“Uh, no. At least, I like to think I’m not. Maybe a bit neurotic sometimes, but a good kind of neurotic. Like, I talk too fast and overthink everything and triple-check the bathroom to make sure I unplugged my straightening iron even though it’s obvious I did the first time. That sort of thing.”
There’s a long pause, and for a moment, I fear I’ve said too much. “Hold on, let me get my manager.”
The phone rustles and then goes silent. My heartbeat quickens, and I feel a small spark of hope in my chest. About a minute later, the line rustles again.
“Ask her if she has experience,” says a muffled voice.
Brit’s voice rings through loud and clear. “She wants to know if you have experience working at a country club.”
“Not a country club, but I waitressed for four years at-”
“Hold on.” I hear the background voice again, this time too muted to understand. “Can you come down today?”
My eyes widen, and my voice comes out too breathy. “Yes! Of course. What time?”
“Now?”
“I can be there in twenty,” I blurt, throwing out an arbitrary number and praying it’s correct.
“Cool. Ask for Rachel at the front desk.”
“Will do! See you-”
The line goes dead before I can finish, but I don’t even care. I pull up directions to The Golden Palm on Google Maps, pleasantly surprised to find that it’s under ten minutes from the coffee shop. I’m running low on gas, and I think I might cry if I have to spend any more money today.
After a few minutes of driving, I turn onto Golden Palm Boulevard. There’s a substantial, greenery-coated wall to my right, which follows the length of the road, leading to the imposing front gate. I’m greeted by a giant sign with the name of the club in elaborate cursive, along with a freaking coat of arms incorporating the initials. It’s overkill, in my opinion, what with the endless wall and the massive gate and the gold-etched lettering, but they must really want people to know that this is a fancy, exclusive establishment that can afford its own crest.
I pull up to the gate, my stomach tightening with nerves. In my fifteen-year-old car, I’ve never felt like more of an outsider. The man in the security box must think the same thing, because he takes one look at my Honda and tells me, "This club is for members only."
“Oh, I know. I’m here about a job opening,” I say with forced confidence. “They told me to ask for Rachel.” Then, I shoot him my most winning smile, flipping my hair a bit over my shoulder. I pray he’s not immune to my charm the way Landon is, but there’s no need. He softens and opens the gate. He even gives me directions to the staff lot, for which I thank him graciously.
And then I drive in. Just like that.
It doesn’t take me long to find the staff lot, tucked away at the back of the massive estate beyond the twenty pristine tennis courts. Nor does it take me long to find the front desk and ask for Rachel. The older woman there peels her eyes away from her computer screen to tell me to take a seat, and then she makes a call.
“She’s on her way,” she tells me, and gestures across the room. “You can wait over there.”
I do as she says and seat myself on one of the fancy, plush couches, staring at my hands until I feel someone’s eyes on me. Expecting a woman who looks like she could be a Rachel, I glance up. Big mistake.
It’s definitely not Rachel. It’s some dude ripped from the pages of the Ralph Lauren catalog. He’s standing with a pack of nearly identical men, except he’s the only one eyeing me across the room with a smirk. I’m used to the look. More than used to it. I’ve come to expect it, which is why I was so thrown to receive the opposite treatment from Mr. Ass-Jerk.
It started end of sophomore year, when my boobs came in, my skin cleared up, and I took up running as a way to cope. It’s a strange experience, going from a social pariah to a boy magnet, but first day of junior year they were drawn to me, rumors and history be damned. Smiles and kind words never worked before, but all of a sudden people started responding to me. They werenice, and for a while I thought maybe that town wasn’t so bad. But then I started going to the parties. I started messing around with guys who took and took and took, giving me nothing but broken promises in return.
And I kept giving.
But this is a different town, and these are different men. I’m still the same Violet, though, so as always, my first instinct for unwanted attention is to give a friendly smile before looking politely away. Sometimes it works. In this case it doesn’t. Instead of moving on, Mr. Lauren breaks away from his buddies and moves across the lobby toward me like a prep-school piranha eyeing a lone crustacean.
In my yellow dress, I don’t think I look at all crustacean-like, but I guess I am wrong. I curse myself, wishing for a moment that smiling at everyone wasn’t my default setting, because this is not what I need right before a job interview.
The man stops a foot away from me, leaving me no choice but to look up at him from where I’m seated, which he takes as permission to speak.
“Let me guess,” he says with a knowing smirk. “Julia.”
I stare at him in complete confusion. Does this guy think he knows me? “Sorry?”
“No? How about Isabella?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I—”
