The Fortunate Ones

by R.S. Grey

  James glances down at his watch. My guess is that it’s probably past midnight.

  “I should get going actually.”

  My heart deflates like a sad Mylar balloon. I don’t want this encounter to end. I already know it’s not going to happen again. I’ve worked here for three months and have never talked to James; tonight was a rare occurrence to say the least.

  He scoots his barstool back and stands. Yup, definitely over 6’0”. And the suit? Absolutely custom.

  His eyes meet mine, and I think he knows I was just checking him out. I wonder what he thinks about it.

  “Thanks for humoring an old man,” he says, bending low so Brian can’t hear.

  I know he’s firing back for my geezer comment from earlier, but it almost feels like flirting. Damn. If I’m this excited by the prospect of him barely flirting with me, what would it feel like to be pursued and seduced by a man like him? My heart probably couldn’t handle it. I’d have to get one of his fancy watches.

  “I didn’t mind,” I quip. “Oh yeah—congrats.”

  He nods once and then he’s strolling away with his hands in his pockets, taking the scent of rare spices and exotic wood with him.

  …

  When I make it outside, I’m still floating in a weird, drug-like haze—so much so that I’m surprised to see Ian’s old blue Hyundai Accent sitting beneath the porte cochère. I forgot I asked him to give me a ride home earlier. How long has he been waiting?

  I pick up my pace and cringe when I see how angry he is.

  “Jesus, I’ve been here forever. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

  “Sorry, sorry! I had to close and there was a member inside who wouldn’t leave.”

  It’s the truth, just not the whole truth.

  “I was about to come in, but I’m not exactly dressed for it,” he says, motioning down to his Bob Marley boxers and foam flip-flips.

  I buckle up as he puts his car in drive and loops around, back toward the gatehouse. At this time of night, there shouldn’t be any other cars exiting the club, but when we arrive at the fork where the parking lot and the valet entrance merge, we’re met by a sleek black Porsche. Ian presses on the brake. So does the Porsche. I fidget in my seat.

  Ian curses under his breath and then waves the car forward.

  The Porsche pulls out in front of us and then we chug along behind it, down the winding tree-lined drive. At the entrance, the gate takes a few seconds to open, and I try as hard as I can to see through the tint of the Porsche’s back windows. I can make out the silhouette of a man in the front seat, but no features. Most importantly, I can’t tell if he’s watching me in his rearview mirror. I hope he is.

  I can hear the engine purring over the sound of Ian complaining about how he almost lost his high waiting so long, but I’m focused on the idea of James. I want to know what the interior of his car feels like. I want to know what kind of music he likes to play at this time of night. I want to know where he’s heading when we hit the first main road and he turns right before we turn left.

  I’m disappointed because I will never get those answers.

  “Ian, I think we should talk.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I’ve called my mom five times in the past two weeks and she hasn’t answered once. If we were dating, I would have probably picked up on her not-so-subtle attempt to get rid of me and moved on, but she’s my mom, and therefore can’t ignore me forever. To be fair, she did attempt to call me back last week, but it was at 1:27 AM. Silly me, I was asleep. Now, I try again, counting the rings as they tick by while simultaneously digesting the new decor in my dad’s guest bathroom.

  It’s Wednesday, which means I should be hanging out at Flying Saucer with co-op friends, kicking ass in trivia. Music is my topic of choice. There isn’t a late 90s, early 2000s song I cannot name, date, and sing (poorly) word for word. Tonight, however, my team is playing without me. I’ve already received three text messages asking me about various pop lyrics. Who doesn’t know the full chorus to Britney’s “Baby One More Time”? They should be ashamed.

  The phone rings on and on.

  I inspect the new pendant light hanging over the bathroom sink. Martha must be watching Fixer Upper. There’s enough shiplap in this bathroom to build an actual ship.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Laura Acosta. Sorry I missed your call. Leave a message after the beep.”

  I do not leave a message. Voicemails, like Britney, are a relic of decades gone by. I need immediate gratification.

  I punch the little red circle repeatedly and end the call four times over.

  Everyone is waiting for me at the dinner table, and I can hear Ellie chatting with my dad about the country club. He’s been a member for as long as I can remember, but he’s never there. Work keeps him busy, thank goodness. The only thing worse than working at the cabana would be working at the cabana while my dad hovers nearby, teasing in that adorable yet infuriating way only dads can manage. Martha’s there a lot, but only to play tennis with her friends. She sometimes stays for brunch, but usually leaves before my shift starts.

  It occurs to me that I’ve been in the restroom for a while now. They’ve probably concluded that Martha’s carefully puffed soufflé is not sitting well with me. I know I’ll have to leave the safety of this shiplap dungeon soon, but I was really hoping my mom would answer my call. I want to ask her about Christmas, just to prove Ellie wrong. She is coming, see?!

  When I make it back to the dining room, I pause in the doorway for a moment and take in the charming tableau presented there. The three of them look like an all-American family enjoying their post-dinner coffee and dessert. Martha is wearing a brightly patterned blouse and white jeans. My dad admires her with a warm smile before he reaches across the table and takes her hand. There is a steaming cup of decaf waiting for me on my placemat and a half-devoured peach pie with a crumble top in the center of the table.

  “Would you like some pie, Brooke?” Martha asks in her pleasant tone when she notices me standing there. It’s not one of those nauseatingly pleasant tones of cordiality; it is, in fact, genuine, which I find worse. “Or I could get you something else if you aren’t”—she drops her voice—“feeling well?”

  She’s trying to ask tactfully if I am having a case of the shits.

  I point to the pie. “I’ll just take a slice. Thank you.”

  “Are you feeling okay?” Ellie asks me from across the table. “You were in there for like 45 minutes.”

  Martha clears her throat, and my dad hides a laugh before adding, “Ellie, save the bathroom talk for after dinner. I’m still eating my pie.”

  We’re grown adults, but it still makes me smile when Ellie gets reprimanded. Residual immaturity.

  “I was actually checking out the new decor in there,” I respond. “It looks great. Last time I was here, you’d just taken down the old wallpaper.”

  Martha beams as she hands me my slice of pie. “Oh! Well, thank you. I’ve been watching this show on HGTV and it’s given me the renovation bug.”

  I smirk and give myself a mental pat on the back for being right about ol’ Chip and Jo.

  “Did you bring in a designer?” I ask, because I know she didn’t.

  She blushes. “No, actually I did it myself.”

  “Wow! It looks so professional!”

  My dad is smiling at me because he likes when I play nice with Martha. It’s like he and Ellie expect me to come to dinner and breathe fire, but I’m not that bad. Just because I don’t want to actively pursue a relationship with Martha doesn’t mean I hate the woman. She makes crumble-top pie, people—she’s not the devil. I realize that, but I already have a mom. She might be a million miles away with a perpetually dead cell phone, but she’s still alive.

  “Martha and I were talking about doing a spa day soon,” Ellie says after taking a sip of her coffee. “She went to some fundraiser last month and bid on a massive package from Milk + Honey.”

  Martha nods. “It in
cludes massages, manicures, and pedicures—maybe facials too, I have to check. It’s actually for four people, but we could divvy up the remaining treatments between the three of us and make a whole day of it.”

  They’re both looking at me expectantly, but I’m hesitant to agree. While I love cucumber eye masks and tiny women digging their elbows into my back as much as the next person, I don’t want to make this a habit—that is, this “girl time” thing with Martha and Ellie. I’ve spent the last few years keeping a healthy distance, which is why on Wednesdays, I usually opt for trivia night instead of family dinner. This week, Ellie convinced me to come, and now the stone is rolling down the hill trading moss for spa day invites.

  “Can I get back to you?” I ask, and there is a collective sad sigh around the room like I’ve just turned on the Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commercial.

  My dad is scowling at me, but Martha is quick to fill the silence. “Of course! Why don’t you check your schedule and pick a day that works well for you? I’m pretty flexible.”

  I smile, and even though I have no intention of doing that, I agree anyway. “Sounds good.”

  Ellie pushes back from the table and comes around to collect my pie plate. “Done?”

  “Wait! I was—”

  I try to yank it back, but it’s too late. She’s carrying my plate to the kitchen before I even managed one bite. It’s my punishment, and I know if I stick around, she’s only going to make it worse. So, I request an Uber, thank my dad and Martha for a lovely dinner, and scurry out of the house before Ellie can hunt me down and scold me like Mr. Knightly in Emma. Badly done, Brooke. Badly done. Yeah? Well screw you, Mr. Knightly-Ellie.

  …

  Other than the family dinner and a few desperate phone calls to my mother, the last two weeks have been filled with the following:

  - Two meetings with the au pair agency trying to place me with a family

  - Nine shifts at the country club

  - Three very awkward encounters with Ian in the co-op kitchen

  - Six runs around Town Lake

  - One afternoon spent reading Harry Potter en français (I laugh every time Neville Longbottom is mentioned in the French version as “Neville Londubat”—literally translated as “Neville Long-in-the-butt”)

  And, though I am ashamed to admit it…

  - At least four hundred million thoughts about James

  I haven’t seen him since our late-night conversation at the bar. He hasn’t been to the club, or if he has, it hasn’t been during one of my shifts. I could ask Ellie if she’s seen him in the dining room during dinner service, but that would only lead to questions about why I care. Up until this point, I’ve played it cool when it comes to James. My infatuation has remained low-key and hidden, but if Ellie gets ahold of it, there’s no telling what she’ll do. If history is any indication, she will march right up to him in the high school cafeteria and proclaim my love in front of the entire lacrosse team. Joey Larson, just to be clear, I didn’t want to “marry you and have your babies”, I just thought you looked hot swinging that bat thing around the field—sue me.

  Since I can’t rely on my sister for details, I’m on my own, and there’s really nothing I can do. I don’t have his phone number or email address, which means there’s no way to contact him. Besides, what would I say if I could? I would love nothing more than to cyber-stalk him, scroll through his Instagram feed and get a feel for the type of person he is. Who knows, maybe I could find a photo of him stepping on puppy tails or something to moderate my rapidly developing schoolgirl crush, or maybe I’d find photos of him on a rented yacht with sleezy girls in bikinis. But, from what I know about him so far, I’d be much more likely to find a picture of him on a barge with nuns, delivering aid to Haiti after a hurricane.

  One night, after a long shift, I type his name into Google just to confirm he has no Facebook. No Twitter. No Instagram. He’s a rare breed of human, floating through life untethered to social media. Isn’t he curious what every single person from his high school is up to at any given moment? He’s missing out on such important events as Kathleen introducing little Josie to solid foods and Macy returning from her fourth trip to India, feeling #superenlightened.

  The other possibility is that James is lying about who he is. With such scant social media presence, it could be the case, but another quick Google search confirms that I’m just paranoid. There are enough articles about him published online to confirm everything he’s told me. The Google rabbit hole leads me all the way back to his senior photo from some preppy boarding school. His dark hair was longer then, hanging over his forehead in the way only high school boys (and Justin Bieber circa 2009) can truly maintain. He is so handsome and confident in the photo, like he knows he’s only a few years away from grabbing life by the balls. High School Me would have had a major crush on High School Him. Hopefully, Present Day Me will be smart enough to keep that information from Ellie.

  The next day, I walk into the club for my lunch shift and casually peruse the reservations. James’ name isn’t on the list. COME ON. I breeze past the kitchen and employee locker room, running into one of the caddies for the golf course.

  “Anyone good on the course today?” I ask like I couldn’t care less.

  The guy—Harrison—stops dead in his tracks and beams at me. We haven’t talked before; I guess there’s never been a reason.

  “Hey! Yeah!” Then he shakes his head, as if coming out of whatever spell my attention put him under. “Oh, wait, no. The course is closed for maintenance today.”

  “Oh, bummer.”

  It is a bummer, because that means I have to go another day without seeing James.

  My luck continues when a major rainstorm rolls in during my shift. There are flash flood warnings and clouds that look like they’re coming directly from Mordor. I rode my bike to work today, and usually I would call Ian for a ride, but when we bumped into each other in the co-op hallway earlier, he pretended like he didn’t see me. The days of him playing the part of my chauffeur are long gone, and I wasn’t smart enough to cast an understudy.

  My Uber arrives quickly and then promptly drives away without me once he sees my (now muddy) bike propped up beside me. I would have moved it off the bike rack earlier if I’d known it would get drenched.

  My last hope is Ellie, but it’s her day off and she’s not answering her phone. Chances are she’s sucking face with Tyler, but I send off a few desperate text messages just in case.

  BROOKE: Hey! I need a ride! CALL ME.

  BROOKE: Major rainstorm. Flash flooding. Could die. Please call me.

  BROOKE: Currently floating down the Colorado River. Can’t…hang on…much………loongeerrr…

  Movement to my left catches my attention and I glance up before I can shoot off a text to Ellie outlining my death in great detail.

  James is walking out of the entrance of the main clubhouse with a pretty woman in tow. I freeze, shocked that he’s here after I didn’t see his name on the reservation list, but I suppose it wouldn’t be there. It’s 3:30; whatever he’s doing here, it’s not for lunch or dinner. I assumed I’d have to endure another shift at the club without him, but here he is looking just as handsome as I remember.

  I’m sure his date thinks so too. Date—I bristle at the idea. No, it’s the middle of the afternoon, so they can’t be on a date, right? It’s too bad I can’t hear what they’re saying. I’m standing about 15 feet to their right, tucked beneath the porte cochère so I’m out of the way of the valet and protected from the rain pelting down from the sky.

  It’s completely awkward. If James looks up and sees me, I will look like a complete loser with my soggy bike and humidified hair. It’s bound to happen any moment now. He’s facing my direction, talking to the woman—who, by the way, is pulling off that shockingly red cocktail dress pretty well for midafternoon on a Thursday.

  He leans forward and I think they’re about to kiss (DEAR GOD NO) but instead, he reaches out and shakes her hand. She s
ays something that makes him laugh as she accepts his handshake, and then I’m jealous of her palm for getting to touch his. Did I touch him two weeks ago? Yes. I remember—I put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him and then immediately yanked it away. It was nothing like this super erotic handshake taking place in front of me. I want to shout at them to get a room, but the valet whips around with James’ car.

  Where are they going now? To elope?

  He steps back and waves to her.

  Now.

  Now is the moment in which he will look up, see me standing here like a damsel in distress, and offer me a ride. I will refuse at first because then he will think I’m kind—Oh, I couldn’t, I hate inconveniencing people—but that’s a lie. I will inconvenience the hell out of him if it means I’m allowed to get into that car and continue our conversation from the other night.

  I’m still daydreaming about our exchange when he slides into the front seat of his Porsche and heads off down the winding drive.

  Uh, dude?

  You forgot me back here.

  “Hey Brooke! Are you stuck?”

  It’s Harrison, the golf guy I spoke with earlier. I force myself to look away from James’ receding car and offer him a reassuring smile.

  “Just waiting out the rain for a few minutes.”

  “I can give you a ride home if you want?”

  He’s a nice-looking guy, probably a few years younger than me. I’d bet my entire life savings (which is maybe $37) that he goes to UT, belongs to a frat, and feels like a cultured man of the world for ordering chicken tikka masala. I would love a ride home, but what’s that thing about history? If you don’t learn from it then you’re destined to repeat it? Whatever. The point is, I just cut Ian off my line, and I can’t sink my hook into some other poor schmuck just because I don’t have a car. It’s not right, and this guy, with his earnest smile and big doe eyes, is begging for a broken heart.