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That doesn’t mean I’m in love with him.
I am quite certain this nostalgia I have for him is just that. It’s a longing for something that I could never quite let myself have, an itch I can’t scratch, and it’s a story that I obsess over because it’s unfinished. I never planned to come back to finish the story. I made a choice. I didn’t leave the letter that I had written him. And I was only mildly disappointed that he obeyed the note that I did leave him, demanding that he never come after me.
But it’s not Wes Carver that I’ve come back for.
Really, it’s not.
I’m here for respect. I’m here to work. I’m here because being a full-time waitress and Hot Girl #2 in a car insurance commercial is not as fun as it sounds. Last week, I finally broke down and called my dad to ask for a loan against my trust fund—which he set up so that I wouldn’t have access to it until I’m twenty-five. He proposed that I come home and take a job at his company instead. If I work for him for one year, he said that he would amend the revocable trust so that I can access the funds when I’m twenty-four.
To me, that’s an offer worth so much more than the lead in a Broadway play or a movie or TV show. It’s not about the money. That offer means that Jasper “Call me Jay” Barnes might actually consider his only child to be worthy of one day taking over the business that has been in his family for three generations. That offer means financialandemotional security. Or the potential for it, anyway. That offer means that I might actually be able to call Belford home again if I want to.
I’ll work for it. I’ll earn it. It will take some time, but I have every intention of proving to my father that I have what it takes to run his comprehensive commercial real estate services company—even if it’s so freaking boring it kills me. I will reconnect with my old friends who probably think I abandoned them for the glamorous life of a model/actress, even though nothing could be further from the truth. I will continue to avoid Wes Carver for as long as possible, like sugary, gluten-packed carbs, until I come face-to-face with him and the inevitable starvation-and-lust-fueled binge will begin all over again.
It’s Monday afternoon, but I can’t wait to get to the house, take a bath, eat whatever delicious meal Vicky has prepared, and then go to bed at seven thirty. I’m dehydrated and tired because I didn’t sleep at all last night and I didn’t want to keep stopping to pee in gross public restrooms along the I-5 freeway. I’d stayed in a motel with very thin walls and what sounded like a family of twenty in the rooms on either side of me. I’d done as much research about the Barnes Group as I could with what I could find online, like I was preparing for a role. I used to ask my father about his work every day until I was finally old enough to realize he didn’t take me seriously enough to really explain what it was that he did. All I knew was that the company my great-grandfather formed was construction and development and they built half of Belford. At some point in the eighties, the company evolved into a commercial real estate services firm—brokerage, property management, and real estate investments.
My dad told me that I would be assisting the vice president of the commercial real estate investments division. It sounds interesting enough. But I feel it is my first duty to advise the Barnes Group that someone needs to work on their website, because I learned approximately jack shit from reading every page of it. I can recite the entire Wikipedia page on commercial property, but I have no idea what I’ll be doing or who else I’ll be working with at the company besides my father and his assistant.
I return to my car with all of the items that I used to carry in my Burberry handbag in a plastic Denny’s takeout bag. I can still hear Tammy squealing for joy inside the restaurant.
It’s just a Burberry bag, Tammy. Thank you for accepting a small piece of my emotional baggage from New York as a tip.
When I’m about to climb into the driver’s seat, I get a call from my dad’s cell phone. I steel myself and accept the call, half-expecting him to tell me he’s changed his mind about the job. “Hello?”
“Lily?”
“Yes. Hi, Dad.”
“Are you driving?”
“No, I made a quick stop. I’m just past Ashland.”
“Good. You shouldn’t be talking on the phone while you drive.”
“Right. I’m not driving.”
“Well, you should probably get back on the road. Rush hour starts soon.”
I sigh. “Great idea. So I’ll see you at home for dinner?”
“Actually, I’d like you to come straight to the office once you’re in town.”
“You mean…like, now?”
“Yes. As soon as you’re in town. You’ll need to talk to Human Resources and meet a few people before you officially start work here tomorrow.”
I am so relieved and pleased to hear the words “you officially start work here tomorrow” that I don’t even care how annoying it is that I can’t go home and take a nap.
“Right, sure,” I say. I’m going to have to wrestle with some bags in the back seat, find something a little more business-y to wear, and go back to that stinky Denny’s bathroom to change out of these jeans. “I’ll be there. I look forward to meeting everyone. Like the VP I’ll be working with.”
“For,” he says. “The VP you’ll be workingfor. Well, you’re going to meet with him, yes. But you already know him. It’s Wes. You remember Wes Carver? Toby’s son…”
My brain freezes. My body freezes. I can’t form words.
“Hello…? Lily, are you there?”
“Yes,” I squeak. “I’m here.”
“Good.”
