The Fortunate Ones, Page 2

  There are 10 rooms total, full of creative types, mostly artists and musicians in their 20s. We each have our own bedroom, but the communal spaces are shared, one big hippie family. It has its drawbacks—like how my expensive toilet paper always seems to get shared when the others’ scratchy one-ply hemp runs out—but the rent is cheap and I like the people that live here. They are the polar opposite of the people I wait on at the country club. My neighbor on the left, Jackie, is a performance artist who moonlights at a bakery, and my neighbor on the right, Ethan, is a documentarian. They hook up every so often, and in exchange for enduring the noise (the co-op has very thin walls), Jackie brings me day-old croissants from the bakery. It’s an arrangement I’m pretty happy with.

  I’m there now, in my room with Ellie. She’s going on about something important, I’m sure, and I’m posed in front of my mirror, trying out different hairstyles.

  “Just…no. No to the bangs. You’d look like an anime character.”

  I drop the hair I tucked under to mimic front bangs. I thought it looked good; Ellie clearly thinks differently.

  “I want to change up my look.”

  She shrugs. “So cut your hair.”

  “No!”

  I’m like Samson. If my hair goes, my power goes with it. It’s jet-black, halfway down my back, and the singular feature of mine I truly treasure. Combined with my light blue eyes, it packs quite a punch—or so I’ve been told. Throughout high school, my gangly legs and saucer eyes were out of place among a sea of short, perky blondes. The only guys who were into my Hot Topic look were emo vampires themselves, more interested in making me the subject of their tortured teenage fantasies than actually getting to know me. I wasn’t looking to be anyone’s grunge-pop princess.

  Through the tail end of puberty, my body’s hormones acted like little general contractors that had fallen behind on a fixer-upper. I started noticing the effects freshman year of college, when my French TA asked me to meet him for coffee. I assumed he wanted to discuss my interpretation of Amélie, but when his hand hit my knee beneath the table, the truth set in quicker than my double espresso. It was new territory for me, being broadly desired, and I wasn’t sure if I liked it. I always thought people that complained about their good looks were buffoons, but attractiveness does come with a unique set of challenges. For one, people have constantly underestimated me. Like in college, many of my classmates assumed I was seducing my professors (even the gay ones) in exchange for As. Eventually, I stopped minding the whispers. I liked being underestimated. In fact, I still do.

  After finishing my double major in French and Spanish, I spent a year traveling trying to “find myself”. In reality, I was trying to find a job. Through a tutoring agency, I eventually found a position as an au pair with an American diplomat named Nicole and her young daughter Sophie. For a year and a half, we became a happy little family in the heart of Paris. During the day, Nicole worked at the embassy while I tutored Sophie in Spanish and French. We turned coffee houses, museums, and grassy parks into our classroom. I’d started to feel like a true Parisien. Life was grand.

  That is, until Nicole joined Tinder.

  Yeah, that’s right. Even old, Ivy league-educated diplomats with bouffant hair are swiping right. It took Nicole two weeks to fall head over heels for some baguette-toting man named George, and another two weeks to promptly fire my ass. I was shocked, but I couldn’t help but admire her honesty.

  “You understand, don’t you?” she prodded.

  I didn’t. “Do you need more room? I can get my own place.”

  Her smile fell, and I knew I’d missed the mark.

  “I’ve just noticed that…well, when George is around, and you…I just don’t think it would be wise to keep you around. Haven’t you seen Pretty Woman?”

  My mouth dropped. “What? Pretty Woman is about a prostitute!”

  “Hmm…perhaps I’m thinking about a different movie,” she muttered, confused. “Well nevertheless, I think it is time to part ways.”

  It made no sense.

  “Do you seriously think I’m going to try to seduce George? His breath smells like sardines!”

  She had the decency to blush. “No, not at all. It’s just…George and I are ready to take our relationship to the next level, and no one keeps a pretty, young nanny around if they want their fledging relationship to succeed.”

  I lost all respect for Nicole that day, and though I would have loved to steal Sophie away in my suitcase, I wasn’t ready to add kidnapping to my record just yet. A few days later, I moved back to Austin and Ellie put in a good word for me at Twin Oaks—a.k.a. where dreams go to die.

  “When do you work again?” Ellie asks, drawing my attention away from the mirror.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “What about Thursday?”

  “I’m off.”

  She looks up from her magazine and grins. For a second, I’m taken aback by how similar we look nowadays. The two-year age gap between us used to be a big deal. Now, we could almost be twins—that is, if she stopped blowing $500 every few weeks to turn her light brown tresses platinum blonde. After all these years of hair dye, she should be walking around with frizzed-out straw for hair, but the trendy downtown salon she goes to must be filled with miracle workers, because even I sometimes forget Barbie blonde isn’t her natural color.

  “Perfect. I need you to cover my shift.”

  I scrunch my nose. “Yeah, no thanks. I’m not really looking to spend any more time at Twin Oaks than I have to.”

  She claps her hands together and juts her lower lip out pleadingly. In turn, I clap my hands together and flip her the double bird.

  “Please Brooke! Tyler’s band has a gig at Stubb’s. They’re opening for Vance Joy and I can’t miss it.”

  I don’t want to concede, not necessarily because I want Thursday off, but because Ellie works the dinner service at the club. I’ve only ever taken on lunchtime duties, and staff normally trains for at least a week before taking dinner service. No, I’m not worried about where the salad forks and dessert spoons go; I’m talking about the politics. You don’t want to sit an Edwards next to a Daniels and provoke a food fight.

  “Seriously, PLEASE. I’ll owe you big time!” she says before pausing and tapping her chin, mulling it over. “Wait, actually, I won’t owe you because I got you this job in the first place.”

  She’s played the trump card.

  “Fine. I’ll do it. Text me any random things I need to know to cover my ass. I don’t want to disappoint Brian.”

  She wags her eyebrows. “I thought you didn’t care about the job.”

  “I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I want to be a shitty employee. Dad raised us better than that.”

  She nods, seemingly impressed with my wisdom. Little does she know, I’m just saying that to segue into the conversation I actually care about. “Speaking of Dad…does he know you’re going to Tyler’s gig on Thursday?”

  She levels her blue eyes on me. They’re ice cold. Huh. I need to remember that trick.

  “No, he doesn’t, and I’m not going to tell him.”

  “Smart. If we learned anything from binge-watching sitcoms as kids, it’s that lying to your parents and sneaking out always goes off without a hitch.”

  She throws her magazine at me and I narrowly avoid a paper cut to the cornea.

  “He’s not going to find out.”

  She’s being naive. Ellie still lives at home with our dad and shiny new stepmother. If she comes home on Thursday (or early Friday morning) reeking of smoke and excuses, Dad will definitely do some sleuthing to figure out where she’s been. He hates Tyler, and for good reason. Tyler has been arrested like 45 times for all sorts of fancy-sounding crimes, like possession of an illegal substance (weed) and driving while intoxicated (stupid), but Ellie is blind to his flaws. I blame the full-sleeve tattoos and hot, hot British accent.

  Before Tyler tempted her with his bad-boy persona, Ellie had a clear type: hot, preppy rich ki
ds, the type of guys she and I went to high school with. (Yup. Shocking, isn’t it? Ellie and I are from old money.) We went to an expensive prep school in Austin and spent our childhood in the nice part of Westlake, where the houses are spaced acres apart and the views give you a glimpse of the entire cityscape. My experience growing up there is the exact reason I can’t stand most members of the country club. I’ll take my neighbors at the co-op any day.

  “Didn’t he threaten to kick you out if you kept seeing him? What are you going to do without Dad’s infinity pool and fully stocked walk-in pantry?”

  She smirks. “I’m spending the night at Tyler’s place and heading straight to work on Friday afternoon. Dad will never know.”

  “You know, you wouldn’t have to worry about sneaking around if you moved out.”

  “Why would I blow most of my paycheck on rent every month if I don’t have to? Dad’s house is massive, the fridge is always full, and I hardly have to see Martha.”

  “Really?”

  I assumed our stepmom watched over the house like a gargoyle.

  “Really. She has a very regimented life. Tennis at Twin Oaks every morning, then lunch with a few ladies from the Women’s Philanthropic League of Austin. By midafternoon she’s usually so exhausted from her hectic schedule that she has to have a ‘lie down’ that looks a lot like a white wine coma. I’m not allowed to play music or turn the TV on between the hours of 2 and 4 PM.”

  “Jesus. She’s insane.”

  Ellie laughs. “She’s not that bad. She makes Dad happy, and that’s really all that matters, right?”

  “I guess.”

  She points at me. “You two would actually get along if you made more of an effort to get to know her. She invited me to go with her to one of her charity meetings Thursday.”

  “And you said yes?”

  She pushes to the end of the bed and swings her feet to the ground. “Yes. I agreed because Martha has been married to Dad for almost five years now.”

  “What about Mom?”

  Her voice is devoid of emotion when she replies stubbornly, “What about her? She’s halfway across the world at the moment.”

  “She said she’d be here for Christmas.”

  Ellie’s laugh cuts deeper than it should. “Right. I’ll leave out some milk and cookies for her.”

  She’s putting her shoes on, getting ready to leave, when I offer up a sad suggestion.

  “We could always visit her.”

  Her head snaps up and her eyes narrow. “Do you even know where she’s stationed? Last I heard she and Jorge were still in Africa.”

  “They’re in Argentina now.”

  “See? Do you see how ridiculous this is? You need to let it go, Brooke. I’m not saying you have to like Martha, but chasing after Mom is getting pathetic.”

  I flinch and she steps closer, wrapping me up in a hug before continuing.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

  I don’t hug her back, but I do inhale her shampoo. “Yes you did.”

  “Come with us to the charity meeting tomorrow. The event is benefitting a group that saves pigs from cosmetics testing labs.”

  “A bunch of old biddies in lipstick raising money for a bunch of little piggies in lipstick? No thanks, sis.”

  …

  Thursday afternoon, despite my protests, I find myself smack dab in the middle of a Women’s Philanthropic League of Austin luncheon. I recognize more than half of the injected lips in the room from Twin Oaks. This town is small, and these women’s waistlines are (surgically) smaller.

  “Brooke, I had no idea you were interested in joining the League!”

  I glance up from my delicately arranged cucumber sandwich and force a smile for Jamie Mathers. “Oh, I don’t think I am. My stepmom is a member, and I came to support her.”

  Jamie exchanges a knowing glance with the other women in our small circle. All five of them were in my graduating class in high school, and all five of them are currently carrying heavy rocks on their left ring fingers and supporting varying degrees of pregnant bellies. Jamie Mathers is the furthest along, and I’m slightly worried she’ll go into labor on the spot. I wonder if it’d be rude to finish my cucumber sandwich before rendering aid.

  “Well that’s so nice of you,” she says with a honey-dipped smile. “I’m glad you came. I haven’t seen you since everyone left for college. What are you up to now?”

  My eyebrows hit my hairline. “Oh…well, I’m kind of between positions at the moment.”

  “My mom mentioned you were working at the club with Ellie,” Jessica Lindsey adds with a conniving grin.

  It feels like a TMZ-style gotcha moment, and I’m reminded why I never liked Jessica.

  “It’s a temporary thing,” I shoot back quickly.

  They hum, and I decide that two can play this game. “What about you, Jamie? Jessica? What are you guys up to these days?”

  They laugh and rub their swollen bellies like a pair of sequined Teletubbies. It’s then that I decide I’ve officially stepped into the Twilight Zone. Compared to these women, I feel so young and ill-prepared for adulthood. There’s so much life I want to live before I start wearing Lily Pulitzer rompers and joining mommy Facebook groups.

  “Prepping for motherhood is a full-time job in and of itself,” Jessica replies coolly.

  As if it takes an advanced degree to pop out a placenta.

  “Ah, I’m sure.”

  “Not to mention, Harry and I just moved into a new house in Tarrytown. It’s going to take me months to decorate it. I just hope I can get everything done before Mary Grace arrives this fall.”

  The girls chat amongst themselves excitedly, talking about wallpaper swatches and Restoration Hardware cribs. I’m debating between the small cups of strawberry shortcake and crème brûlée circulating the room when they direct the conversation back toward me.

  “What about you, Brooke?”

  I snap my attention back to the group. “What?”

  “Where are you living these days?”

  They’re expecting to hear the name of a ritzy Austin neighborhood, so when I explain my current living arrangement, they’re all more than a little confused.

  “What exactly is a cowop?” Jessica asks. “Isn’t that where the weird art students live in West Campus?”

  “Yeah…” Jamie adds, “I used to have to walk by one of those on my way to class. I swear everyone there was smoking—” She lowers her voice. “Marijuana. You could smell it a mile away.”

  They all glance back at me, waiting for my reply. I smile extra wide. “Yes. It’s exactly like that, only north of campus.”

  “Oh.” Jessica is stunned.

  Jamie laughs nervously and tries to salvage the situation. “I don’t know how you do it. I need my privacy. I can hardly manage sharing 3,000 square feet with Benjamin, let alone a dozen other people.”

  Benjamin (a.k.a. Ben Mackenzie) went to a neighboring high school, and regularly spent time at parties belching the letters of the alphabet. No one in their right mind ever referred to him as Benjamin. I want to call Jamie out for turning into a pretentious snob, but then I’d be just as bad as she is. So what if these women want to grow up and play house? Good for them. It’s just not for me. Right now I want to eat another cucumber sandwich, avoid eye contact with Martha for the rest of this luncheon, and make it home in time to take a nap before I have to cover Ellie’s shift at the club.

  Ian is waiting for me by the curb outside when the luncheon wraps up. (Okay, that’s a lie. I’m leaving an hour before everyone else because I ate my fill of artisanal cheeses and was bored out of my mind.) I’m surprised to see him because he’s never been on time in his life—or at least not in the three months I’ve known him. Normally when he says, Be right there! he means, Be right there when I finish smoking or jerking off, or whatever the hell he does in that room of his.

  “What’s up, sexy?” he asks after leaning over to open his passenger-side door for me. He scoops
all the empty coffee cups and organic granola wrappers onto the floor so I can sit down. Romance.

  “Hey, thanks for picking me up.”

  I don’t have a car. When I moved back to Austin, I bought a fixed-gear bike off Craigslist. It’s old—on its dying leg—but it fits in well around the Austin bike lanes. It’s great for getting around to most places, but for times like this, when I’m strapped into a cocktail dress and high heels, I have to rely on other people for transportation, hence why I called Ian—barista and model, fellow co-oper, short-term fling.

  We’re halfway back to the building when Ellie shoots me a text.

  ELLIE: You left before I could give you the details about the shift!

  BROOKE: Sorry. Had to get out of there. What should I know?

  ELLIE: Make sure you check that the tables are set up right when you get there. The servers are responsible for their own sections, but I’m pretty sure Jared works tonight and he always slacks off.

  BROOKE: Got it. Anything else?

  ELLIE: Check in with the chef and make sure he doesn’t have any special requests for you. He likes to go over the specials with the hostess just in case a member asks about them.

  I make a mental note to do both things before Ian speaks up.

  “I took some new headshots today.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Marco shot them for me before he left for a job. We posed in front of the graffiti wall downtown.”

  “That’s great.” I smile, feeling the buzz of another text in my lap.

  ELLIE: Oh! I almost forgot! Guess who’s coming in for dinner tonight.

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

  BROOKE: Who?

  “Brooke.”

  “I am enthusiastic!” I insist, dropping my phone and turning my attention back to him. “New headshots will really help you book jobs.”

  My lap vibrates and I ignore it.

  “Who are you texting anyway?”

  “My sister,” I answer honestly, though I don’t like that he’s even asking me that question. Ian and I don’t owe each other anything. We’re friends, buds. We live in the co-op together, and sometimes he gives me a ride if he happens to be free. Twice in the last three months we’ve hooked up. It’s the definition of a no-strings-attached fling, but when he glances over to me, I have a sneaking suspicion that he wants us to be something more.