“This is bullshit,” Carey says. “And one hundred percent your fault.”
“My fault? I wasn’t the one having s—” With a full-body shudder, I press the heels of my hands to my eyes until I see bursts of light. Maybe if I press hard enough I’ll never have to see anything again. “I wasn’t the one cheating on his wife. This is Rusty’s fault, and we’re the ones who are paying for it.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have helped you.” She sits back against the couch with a growl. “This is what I get for trying to be nice.”
“That was you being nice?” I start, stopping short when she turns to glare at me. I drop my head into my hands. “At least you’re doing what you’ve been hired to do. Babysitting adults is not what I went to school for.”
It was apparently the wrong thing to say. The last person to storm out of the office is Carey, with an infuriated “Yes, yes, James, we all know you’re brilliant.”
My roommates, Peyton and Annabeth, pause midconversation when, just over twenty-four hours later, I roll my shitty suitcase into the living room and set it beside theirs. I look back longingly at their enormous leather sectional; it’s not pretty—it’s old and bulky—but I had really looked forward to making it my home base for the next week. Yet here we are: instead of a staycation at home in my pajamas, I’m facing eight days cooped up in a van with a married couple in the midst of a crisis and Mr. Morality McEngineering-pants.
“Don’t worry,” I tell my roommates. “I’m not crashing your romantic getaway.”
Annabeth looks at the suitcase and then turns bright, inquisitive eyes on me. Her face falls. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.” I round the counter that separates the kitchen and living room and open the fridge to retrieve a protein shake. “James and I have to join the Tripps on their book tour.”
Peyton lets out a sympathetic groan. “He’s the new one, right? The hot nerd assistant?”
I swallow down a long drink of the shake—as well as the petty desire to ask her to slowly repeat the word assistant while I record it for him. “Yup.”
“What happened?” Peyton pulls her thick dark curls into a ponytail. “I thought you had the week off?”
“It’s complicated.” That’s about all I can say. NDAs aside, I’ve never complained about work—other than my long hours—and never disclosed just how rigid Melly can be, how maddening Rusty can be, and how hard this job is most days. In other words, I’ve always done what I can to protect the Tripps. I owe them that loyalty.
Because of this, Peyton and Annabeth think my bosses are everything the public believes they are: charismatic, creative, in love. It’s such a happy image; I hate to ruin it for anyone, even the two people closest to me in nonwork life.
Is that depressing? That the couple I met through a classified ad when they were looking for someone to rent the second bedroom in their condo, and whom I rarely see, are the closest thing I have to friends? Is it terrible that I haven’t made time for my brothers in at least six months, and they only live a half hour away? Am I a monster for not having been home for Christmas in two years?
Obviously the answer to all of these questions is yes. My life is an embarrassment. This is also why I started seeing a therapist. I’d never been to therapy before—never thought it was for me—but sometime last year I realized that I never really talk to anyone. I didn’t have anyone I could unload on to help me unclutter my brain the way I unclutter Melly’s inbox, QuickBooks, and calendar.
Maybe it helps that my therapist’s name is Debbie. She’s soft and comforting and looks a lot like my aunt Linda. The first thing I saw when I walked into Debbie’s office was one of those granny-square afghans that my dad used to keep on the back of his La-Z-Boy. After a few sessions, I felt right at home. We’re currently working on my ability to be assertive and brainstorming ways I can take control of my life. As you can see from the suitcase I didn’t want to pack for the trip I absolutely don’t want to go on, I’m not crushing this assertiveness thing.
I stare at my roommates’ luggage—they’re bound for Kauai to celebrate their fifth anniversary. I can’t even imagine taking a trip to the Hawaiian Islands by myself, let alone with a significant other. It’s like I started walking down one road and a day became a week became a month became a year, and here I am, ten years later with no idea if this is the right road or what I’m supposed to do when I’m not walking down it.
Flopping onto the couch, I moan dramatically. “Have fun, but feel sorry for me occasionally.”
Annabeth comes and sits near my feet. Her auburn pixie cut perfectly frames her face, and I can already imagine how sun-kissed she’ll be when she returns. “We will raise a fruit-decorated drink in your honor.”
“Oh my God,” I lament, “I was going to lie on this couch for days and drink boxed wine and catch up on like seven hundred different shows.”
Peyton leans over the back and puts her hand on my shoulder. “I know I’ve said it before, but if you want a job with regular hours, I can always find a spot for you.”
Her offer is sweet, but the only thing that sounds worse to me than being Melissa Tripp’s assistant is being an assistant to an insurance claims adjustor.
“That’s so nice of you—” I begin, and Peyton cuts me off.
“But you want to keep your insurance,” she says.
I do. The medical benefits are amazing, and I’m not sure I’d be able to find that in a private plan that won’t bankrupt me.
“And even if that wasn’t the issue, you’d rather die first, I know,” she adds.
I laugh. “The idea of nine to five and three weeks of vacation a year sounds almost mythical, but—”
“But then you wouldn’t get to work with Melissa Tripp!”
I look over at Annabeth when she practically sings this, and grin. “Exactly.”
She’s not being sarcastic. Annabeth is such a sweet, innocent angel baby it would be a shame to burst her image of Melly, who, admittedly, used to be a dream boss. But fame—and then her clawing need to hold on to it—is slowly eroding anything gentle or lighthearted about her. I’d feel sorry for Rusty if he hadn’t eroded in opposite but equivalent ways.
Annabeth and Peyton are dressed and ready, which means that they’re about to leave to catch their flight, which means it’s nearly seven and I need to get a move on, too. I haul myself up from the couch, hug them in turn, and try not to look back at their bright, sunshiny dresses on my way out the door.
Granted, I was never an exceptional student—my crowning achievement in high school was a C in AP Lit and being voted secretary of our Future Farmers of America club—but the short walk from my car to the van has got to be some kind of metaphor for what a college education can do for a person. My shaggy old suitcase chugs along, veering off-path every time it hits a pebble. The fabric is worn out, the lock is broken, and the wheels are barely attached to the case. Up ahead, James McCann is shiny as a penny as he climbs out of his sleek BMW coupe and extracts his glossy aluminum luggage. He sets it down like it weighs nothing and, behind him, it glides across the parking lot like an obedient, high-end robot.