She rolls her eyes, and the movement’s so much more exaggerated than any emotion she showed the day I arrived that I’m curious how many glasses she’s had so far tonight. “He had to go back towork.”
“What does he do all day?” I ask, eager to finally get some answers.
I picture Landon, with his crisp, white shirts and his bad attitude, sitting in some extravagant business office, scrutinizing form after form, document after document. I picture him straight-faced and unaffected as he ruins people’s lives one signature at a time before meeting his asshole buddies out on the town to brag about it over the bar’s most expensive bourbon. I picture him laughing as he kicks puppies and smirking as he steals candy from children and—
Mel’s phone beeps, breaking me from my disturbing reverie. “Science,” she says, with more than a little sarcasm, and glances briefly down at her screen. “I gotta go. You’re good then?”
The wordsI got a job todayhover on the tip of my tongue. I should tell her. I want to tell her. But she barely holds my gaze before looking back down at her phone, and all that excitement that was bubbling up inside me earlier vanishes. I can tell her I got a job another day. No rush.
“Yeah, all good,” I say, wincing at the false note in my tone. Mel doesn’t notice. “I made some cookies, by the way. They’re on the kitchen counter. Lemon sugar.”
I don’t know what I expect her to say.
Maybe something like,Mom’s favorite?
It’s been so long since I’ve had those!
Where did you find that recipe?
Instead, she says, “I’m on a diet.”
Her response makes my chest tighten. It takes a conscious effort to mask the hurt in my voice when I say, “Oh, okay. That’s fine.”
Mel nods once and leaves the room, taking a sip from her wine glass on the way out.
Guess it’s a liquid diet.
SIX
I wake up early Monday morning to fit in a run before my first day of work. The sky’s still dark, and it takes massive amounts of effort to drag myself out of bed, but I’ve been slacking on my exercise routine since coming down to Florida, and I’m long overdue for a workout. My legs and lungs know it, too, and they protest for a half mile until theyfinallystart to work together. Only then do I find a steady pace that I’m capable of maintaining, but it’s slower than it should be. Embarrassingly slow.
Back home, running was a regimen. A method for channeling stress so I didn’t lash out and do something rash. It started as a way to deal with the shitheads at school but quickly turned into a habit I couldn’t live without. With every footfall against the pavement, my head would clear, and my troubles would melt away until I was able to breathe again.
At least, that’s how it usually worked. Today, I make it two and a half miles before my legs threaten to give out, which isn’tthatbad, all things considered. This area is flatter than the route I ran back home, but I’m not used to the humidity or the heat, which seem determined to hinder my progress.
When I return to the house, sweaty and panting, I notice that the convertible is gone, though Landon’s Audi remains parked in the driveway. Perfect. Just me and my sister’s insufferable, sugar-hating boyfriend staying together in her house for a week. Totally normal and not weird at all.
Luckily, our paths don’t cross this morning. I chug a glass of water in the kitchen before jumping in the shower, and then I throw on my Palm uniform—plain black slacks and a white button-down with a golden palm tree embroidered over the left breast—and look in the mirror.
Two wide, brown eyes stare back at me, then roam over my flushed features. Overall, I’m happy with my appearance, though my cheekbones aren’t nearly as defined as I’d like them to be. My cheeks have always been on the rounder side, especially as a kid. The freckles across the bridge of my nose seem more prominent since exposure to the Florida sun, and I wonder how long it’ll take to work up a decent tan. My skin’s nowhere near as pale as Brit’s, but I doubt I’ll ever be golden brown like Sienna.
I apply a light amount of makeup, accentuating my dark eyes, long lashes, and slightly fuller bottom lip, and pull my long hair into a bun at the nape of my neck. Then, I take a deep breath, push down the nerves, and head to the club for my first day.
When I arrive, Brit gives me the run-down of the dining room—the menu, the seating, the workflow of the shifts. She introduces me as ‘Mallory’s replacement’ to two of the other servers, one of whom pulls me in for an immediate hug.
“Thank God. ThankGod,” he says, squeezing too tight. “I couldn’t stand her anymore. She was psycho. And you look like a perfectly normal human with completely non-psycho eyes.”
“This is Ollie,” says Brit.
“I’m Ollie,” says Ollie, releasing me. Not completely, though. He holds me at arm’s length for about a second before giving me another quick hug. “ThankGod.”
“Ollie, please don’t suffocate Sunshine on her first day.” Finally, he lets me go, allowing me the opportunity to get a good look at him. He’s tall and slim, with long, lanky limbs, chestnut brown hair, and an infectious smile. “Thank you.”
The guy next to him sticks out his hand in a much more standard greeting. “And I’m Jake. Welcome to Hell.” Brit shoves him, and he coughs. He’s shorter and stockier than Ollie, with sandy blonde hair and a broad build that makes it clear he spends a lot of time in the gym. “I mean paradise.”
“Happy to be here,” I say, beaming at him. Beaming at all of them. Because I am. I need this job. I’m excited for it.
No one smiles back, and after a moment, Ollie nods slowly. “Okay, I’m getting the nickname now.”
