Page 20 of The End of Summer

To be clear, I felt terrible lying to my parents. I typically don’t lie well, for one thing. Also, I know my Mom and Dad just worry about me because they’re good parents, and I would never want to take advantage of that. But, some things you can’t share with your overprotective father.

You know, unless you want him to lock you up in a holding cell for the foreseeable future.

Still, despite my parental deception, I’m in a bit of a sweet spot, and I really can’t complain. I’ve never had a job that transformed my bodyandmy bank account in a matter of weeks.

The only thing that sucks is having what’s-his-face living next door.

For someone who’s supposed to be the Assistant Manager at the Diamond Excelsior private dining shit parade, this dude isalwaysaround. He put an admittedly cute small table out on the back patio with two chairs, and he eats breakfast out there every morning, always in a different color pair of those damnshorts.I think he goes out for runs and then comes home and has his little bowl of cereal and cup of coffee while perusing God knows what on his phone. Probably toe pics on Onlyfans or some other equally heinous offense, I’ve decided.

I can see him out the sliding glass door in my bedroom, and typically, this is the image I wake up to in the morning. My curtains are floor-length, white sheers, which (thanks to Zoloft) have taken quite the beating courtesy of his sharp-AF kitty fingernails. I don’t think Brady can see in, but I can see out, and in the early morning sunlight, with the remnants of sweat from whatever workout he’s putting his body through, well… suffice to say there are worse things I could wake up to. I just can’t reconcile his hotness with the fact that he got me canned from my last gig. Although, joke’s on him, as I’ve made an entire summer’s worth of tips at the Diamond Excelsior in just a few weeks at Cosmo-pole-itan.

I saw Brady one time last week with his laptop outside around nine in the morning, having some sort of Zoom call. He looked – I don’t know – pensive, maybe? Nervous? Whatever. It annoyed me that he felt like it was okay to take his online business meetings in our shared outdoor space.He’s no better than the dog from the C apartment down the way,I thought.No regard for others.He wasn’t being particularly loud, and Lord knows he didn’t pollute the air with stench like the Labrador does, but it was auditory stench, with his chatter, or maybe visual stench – just his presence in the space made it impossible for me to get ready for my morning workout with the girls. I kept being distracted by his jawline, his scruff, his stupid calf muscles in those shorts.Like, please. We get it. You’re hot. You don’t have to constantly flaunt it.

I began to feel like he crawled into my head and took root. As if he was the human equivalent of lice. Or maggots. Or some equally offensive pest that requires professional extinguishing.

I started to catch myself looking for Brady. First, out my sliders. Then, like, if I went to throw out the garbage or get my mail. Or walking through the hallway to my apartment. Or even at the grocery store. I learned that he drove a blue Hyundai Elantra with exactly two stickers on the back bumper: one granted him beach access to all the Brewster beaches, and the other was a Diamond Excelsior VIP parking pass. On the occasions when I was out driving, I’d keep an eye out for his car. Subconsciously, of course. That exact shade of blue. The side-by-side stickers. That white and red Cape and Islands license plate that started with the letters CIJ. Not that I had memorized it intentionally. It just happened. Sometimes, I’d park beside him the lot, and when I’d climb out of my Fiesta, I’d casually glance inside his car. He kept it neat in there. Neater than my car, that’s for sure. He had a “new car” scented little cardboard tree hanging from the gear shift, a pack of Trident gum and a travel-sized hand sanitizer in the cup holder, and a burgundy hoodie sweatshirt in the backseat.

Not that I noticed.

On more than one occasion, I thought I saw him out somewhere – not his car, buthim– and then got up close and discovered it wasn’t actually him at all. The first time it happened was at the beach with the girls from the club. There was a guy jogging in the distance whose muscular torso triggered me to squint my eyes. He had a navy and teal brimmed baseball cap on – no shirt, mind you – and I popped up from my towel to “take a walk,” I announced. I headed in the direction of the runner, like a magnet was pulling me towards his Hawaiian-Tropic-commercial-tan body, but when I got a little closer, I realized it wasn’t Brady after all. This guy didn’t have the same nose – that was the first giveaway. Brady’s nose is the tiniest bit upturned, and this guy’s nose was longer and pointier. Then, I saw that the hair color was off – random jogger dude had blonder hair than Brady. I walked away feeling something. Definitelynotdisappointment, in case you’re wondering. It was probably relief. There was a little bit of a lump in my throat, but that’s common with the feeling of relief. I’m sure of it.

Another time, I was down at the mall in Hyannis looking for more work clothes – that is to say, half-shirts from H&M that showed off my entire belly and bikini bottoms from PacSun. (This is a common outfit, and paired with platform heels it's incredibly sexy.) But, anyway. I was walking past Dick’s Sporting Goods and could have sworn I saw Brady perusing the sneakers, but when I went in, he was nowhere to be found. Again, not that I was looking. I justhappened to notice, that’s all.

This ridiculous new habit has been filed away under “annoying side effects of living next door to your ex-boss.” Don’t cry for me, Argentina. I can still go about my daily life and be about 96% okay. (Sure, the remaining 4% is onconstant Brady alertbut I can’t help the fact that I haven’t had sex since my last boyfriend, Keith, back in – well, let’s just say it’s been awhile.) Anyway, since then, my body has slowly morphed into a wanton, salacious frightmare on account of my internal frothing of the ovaries. I’m serious. They have a collective mind of their own and always behave like the apocalypse is coming. I can almost feel them shooting out my eggs every month like darts out of a Nerf gun, loosely aiming for anything that looks like potential baby daddy material. It’s bad-news-bears, because my flirting game is about as tight as a wizard’s sleeve.

The good news? Today I have a shift at Cosmo-pole-itan. Thus, to exactly no one’s dismay, I have no time to consider the rambled musings of my hyperactive (if ignored) libido.

I get myself ready (new tiny T-shirt and glossy, mermaid panty under a loose fitting, cotton romper to hide the getup), apply a shit ton of makeup, first on my pole bruises and then on my face, grab my platforms and throw them in a Stop & Shop reusable bag and slide on my Birkenstock sandals. I drive up to Wellingham with the windows down and the music up loud, truck-stop sunglasses on and my hair whipping around in the wind tunnel that is my front seat.

When I arrive at Cosmo, I open the front door and head straight for the locker bank. The door to the office is closed, but behind it, I hear what appears to be the end of a difficult conversation.

“I’m sorry, honey,” the voice says. It’s Arrow, but you wouldn’t know from the tone. This voice is sweet like Nestle Toll House cookies, rich with the unique combination of sorrow and comfort that can only come from a mom. “I wish I was there with you, baby girl. But, listen to me,” she continues, firmer now. “You’re my strong little kitten. Anytime you get scared or nervous, I want you to hold onto the tiger stuffie I sent you, and remember that you are fierce. Just give it a big squeeze, and know that I believe in you.” There’s a pause, and I realize that I am 100% eavesdropping at the door now. I can’t help it – I’m hearing a side of her that I never could have dreamed existed. “Of course, my angel. You did the exact right thing. That’s why I gave you that kind of phone, so you could always call me if you needed me.” A deep breath. “No, little lady. You should never be sorry for that. You’re a good girl, Kit. You’remygood girl.” Another pause. “I love you more, baby. Now, let me talk to Daddy, okay? Yes, sweetheart. I’ll talk to you soon.” She makes a kissing noise three times and then, silence.

About 30 long, quiet seconds pass, and I’m tempted to knock on the door just to let Arrow know that I’m there. I don’t want to seem like a creeper and end up pissing her off. This job pays way too much for me to risk losing it over something as innocent as overhearing a conversation. I consider sneaking back out and coming in again in five minutes, much louder this time. Just as I’m about to turn and walk out, she says, “Listen fuckface, if I find out that you left her home alone again, I’ll get on the next flight out there and slit your motherfucking throat, you hear me?”Shit.Now I really want to disappear. “No, I don’t want to hear it. She’s ababy,for Christ’s sake. I don’t give a fuck if it was tenseconds– you never leave a child alone like that. You scared the shit out of her!” A sigh. “Don’t you dare raise your voice at me even a hair, you hear me, Ricky? I swear to God, if you upset that child any more today…” Her voice trails off. “Just don’t, got it? I’m financing your entire life out there and I can come get Kit and pull the plug on your cash flow at the drop of a hat, understood? Now, put on your fake smile Daddy voice and say something nice to me before hanging up like a gentleman. I don’t give a shit what you think of me. You have a daughter who’s watching your every move. You owe it to her to at least pretend to not be a total piece of fucking garbage.”

Another few seconds passes, accompanied by a long string of “mm hms,” and then I hear her slam the phone down on the old metal desk.

I’m terrified that Arrow will discover me outside, so I calmly knock three times before opening the office door and popping my head inside. “Hey!” I say, in my most cheerful voice. “I just got here, but I heard you on the phone and didn’t want to bother you. Just saying hi!”

I avoid making eye contact with her as she spins away from me, towards the wall, and grabs a paper towel from the roll on top of the fridge. It’s clear I’ve startled her. “Oh, hey,” she says, trying to be cool. She blows her nose, a heavy honk, into the paper towel. “Fucking allergies,” she says, then grabs her phone off the desk and looks at it while blotting the edges of her eyes. “You’re early.”

“Just a few minutes. Sorry,” I reply.

“No. It’s fine. I gotta go, anyway.” Arrow grabs another paper towel, and swipes her keys off the desk. “You’re fine with tow lot, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“K. I’ll be back later.”

Like a flash of lightning, she’s gone.

Well.That was certainly something.

I’m trying to reconcile the fact that I just saw Arrow tearing up when I hear the front door open again. It’s a partygoer from last night – and so begins the next hour of tow lot. I remain fully dressed to greet hungover girls and hand out their car keys. After the last Lexus has left the lot, I strip down for a workout with Saffron, who shows up early because she promised to help me work on my pole climbing. When she arrives, I debate whether or not to mention what I heard on Arrow’s phone call. But, admittedly, I don’t know Saffron that well, and I don’t like to gossip about people, so I leave it alone. Plus, she swirls in like a tornado, ready to spin all night – and she’s singularly focused on getting my pole climb up to snuff. She’s convinced me that it’s all in the shoes. “The stickier your pole shoes are,” she says, “the better you’ll be able to get up. It’s got way less to do with upper body strength than it does with your footwear.”

I make a face. “Sticky? That sounds gross. Who wants their shoes to be sticky?”

“Not sticky like covered in bubble gum. I mean the fabric. The best shoes are the patent leather ones. They’re made out of a vinyl-plastic combo that just naturally adheres to the pole when you put pressure behind it. Trust me. You’ve got to try them.”

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