I wasn’t sure what lesson Dad was trying to teach me on that bike, but I learned that storms could be relentless.
They were supposed to come and go.
But when you needed it to most, the storm never receded.
Working at Prescott Hotels, I felt trapped in the middle of one daily, like every conversation was a battle I had to fight unless I wanted to be drenched.
Shivering.
Defeated.
My throat burned from arguing all day. Chantilly had overspent on flooring we didn’t need, which meant our already dwindling budget had been blown on statuario marble with silver and gold veins nearly identical to the Winthrop Estate’s.
The Winthrop Estate reminded me of a boomerang. Every time I gained some distance, it always came hurtling back at me. I couldn’t escape it. I saw pieces of it in the Greek statues at the park down the street; in the floor-to-ceiling curtains at the soup kitchen; and now, in the floor I was expected to walk over every day of my internship.
Hannah suggested reducing the design to the absolute basics, creating a minimalist effect like Kim Kardashian and Kanye West’s sixty-million-dollar home in Hidden Hills, California. The one that possessed the personality of a peanut—all beige and not much to look at.
(For the record, the property tax on that home is over seven-hundred and five grand a year. I Google’d it. A UNICEF donation in that amount could vaccinate nearly four million toddlers. Google’d that, also. Virginia spent triple that each year on chartered private jets alone. Didn’t have to Google that. She bragged about it to anyone who would listen.)
The five of us had all reluctantly agreed to the minimalist aesthetic. What choices did we have? The budget had been nearly wiped out. Anything else wasn’t possible. I argued we could cut corners in some design aspects, like using remnant materials and spending the money that saved on a centerpiece that would make the hotel design less boring.
Today, Chantilly took that idea and twisted it, so the extra money went to custom cabinet handles that I swore resembled butt plugs. By the end of the day, I’d checked my project calendar five times, ticking down the days until my internship ended.
After I clocked out around five, I sprinted to the soup kitchen, shoveled as much food into my mouth as I could while listening to two kids—Harlan and Stella—talk about their new friend at the soup kitchen, a volunteer who brought them presents every time he came.
Sounded nice. Wish I knew Santa, too.
I kissed them both on their cheeks, hugged their mom Maggie goodbye, and checked my email from the office of donations at Wilton University, an insanely expensive Ivy League university based in New York City.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Atgaila Scholarship Fund
Dear Ms. Winthrop,
We are emailing you in regards to your anonymous scholarship fund. With our recent tuition hike, the sole recipient, Demi Wilson, will need to pay the difference in a total of $500 per month for her enrolled semesters.
You may choose to continue to pay the $2000 per month scholarship or increase the scholarship coverage to $2,500.
As always, we appreciate your patronage and assure you our discretion.
Lexi Wheelander
Office of Donations
Five hundred extra a month. I could barely make the two grand a month work. Prescott Hotels paid well, but after taxes and the donation, I was left with too little to care for myself. I squeezed my eyes shut and muttered the prettiest words I knew.
When that didn’t work, I imagined baltering in the rain with a thousand happy puppies.
Breathe, Emery. It’ll be okay. You have no choice. It’s the right thing to do.
I shot an email agreeing to the extra five-hundred, then ran as fast as I could to the Mom-and-Pop gym near the hotel. My shower caddy and towel bumped around in a black knock-off Jan Sport backpack held together by duct tape and amateur stitches (I’d been a novice at the time. Bite me).
I paid twenty bucks a month for a gym pass. Instead of working out, I stopped by every morning for a shower. Ben had kept me up all night with dirty texts messages, which meant I’d overslept this morning and hadn’t been able to stop by for a shower.
Careening to a stop in front, I took in the sign on the door.
Dear Valued Customer,
There was a leak from the last storm. We are closing down for the next few days to repair it. The three days will be comped from your next billing cycle. We are so sorry for the inconvenience. Stay happy. Stay fit!
Haling Cove Fitness Staff
“Ugh.” I groaned out, kicking a rock on the sidewalk, which undid the quick patch job on my Converse.
Ripping the shoe off so it didn’t get worse as I walked, I made my way back to the hotel, ignoring the people who stared at my single bare foot with upturned noses. On the bright side, I must have looked like a mess because everyone I passed gifted me a wide berth.
Pulling out my phone, I shot a message to Ben.
Durga: I am having an awful day. Make it better.
Benkinersophobia: Roses are Red. Violets are Blue. You give good phone sex, and I guess you’re okay, too.
I snorted an obnoxious laugh, the shoe in my hand flinging at the movement. A toddler pointed at me before his mom hurried him away.
At least I was smiling.
Always smiling when it came to Ben.
Durga: You’re a poet. I’m filing that under the employment column. Mystery solved.
Benkinersophobia: If you think that’s impressive, you should see my side hustle for cash.
Durga: Does it include something soft and small?
Benkinersophobia: And here I thought we were friends…
Benkinersophobia: Hey, Durga?
Durga: Hey, Ben.
Benkinersophobia: Did I make you smile?
Durga: Always.
At the hotel entrance, I swiped my employee card. Panic bit its way up my throat when it wouldn’t work the first time.
No, no, no.
Dipping my head back, I glared at the sky. Angry, dark clouds covered the expanse, no stars in sight.
I have no secrets for you, starless night. I swiped hair out of my eyes, the movement jerky as I glared at the abyss above me, daring it to do its worst. Actually, here’s a secret for you. I’m tired. So fucking tired. Are you happy? Is that what you want?
Pressing my forehead against the glass door, I suppressed a scream. The first mist hit my hair, cheek, neck. It would downpour soon. If I didn’t get inside, I’d be fighting a cold by the morning.
I wiped the magnetic strip of the card against the inside of my hoodie until it was completely dry.
Swipe.
“Oenomel. Phosphenes. Kilig,” I muttered magic words, hoped they’d grant me good luck, and waited for the red dot to turn green.