I grab two flutes of champagne from behind the bar and gesture for her to follow me down a deserted hallway, furnished with soft lighting and antiques that look like they predate the Civil War. Maybe Scarlett and Rhett brought them as props.
“I swear to God,” she grunts, taking a gulp of champagne. “If one more drunken asshole tries to jump onstage to”—she makes air quotes with her free hand—“lip-sync with the band, I will wring his scrawny little neck.” She sets the glass on a sideboard and jabs an angry finger at her tablet. “This isn’t a frat house, boys! And don’t even get me started on the banker who insists on making his grand ballroom entrance—on a freaking motorcycle.”
“You’re really good at this event planning thing, Holly,” I say with feeling.
“I’ve just been doing it for a long time,” she remarks, shaking her head as she marks off another to-do item.
“I mean it,” I insist. “Not everyone can keep all these details straight. Execute under all this pressure for perfection.” My hand falls over her tablet, forcing her to meet my gaze. “And look smoking hot while barking out orders.” I force her to admire her reflection in the gold-rimmed mirror hanging over the sideboard.“See?” This makes her smile, and the tension in her shoulders eases a little.
“Dolores is a master of her craft,” she says, passing one hand over her spiky layers. “My hair has never looked this good.” She sets the tablet down, then picks up the champagne glass, taking a sip, relaxing for what seems like the first time in weeks. Well, with the possible exception of the postcoital moment I stumbled into this morning.
“Do you really want this general manager job?” I ask, closely watching her expression.
Holly bites at her lower lip, her entire body sagging against the cabinet. “Honestly, and in spite of all the nonsense unfolding around us, I think I do,” she admits. “I filled out the application but I haven’t submitted it,” she says, dejected. “What’s the point? Griggs will block me. Or worse, get me fired.” She returns her gaze to the tablet, absently running one index finger over the screen. I abruptly press the sleep button and the screen goes dark.
“Griggs won’t be in the picture much longer,” I remind her. “If this is what you want, you shouldn’t let him stop you.”
“What if…?” Her voice trails off. I don’t say anything, giving her space to speak her mind. “What if I’m not good enough?”
“Look at me,” I say, resting my hands on her shoulders. “You are fucking amazing.” I give her a squeeze. “And by now, you should know that I don’t go around doling out unearned compliments.” She smiles at this, knowing it’s the truth. “If they don’t want you, then fuck them. Quit. Start your own damn business. They don’t fucking deserve you.” I drop my hands, resting them on the sides of her arms. “But at least give them the chance to decide.”
Before I can react, Holly pulls me into a hug. “Thanks,” she whispers. “I really needed the pep talk.”
I hug her back, realizing that—despite our many differences—Holly and I seem to have become real friends.
“Let’s hit send on that application,” I say, leaning back so I can look her in the eyes. “Before you have time to change your mind.”
Holly releases her hold on me, then reaches for a file folder inside her bag. She retrieves an old-school, honest-to-God, paper job application she’s filled out in blue ink.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“They were very specific about the ink color,” she tells me, her tone suddenly solemn. “Legible handwriting in blue ink only.”
“What are you supposed to do with it?” I examine the form with curiosity. Remarkably, Holly has very neat handwriting.
“Drop it in the board’s mailbox.” She gestures down the dimly lit hallway. “Like, an actual mailbox.”
“Come on, then,” I say. “Bring your champagne.”
“Wait,” she cries out. “Now?”
“Now.” I take the form and my champagne glass, then stride down the hallway, Holly tottering to keep up with me.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she tells me, her voice giddy.
“I can’t believe anyone actually still uses paper applications,” I scoff, waving the archaic document in one hand. “Is this thing in triplicate?”
“Oh yes,” she replies, laughing. “Carbon copies. I had to press really hard.”
When we arrive at the mail slot affixed to the wall, I pass her the application. She stares at it for a beat, takes it with her free hand, and then drops it in.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” she says, suddenly breathing so hard that I think she might hyperventilate. “I did it. I applied.”
I take my champagne glass and lift it to her. “To the next general manager of this club,” I say, “whose first vital task will be teaching the old-ass men on the board how to use an actual computer.”
“To the next department head of investigative journalism atThe Georgia Times,” she says.Department head?I like the sound of that. “Whose first task will be to move out of her mother’s house so she can finally have hot sex with her boyfriend at her own place.” She lifts her glass higher.
“To our bright, sexy futures,” I exclaim.
