Page 84 of Golden Girl
“I’m sorry, Carson. I should never have talked about Paris or Alaska. I was caught up.”
“That was your heart talking.”
“I think the world of you.”
“So we’ve gone from you being madly in love with me to you thinking the world of me. Do you want to write me a letter of recommendation for my next inappropriate lover? List my attributes? Rave about my performance?”
“I knew this would happen.”
Carson can’t handle his tone. “You knewwhatwould happen? That I’d fall in love with you because I’m so young and impressionable and you’re such a lady-slayer?”
“I knew things would end badly,” Zach says. “But you have to believe me when I tell you that they aren’t ending as badly as they could have.”
“I wish I could tape you,” Carson says, “and then play you back to yourself when you’re begging to see me in three days.”
“That’s not going to happen, Carson. Pamela and I are driving up to Maine this weekend to see Peter. I’m going to use that as a chance to reconnect with my wife.”
Gah! Did he really just say that? Carson thinks.Reconnect with my wife?
“Did you find a room at some cute little bed-and-breakfast with lots of chintz and a house cat named Mittens and popovers and fresh-squeezed juice in the common room starting at eight sharp?”
“Yes,” Zach says, a hint of misery creeping into his voice. “I did.”
“Tell me you love me,” Carson says.
“I can’t.”
“Tell me you love me!” Carson says, so loudly that a mother packing up her kids after a day at Jetties Beach turns around to stare. Carson flips her off.
“I can’t, Carson. I’m sorry. Please don’t call me again. Goodbye.” Zach hangs up.
Carson throws her phone at the dashboard; the screen cracks down the middle, just like her heart. She stares out the windshield at the Oystercatcher. She can’t work; she’ll have to call in sick. It’s three o’clock on the nose. If she calls in, she’ll be leaving them in the lurch, big-time. She has nothing left but this job.
She opens her door, climbs out, and somehow puts one foot in front of the other.
But oh, she’s in a mood.
Jaime (girl) is as chipper as a Girl Scout on the first day of the cookie sale. “Thank you for the gift card,” she says. “I love Lemon Press.”
Carson stares at her. “I know I should say you’re welcome, but you’re not welcome.” She steps a little closer to Jaime and notices that she has a new nose piercing, a diamond chip embedded in the side of her nostril surrounded by sore-looking pink skin. “I resent having topay you offto ensure that you’ll help me out. Girl, do you think Gunner ever bought me so much as a freaking latte? He did not, but I still worked my ass off for him. And why? Because I’m a team player, that’s why.” Carson sniffs. “I know you think you’re taking over my job when I move on, but you’re not, Jaime.” Carson waits a beat. “Because you’re not hot enough.”
This lands hard because it happens to be kind of true, and Jaime knows it. She’s not beautiful like Carson. It isn’t fair, but if Carson can teach anyone a lesson, it’s that life isn’t fair.
A dozen Island Creeks, a dozen Wellfleets, two dozen cherrystones, and a round of kamikaze shots. Carson glances up at that—yep, the guy ordering is in his fifties. Nobody young orders kamikaze shots or even knows what they are.
“And pour one for yourself,” he says, leering at Carson. He’s suntanned and wearing a tailored shirt. Breitling watch. He’s with a bunch of other guys his age, all of them with slicked-back hair and needlepoint belts and horn-rimmed glasses, half of them staring at their phones, the other half watching him trying to flirt with Carson. The guy ordering (and paying, she assumes) isn’t wearing a ring.
She pours the shots, including the one for herself, which she throws back quickly. Technically, it’s not allowed, but every bartender in America does it.
The guy plops his neon-orange American Express down; this must be a new color to announce one’s douchebag level of wealth. Brock Sheltingham—a name straight out of a Vivian Howe novel.
“Keep it open, please,” Brock Sheltingham says.
The shot goes to Carson’s head. It doesn’t help that she made the kamikazes with tequila, her nemesis. Not only does Carson hate the taste but it reminds her of her mother. It also doesn’t help that the gentlemen want to do a second round of kamikaze shots. Fine; Carson makes them strong, thinking that when these guys leave her a ten-thousand-dollar tip, she’ll be internet-famous.
If that happens, Carson will give a thousand to Jaime to make up for the horrible thing she said.
Carson does the second kamikaze shot as well; to decline seems rude.
