No automatic confirmation email, but it was probably just being slow. He shut his laptop and got ready for work.
That afternoon was more than usually nightmarish. The store was rammed. Rick was in a mood after a bad inspection report from the regional manager. Then an ambulance was called after a woman had a suspected heart attack while trying on swimwear despite the signs begging customers not to. She was okay, but Emmett saw her being carted out on a stretcher—red-faced, open-mouthed, belly spilling out from under her tankini—and it terrified him, the thought of looking like that in front of all those people.
After clocking out for the night, exhausted, he ventured back onto the sales floor in search of a gift for his niece, who was turning four in a week’s time. Chris was throwing a big party at his house. Abby would be there too, and their mom was driving in from Nevada.
Emmett wasn’t close with either of his siblings—not as close as they were with each other—but he’d at least shared a childhood home withAbby. Chris, his half brother, had lived with their dad growing up, and besides the name Truesdale, the brothers had very little in common.
Chris was nine years older and the archetype of Southern California masculinity, as blond and sculpted as a sandcastle, chasing waves and girls since Emmett could walk. For years Chris had tortured Emmett with names like chunk, butterball, girly-man. After high school, Chris taught surf camp at the local YMCA, and Emmett would never forget how dubious the female counselors looked when they found out they were brothers, or how Chris stopped acknowledging him whenever girls came around.
To his credit, Chris seemed to have grown up since then. He’d apologized for being a dick when they were younger, gone through a phase of forcing Emmett out clubbing with his friends and him, and now that his partying days were behind him, insisted on slightly awkward family gatherings for every holiday and birthday. Emmett played along, partly because he was obsessed with Chris’s kids, Harper and her thirteen-month-old brother, Jaxson. Emmett even managed to overlook their awful trendy names and miniature wardrobes of designer brands he was too big to try on even just for fun. They tolerated him in return, perhaps not least because he usually came bearing gifts.
He lingered in the toy department for an age, unable to find anything he could remotely afford even with his employee discount: 10 percent off normal stuff and 20 percent off “wellness items”—fruits and vegetables, diet food, activewear. Why didn’t the company just come out and say they were all too fat?
He selected an extortionately pricedFrozenthing and joined the line for self-checkout, daydreaming about the clinical trial’s five-figure payout. He idly checked his email for the delayed confirmation, and gasped so loudly the woman ahead of him shot him a censorious look.
The subject line of the email atop his inbox was far better than the one he’d been expecting. It read:Achievement Coach—Interview Request.
CHAPTER 6
The following week, Emmett smothered his nerves under the mindless infinity of his Instagram feed, smoothing the edges of his excruciating wait with #weigthlossinspo, celebrity fashion ads, and jacked meatheads chasing gains to grungy EDM.
“Mr. Truesdale?” the woman behind the reception desk said, breaking his concentration. She had just returned her phone to its cradle. “Georgina’s on her way. She’ll just be a moment.”
“Thanks.” Emmett put his phone away, sat back, and massaged his pant legs with sweaty palms. His Goodfellow & Co. Oxfords tapped a jittery beat on the carpet. He couldn’t stop clearing his throat. He’d been in this building dozens of times, but never back here in the administrative suite.The first time of many, he thought hopefully.
A handsome, square-jawed woman entered. Her stiff mane of honey-blond hair blanketed the shoulders of her pleated silk blouse. Her buggy eyes gave the impression of intense fixation. Emmett sensed an interruption in her smile as she perceived him, but she recovered it at once, approaching.
“You must be Emmett.” He rose and shook her hand, attempting to hide his horror; he had felt his shirt slide free from the waistband of his slacks, wrenched out of place by the tumult of his standing. “Georgina Hodge,” she said. “Senior director of programs.”
“Great to meet you.”
“Can I get you anything? Water?”
He was sweating buckets. “Water would be great.”
“No problem.” She craned her neck to see around Emmett, really reaching, and called out to the receptionist: “Renata, would you track down some water for the candidate?” Then she flashed him a thin smile. “Come on back.”
They walked down a hall, Emmett surreptitiously stuffing his loose shirttail back down his waistband while stuttering out replies to Georgina’ssmall-talk questions. “Point Loma, really,” she said, surprised. “That’s a nice area.”
They entered her office and sat on either side of the desk. The receptionist chased them inside with a bottle of water. Turning in his seat to receive it, Emmett felt his shirt yank loose again.
Fuck.
“So, Emmett,” Georgina said. “Our volunteer manager tells me you’re quite the tutor.”
“Oh—I’m glad she thinks so.”
“You were Volunteer of the Quarter, weren’t you?”
“Twice, I think.”
“Very impressive. Well, we appreciate your service.”
“Happy to do it. I really love—”
“So you think you’ve got what it takes to be an achievement coach,” Georgina cut across him. Her tone was a strange in-between, a joke but not exactly.
“I do.”
