Page 87 of The End of Summer

“Apparently, my parents went to the Diamond tonight to wish you luck. They sat in the main restaurant and asked for you by name – only, someone said you haven’t worked there in months.”

“Oh. Shit.”

“Yeah. My dad’s pissed.”

“Hm. That was nice of them to go over there. I feel bad.” He rubs his forehead.

“Yeah, kind of out of character. They must like you. They don’t eat at expensive places like that for no reason.”

“Hang on, just let me think.”

I lean against the kitchen counter.

“Okay. What if…” His voice trails off.

“I’m listening,” I say.

“What if we say that I got moved to the golf side?”

“Go on.”

“Like, you know how by the pro shop there’s that restaurant where the golfers eat?”

“Mulligan’s?”

“Yeah. What if we say I moved over there? It’s still part of the Diamond.”

“I guess we could say that. But wouldn’t it be a downgrade?”

“Not if I was the restaurant manager.”

“That could work. Unless…”

“Unless what?” he asks.

“Unless they go there to try and visit you.”

Brady takes a step towards me and reaches his hands around my waist. “Well, they won’t go this week, since I’m out of town anyway. Hopefully, that will give everyone a chance to settle down. By next week, maybe it won’t be on their radar anymore. Especially,” he goes on, kissing me on the forehead, “if I get the job in New York.”

“Okay. That’s fair.”

“You just need to be convincing when you tell them. Like there’s nothing to be concerned about at all. Like it was just a misunderstanding or an oversight.”

I nod. “Got it.”

I put it out of my mind for the rest of the night, curl up in Brady’s bed, and help him get over his pre-interview jitters.

Twice.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

BRADY

DrivingtoNew York is no problem at all, but drivinginNew York? Holy hell. That’s another story altogether. People are crazy. That’s really all I can say.

I don’t know what I thought New York City would be like. I remember going on a class trip there when I was in the fifth grade. We went to see the Broadway rendition ofGreaseand it was really cool. But we drove in on a coach bus, and all I remember is playing with my PSP for the hours-long trip down. I do not remember every turn being a near-death experience. I do not remember pedestrians playing Russian Roulette with their lives, jaywalking without even so much as a “look both ways” mentality. I remember eating pizza and thinking the slices were so big. I don’t remember the atmosphere absolutelyreekingof weed, or seeing quite so many panhandlers on the street. I also don’t remember parking costing $80, but of course, I was not responsible for parking a vehicle overnight when I went there the last time.

It’s avibe, that much is certain. The fact that I make it to my hotel is nothing short of a miracle. And thankfully, the hotel is close to the office where my interview is being held, so I can walk there the following morning. There are five different food choices on my block alone, and I opt for pizza, because it brings back happy memories. It is handed to me on a thin, white paper plate tucked into a brown paper bag, and within moments of holding it in my hand, the bag is translucent with grease. It tastes good, though. Like good enough that I wish I could save some for Gretchen.

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