Chapter 1
As I pressed my fingertip to the doorbell, I realized I’d made a huge mistake.
I forgot the chipotle ranch dressing.
I know it doesn’t seem like a big deal, but you had to understand the customers in this neighborhood. They were ruthless. When they ordered ten pieces of gourmet, organic, locally sourced fried chicken, they expected the artisanal dipping sauce to be included with their delivery. If not, they wouldn’t hesitate to give you a one-star rating. No excuses.
Though I did have a pretty valid excuse that night, because things were crazy hectic at The Chicken Coop. Between the short-tempered waitstaff and the long lines at the walk-up window, I could barely get Osvaldo’s attention when I went to pick up the order. I must’ve stood at the service entrance for at least five minutes, waving maniacally, before he finally thrust the bag of chicken in my hand, then raced back to the kitchen without so much as a hello.
The frenzy was contagious. So, instead of stopping at the condiment counter like I should have, I skipped past it and hurried to my car, eager to drop off this delivery as quickly as possible so I could come back and pick up another one. I figured if I was lucky and I hustled, I could make a decent amount of money this evening on fried chicken orders alone.
If only I’d remembered the chipotle ranch dressing.
The front door creaked open and a woman appeared at the threshold, wearing a T-shirt that read No Excuses, which wasn’t particularly promising. According to the GrubGetters driver app, her name was Andrea T. She looked exactly like someone I’d expect to live in a suburb like this: slender, stylish, stunning even in mesh panel leggings and a messy bun. Perfect from head to toe. Just like my sister.
“Hello.” She smiled at me, and for a split second, I thought maybe it was all gonna be okay. Maybe Andrea T. would have mercy on me. After all, from her point of view, I was just a ditzy delivery girl driving a dilapidated rust bucket around town, trying to scrape together some semblance of an income. Meanwhile, she was living the high life in this sprawling McMansion with two shiny SUVs in the driveway. Surely, she’d give me a five-star rating simply out of pity.
“Hi.” I held the chicken bag aloft and forced a smile. “Andrea?”
She nodded and took it out of my hands. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
This was my cue to skedaddle, but a pang of uncertainty glued me in place. Should I tell her I forgot the dressing? She was gonna find out sooner or later, and fessing up now could save me from a one-star rating. It would show I was a woman who was ready to own up to my mistakes. A ditzy delivery girl with integrity.
“Is there something else you need?” Andrea’s friendly smile was fading fast.
“It’s just...” I stammered, knowing it was irrational to worry over something so inconsequential. It was a two-ounce container of ranch dressing, for crying out loud. Andrea probably had a Costco-sized tub of it in her fridge.
What really worried me, though, was that this was so unlike me. I never, ever made mistakes on my orders. And even though I knew there was no prestige in being a GrubGetter, I still took pride in my work. Showing up on time, double-checking orders, maintaining a positive attitude even when suburbanites were chewing me out on their doorsteps. This attention to detail was why I had a perfect five-star average rating. It was what made me a Top Grubber with first dibs on the best shifts in the busiest areas of San Diego.
So it wasn’t just a forgotten condiment. It was a blemish on my otherwise flawless delivery record. And since driving for GrubGetter was the only thing I’d ever not failed at, my flawless delivery record meant a lot to me.
“Everything okay?” A man’s voice boomed from inside the house. It sounded vaguely familiar, probably because he was a repeat customer. I didn’t remember ever coming to this address before, but that didn’t mean anything. All the homes in these subdivisions looked the same.
When he popped his head around the doorframe, though, I understood exactly why his voice was so familiar. I’d heard it twice a week for twelve weeks, droning on in a cavernous lecture hall for two hours at a time. I hadn’t heard it since I was twenty-one, and I had hoped I’d never hear it again.
The voice belonged to Eddie Trammel, my old physics professor. The guy who’d inspired me to drop out of college.
He looked a little different, slightly older, with a new paunch and some hints of gray around the temples. But he had the same scowl, always glaring like my very existence annoyed him. To see him standing on the threshold of this starter castle with a silk floral wreath hanging on the door was jarring, in more ways than one. I’d always pictured him living alone in some sad, windowless apartment, eating cold beans directly from a can. Not living it up in Encinitas with a hot, yoga-toned wife.
“Hi,” I said, because what else was there to say? The last time we’d seen each other, he’d told me I didn’t have what it took to succeed in the premed program, and that I’d never get into medical school. He’d called me coddled and entitled and acutely mediocre. I’d left his office in tears, then marched off campus and never returned.
At the time, I told myself I just needed to take a semester off to regroup and refocus, to give myself some space so I could find my true passion and pick a new major. I’d planned to return to school in a matter of months, ready to finish my degree with purpose and vigor.
Of course, that never happened. Instead, I holed up in bed and played about two hundred hours of Trivia Crack in the hopes of winning big, and when that didn’t pan out, I signed up to be a GrubGetter.
It wasn’t supposed to be a full-time, long-term gig. But here I was, four years later, still delivering fried chicken for a living. College had now become this distant, fuzzy memory. Something I’d tried to conquer and failed to finish. I didn’t really like to think about it very often. Or at all.
In the moment, however, I couldn’t simply brush aside those unwelcome thoughts and pretend the whole thing didn’t happen. Because Professor Trammel was right there in front of me, probably wondering how I ended up on his doorstep wearing a stained GrubGetters polo shirt.
Without thinking, I blurted out, “I’m sorry.” Not that I owed him an apology—if anything, he owed me one—but the way he was looking at me right now made me feel guilty for merely taking up space.
The line between his brows deepened and he barked, “Is there something you need? I’m starving and this food is getting cold.”
“Uh...” I stammered, searching his face. And then I realized he had no idea who I was.
Which made sense, really. He’d probably taught hundreds, if not thousands, of students. In his eyes, I was just another aimless, untalented undergrad. Nobody special. Nobody worth remembering.
A half-dozen sprinkler heads suddenly spurted to life, spraying water all over the lawn and dripping down onto the pavement by my feet. Droplets hit my face like spittle and I was suddenly desperate to flee the suburbs.