. “There’smore?”
“Her son showed up and put a stop to it. He saved your job.”
I stare at him, trying to process what he just told me. “You’re saying…you’re sayingLandonsaved my job?”
Ollie gives a reluctant nod. Given the timeline, that would mean that Landon saved my job long before we made our friendship pact. Long before he asked me to stay with him, even, and I start to get a funny feeling.
Amaybe I’m becoming too indebted to Landon Blairtype feeling.
All throughout my shift, my mind’s on Kathleen, Landon, and the horrifying thought that I almost lost my job—I would have if it weren’t for Landon. I’m starting to wonder what his angle is. For such a callous guy, he’s made some decent gestures, and I can’t tell if there’s some sort of catch I’m missing.
Sure, we’refriendlynow. Sure, at times I get this weird…flutteryfeeling when I think about him. And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m pissed he abandoned me the other night because I was actually looking forward to watching the show with him.
It was one thing to get help from my sister, but Landon’s not family, and I’m starting to think that maybe, just maybe, it’s all becoming a little too much. I wish I could call my dad and ask for advice, but he doesn’t know the truth about what’s really been going on. He doesn’t know I’m living with Landon, or that Mel left, or that I’ve been lying to him this whole time. He doesn’t know anything, and it’s my fault.
Frustrated with myself, I slip into my car after my shift. I stick the key in the ignition and crank the engine…only to have it continuously flip over before dying out.
“Shit,” I mutter, trying again with the same result. “Shit.Why why why?”
I groan, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. It doesn’t help that it’s in the mid-nineties today, and the interior of my vehicle is suffocatingly hot.
