Page 2 of Best Kind of Trouble
I hate the tests, but my God, I want this brewery.
So I’ve decided to show him Idohave what it takes by firing Cleet and Ross.
When I told my friend Hannah about the firing challenge, she said I should axe the two least popular staffers, not the worst, but my sense of fairness wouldn’t allow it. So I picked Cleet, who wears the same hoodie every day and stinks of cheap pot, and Ross, who tried to look up my dress last week when I was lifting something off a high shelf.
(He also did not offer to help.)
Choosing them was the right thing to do. Still, firingtwo people back to back would destroy my soul, which is why I asked them both to meet me here, in my dad’s office, so I could do it at the same time.
Ireallydon’t want to go through with this. I’m tempted to sneak out the back and join my friends at Big Catch Brewing, where Hannah works. She’s throwing a holiday party for the staff (and her friends) there tonight, and within fifteen minutes, I could be drinking mulled wine. It would be worth the effort of having to dodge the inevitable mistletoe like it’s poison ivy.
I can practically see my father shaking his head.If you weren’t the product of IVF, I’d doubt you were my daughter…
I’m still stewing about what to do when Cleet raps his knuckles lazily on the door. He and Ross come in without waiting for a response, trailed by a cloud of pot stench. If it had a color, it would be the purplish gray of ennui.
I wait until they’re sitting in the visitor chairs and then slip behind my father’s heavy desk. I stay standing, because sitting in my father’s chair would feel like stealing a king’s throne. I’m also worried his asshole aura would rub off on me.
“Thanks for taking the time to meet with me,” I tell them. “You guys are great. So great.”
“We are?” Cleet asks with understandable doubt as he plucks something from his nose and flicks it onto the floor.
I try not to cringe as I tug a tissue out of the box near my father’s computer and hand it to him.
He looks at it in confusion. “What’s this for?”
“You’regreat,” I repeat, my tone frantic now. I definitely should have done more yoga this morning. I’m as zen as a Wall Street trader during a market crash.
“You already said that,” Ross points out, a corner of his mouth hitching up. His gaze rakes over me. “And I’d love nothing better than to show you how great I am,in detail, but what’s this about? Are we getting some kind of raise?”
“Uh…no.”
“An award?” Cleet asks, perking up. “I never got an award before.”
Panicking, I blurt, “No! There’s no easy way to say this, but we’re going to have to let you go.”
Cleet’s mouth gapes open.
Ross hikes up his eyebrows so high they get lost in his mussed blond hair.
Before either of them can say anything, I add, “I’ve emailed you a list of open jobs you can apply to. I’m sure you’ll find something in no time. There’s lots of seasonal work right now, and?—”
“You fired us at the same time,Rapunzel?” Ross says in a mocking voice. I’ve heard plenty of people call me that in whispers, as much because I’m “daddy’s little princess” as for my waist-length blond hair. “Is this the respect you show your staff?”
“I’ll give you both positive references,” I continue, falling back on the script I wrote and memorized.
“Well, lah-di-dah,” Ross says with a snort. “The princess will give us a positive reference. Didyouneed any references to get this job, or did your daddy just give it to you?”
“He gave it to me,” I say through a tight throat, “and I’ve done everything I possibly can to earn my place.”
It’s true. Since moving back to Asheville, I’ve devoted most of my time to learning about beer and breweries. It’s become my special interest, I guess you could say. Even my best friends are connected to the brewery world—Hannah is at Big Catch Brewing, and Sophie used to work at Buchanan Brewery and came up with a new nonalcoholic drink line for them.
And, sure, therealreason I met Hannah and Sophie was because all three of us, along with a fourth woman, wereunknowingly dating the same beer distributor—Jonah Price—but I’m trying not to dwell on my failures.
Ross snorts, turning to Cleet, and says, “We’re lucky we’re getting out of this dump. Bubba has it right. If she’s taking over, it’s going to hell in a handbasket.”
I bite my lip. Bubba is the head brewer. I had a feeling he wasn’t my biggest fan, but I was hoping that was just paranoia.
Truthfully, I’m worried he’s right about the handbasket. My father isn’t a caring boss, but there’s no denying he gets things done. The one timeIran a business—the online jewelry store I started with my then-friend Theresa—it was initially successful and then crashed and burned.
