Page 55 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“Don’t worry,” Maggs says. “I’ll give you whatever you need until you find a proper job—”
I laugh. I shouldn’t, but I do and it’s mean, so I shut up and apologize.
“Sorry, honey. You’re so sweet, but you know better than that.”
“Fuck theI don’t want charityattitude. This is an emergency. It’s not just about you. You have your mother to think about, too. Remember?”
Shit. “Low blow, Maggs.” But she’s right. I can’t take my time to find my dream job. I need to get something fast and preferably with subsistence level income while I search for my next career job.
“I can get a waitress job like my mom. It’s more honest and real than the Gossip Girl job.” I mean it, sort of. Then I remember the new casino in town and how one of the ladies at the wedding said her friend makes a killing there. She’d said as long as you have boobs and a face you can score big. I notice Maggs is silent on the other end of the line.
“I’m coming over there. I’ll see you in fifteen.”
“Don’t do that, don’t leave work early—”
“I’m not. My day starts at seven a.m., you twit. This is the construction business. Besides, I should stop in and say hello to my mom. I haven’t seen her since the wedding.”
When I go inside, my mother isn’t there and I let out a giant breath of relief as if I’d been holding it in the whole way home, dreading to tell her. Not that she would complain. She never does. Nothing ever bothers her. Not since my brother died. How can anything else compare to that?
It’s a downer, but the thought of my older brother’s death at the age of twenty-four in the line of duty in Yemen puts things in perspective. My job is meaningless, my whole life is meaningless, compared to his. Putting my box of office things on the kitchen table, I briefly regret having purged the house of all alcohol for my mom’s benefit. Maybe I should ask Maggs to bring a bottle of wine with her.
When she crashes through the back door a few minutes later, she’s way ahead of me, holding an ice-cold bottle of champagne and a big smile.
“I’m so happy for you,” she says. “Let’s celebrate the end of that horrible job.”
Now I want to laugh and cry at the same time. “Why didn’t you tell me the job was horrible?” Hugging her, I swipe a tear and I know I sold myself short, put up with doing something I had to hold my figurative nose to do all for the opportunity. All because I didn’t think I could get something better.
My confidence had been sapped the minute I asked for a reference from my Olympic volleyball team coach and she laughed at me, told me she had no intentions of doing me any favors because she thought I was a troublemaker, a boat rocker, not the kind of person anyone would want on their team. And that I’d better not use her name or anything to do with the Olympics because if she found out she would make sure whoever hired me—I hung up the phone at that point in her tirade and crossed her name off my mental list. Trying not to be discouraged, I relied on my college volleyball and broadcast connections, and the fact that they knew I’d been on the Olympic team to get me something, anything.
When I’d gone on the interview for the Gossip Girl job, I was told that my pretty face and my connection to Ryan O’Rourke were the reasons I was being hired. The minute they told me I’d get an on-air segment and the chance to occasionally interview pro athletes, I took it. I wanted to get in the door and eventually do play-by-play at games. Not that anyone was going to film college volleyball, but doing play-by-play for women’s college volleyball would have been my dream job. Or coaching, if I were perfectly honest. But as my advisor and coach told me, the money was in broadcasting and I wanted the money. Needed the money. Deserved the money.
“This is exactly what I needed. You have to be psychic,” I say, pouring two glasses after Maggs popped the cork.
“No psychic ability needed. I know you like my own alter ego.” She takes a breath. “Look, I’m sorry if I was being a snob and not supporting you. If you need to work as a waitress, do it. But make sure it’s a well-paying job.” She doesn’t sayunlike your mom’s waitress job, but I hear it.
“What do you think about cocktail waitress at the Encore Casino?”
She makes a face, then smiles. “You’ll have to put up with shit, but at least it’s straightforward shit and you’ll make a bundle. More than they were paying you at BeanTown. The cheap bastards.”
We toast to the prospect.
“I’ll send out my resume and a clip for a new broadcast job. At least I have some experience.” Two months might not be considered experience, but I’m going to sell it. I have a few good clips from the show courtesy of the guy in production who likes me and who I promised dinner. He was psyched for a night out but I’m mixed. He’s okay, but . . .
Let’s face it, I’m still stuck on Ryan. In spite of my best efforts to purge him, to get past that spectacular night. It was the promise of that night that I keep remembering, that keeps my heart warm and hope burning. That makes me stupid.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I say. “It’s a temporary job.”
“I have to tell Levi,” she says. “I’m not going to start keeping secrets from him. Plus I want to come and check on you as soon as you get the job and I’m not going alone so I’m telling Allie Pink.”
“Fine. Levi and Pink. That’s it.” They’re both very trustworthy.
“You going to tell your mother?”
“I don’t want to. I don’t think she’d like me working as a waitress, it’ll make her sad. Sadder even than she already is to think I’m doing the same thing she is after she’s had so much hope for me, was so proud of me.”
Maggs wraps me in a hug before I sink any further.
* * *
