“How many other spas are there in Cartmen Coast?”
“Just the one.”
I quickly learn that Brit is a no-nonsense, straight-to-the-point kind of girl. I’m not sure if she’s genuinely bored to death by everything or if she just sounds like she is, but almost every sentence is delivered in the same apathetic drone. Her entire demeanor makes me wonder if she’s a transplant to Florida because no way did this girl grow up near the sun and sea.
She leads me on a tour through the club, and I shift my attention from Brit to the expansive golf courses and turquoise swimming pools that stretch on for what seem like miles. It blows my mind that people actually live like this. That they hang out here in the middle of the day instead of working their asses off to pay for the new alternator they were forced to replace in their ancient Honda Accord.
We pass a group of middle-aged women dressed in their tennis gear at three in the afternoon, and I spend a quick moment wondering what I’d have to do to getthatgig. I push the thought away because I’m not unconvinced one of the many Christian McCoys at this club wouldn’t take me up on it.
Brit plasters a polite smile on her face as they pass by, but it falls the second they round the corner. She leans toward me conspiratorially.
“Honestly, most of the people here suck, but they do tip well so long as you give them soft butter for their dinner rolls and don’t spill boiling soup on anyone’s lap. That’s what happened to Mallory, the last girl who worked here. She was always hopped up on shit. Adderall. Uppers. Who knows what the fuck else? She was so jittery one day that she dropped a whole bowl of steaming clam chowder on some old dude’s lap. Nearly burned his dick off.”
I wince. “Ouch.”
“Yup. So don’t do that.”
I blink at her, letting myself dare to hope. “Does that mean…does that mean I have the job?”
She continues on as though she didn’t just make my entire year. “As far as I’m concerned, yeah. We need the help. I’ve worked three double shifts in the past week, and I can’t do it anymore. I just can’t. You still gotta meet Rachel, though.” She leads me through a set of dark double doors labeledStaff Onlyand down a long, winding hallway. We stop at a door on our left, and Brit knocks twice before pushing it open, not bothering to wait for a response.
A woman I assume to be Rachel is seated behind the wooden desk, focused on something on the computer screen. At the sound of our entrance, she glances up, pushing her glasses up on her head.
“This is Violet,” says Brit. “As far as I can tell, she’s not a psycho.”
I step forward and shake the woman’s hand. “So nice to meet you.”
“How are your hands?” is the first thing Rachel asks. When I assure her that I’ve never dropped so much as a napkin while waiting tables, she nods a few times and asks me more about my waitressing history. The interview is brief and to the point, but when I’m done, Rachel smiles.
Brit smirks at me. “Welcome to the team, Sunshine.”
My eyes bug out, and I have to force myself not to jump up and down. I smile at both of them because this is so much more than a job. It’s a fresh start. A clean slate. A step toward independence and figuring out my life in a town where I’m just Violet. Not Millie’s daughter. Not that weird girl. No one knows my past, or my baggage, or my business. I was suffocating in that town, but the air’s already more breathable here.
“Happy to be here.”
FIVE
Excited to share news of my successful job search with Mel, I hurry through the front door with purpose. I’m jittery, hyped up on adrenaline, and ready to shout my triumph to the world, though that could have something to do with the iced caramel espresso I downed on the ride home. I shouldn’t be wasting money on overpriced lattes, I know, but I told Sienna I’d be back, and I always stay true to my word. We ventured to the coffee shop across the street so I could buy her a caffeinated thank-you gift, and she insisted that she, Brit, and I hang out sometime soon.
I’ve been here less than a week, and I have a job, friends, and my sister back. It almost seems too good to be true.
Prancing through the house, I call out for Mel. When there’s still no response after five minutes and no movement or light from any of the trillion rooms in this place, I check the garage. No cars.
Dang it.
I deflate only slightly, deciding to put my excess energy toward something productive. The moment I saw this state-of-the-art kitchen, I knew I had to bake an epic thank you for Mel and Landon for letting me stay here. It’s the best way I know how to express myself, because whether it’s gratitude, grief, celebration, or heartache, you can always bake something for the occasion. Sugar makes everyone feel better. It’s a simple fact.
Certain I’ll have to run to the store to stock up on the basics, I peek into her cabinets before I go. Imagine my surprise when I find that she does have the staples. Sugar. Flour. Eggs. Butter. And a few beautiful lemons. I start gathering all the other ingredients for a batch of lemon sugar cookies, my mother’s favorite recipe, the absolute perfect show of appreciation for taking me in.
Double-checking the ingredients, I slip in my headphones and crank up the latest AP album. After fifteen minutes of measuring, mixing, and singing to myself (off-key, I’m sure), I set the dough in the fridge to chill. I take that time to clean up the absolute disaster that has become Mel’s kitchen, and by the time I can see the surface of the counter again, I’m ready to roll the dough into bite-sized balls and set them in the oven to bake.
About ten minutes in, I hear the faint chime of the doorbell through my headphones. Hastily removing them, I hurry toward the front door and throw it open without thinking. I’m not sure who I was expecting, but it wasn’t a tall, lanky kid who looks about fourteen, standing on the doorstep, staring down at his scuffed sneakers.
“Hi there!” I say brightly. The kid’s eyes snap up, then widen. He doesn’t say a word. “Can I help you with something?”
He’s not a bad-looking kid, but his dark hair, which flops in his eyes, is in dire need of a trim, and he seems to be in that early teen boy stage where none of his clothes fit properly. I take in his scuffed-up Vans, worn jeans, and hoodie so oversized I can’t even see his hands and wonder how the hell he’s surviving like that in this heat.
“I-is Landon, um, here?” he finally stutters out, his face turning a unique shade of crimson. His gaze shifts over my shoulder, like he can’t bear to make eye contact, and I feel a little bad.
