But I do know the answer to this one. “Honestly? A roller-rink restaurant just sounded like a blast,” I say, channeling my thirteen-year-old self. “I wanted to bring people together and offer a bright spot in their day, no matter what else might be happening.”
“And look. Even without power,” Sloane marvels, “you’ve done just that.”
She gestures to the rink, where Mac’s skating circles around a group of giggling middle-aged women, and where a whole parade of kids have formed a conga line, everybody wearing their 2000s best along with stacks of glowing neon jewelry.
It’s ridiculous, but I love it. Real or not, this place has become so special to me.
I didn’t stress over tonight’s party details just for the sake of the game; I did it because I wanted to. For teenage me, and for the people I’ve come to care about so much. For the staff, and the neighborhood, and especially Theo Ford, who’s officially strippedoff shirt number one, and who adores this place more than anyone.
MASH Me wasn’t a fool for hiring him. I was, for not wanting to give him a chance when I first arrived. I was wrong about him—about a lot of things.
I press a finger to my eye, where tears have started to escape.
Sloane notices. “It’s touching, how much you care about your work. That passion, that’s what we want to capture at Rollerworld.”
My gaze shoots up to meet hers.
“I know you’re still considering your options,” Sloane says. “But we’d really like to snap this place up, make it part of our group, and I’d like to hire you as the creative director. I love your vision, and I’d like you to replicate it, again and again. And again,” she adds with a laugh.
I’m not sure what’s more jarring: the offer, or the title:creative director.I’m not known for my creativity. I’m celebrated for my discipline, my spreadsheet game, my punctuality.
This was my vision, though—albeit years ago—and I understand why Sloane loves it, because I do, too. But there’s no replicating what we’ve done here. This place is one of a kind. And it’s mine. My stupid, silly, perfect dream.
Sloane mistakes my silence for nerves. “It’s a lot to digest, of course, but maybe we can meet again this week to talk through the specifics? And dollars?”
I stare at her, and then down at my obnoxious, glittery nails, and for the first time in a long time, I listen to my gut. Because it’s loud. It’s screaming at me—shouting that this isn’t just a game to me. Not anymore.
“Actually, I’m busy this week,” I say. “And although I appreciate your offer, and the kind words, I’m not interested in any kind of partnership. I’m sorry I wasn’t clear on that sooner.”
Sloane’s laugh is humorless. “Seriously?”
I nod. “Seriously.”
My phone buzzes. I pull it from my shirt pocket, and the lights flicker overhead. Cheers erupt through the room, but seconds later, the lights go dark again.
Sloane stands, and I thank her, grateful for what she’s forced me to learn—relieved to have clarity on this one thing.
Once she leaves, I check my missed call. It’s from the puzzled mechanic who’s struggled all week to figure out why my Jeep won’t start, unable to identify a problem.
He left a voicemail:Evening, Miss Wynne. My guys and I still aren’t sure what the issue was, but it seems your Jeep is up and running again. We’re about to close for the night, so come by and pick it up anytime tomorrow.
My jaw drops, my hand rising to cover my mouth. Good news—finally. I must’ve done something right for once.
The talk with Sloane. That must be it. Maybe I was correct about her offer being an obstacle to overcome, and I’ve done it. I’ve passed the test.
Adrenaline buzzes through me like a fizzy can of Fanta as I skate toward the rink. I’m excited and hopeful, pleasantly lightheaded. But then I spot Penn across the room, laughing with one of the Curly’s bartenders, and my chest feels too tight again.
Something tells me that, unlike my issues with the Jeep, my problems with Penn won’t fix themselves. And I’m not quite sure where we go from here.
I slump against the edge of the rink, and a moment later, someone’s arm slings over my shoulders. I turn, expecting Bridget, or Theo, or maybe even Mac. But then I scream.
“Ryan!”
My brother pulls me in for a hug. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your moody audition for an HBO limited series.” As I shove him away, he adds, “You look like you should be staring out a rainy window near a large body of water.”
I laugh, giddy and slightly confused at the sight of him. Ryan’s wearing sky-blue capris, a gauzy button-up shirt, and a thin scarf around his neck.
I snort. “A scarf? Since when do you accessorize?”
