Deep Blue (22 page)

The next day, two more casinos call and cancel interviews. The last place asked a couple of questions and told me they’d call after my references had been checked. I haven’t heard back.

A restaurant—I’m getting desperate and put in a call to a friend of a friend—said the same thing the first hiring manager did. That they spoke to someone at Blue who couldn’t recommend my work.

I didn’t even do anything wrong at Blue—except piss off Drake.

Is he
blackballing
me? That would be just excellent.

I have no job, I’m running out of money, and my future is tenuous. Add to that the fact I haven’t heard from my boyfriend in the four days since his baby-momma came back into town, and I’m ready to pitch a tent near the ice cream aisle.

I broke down and called Jaeger this afternoon. I told myself I’d wait until he called, but he hasn’t and I couldn’t hold out any longer. Am I being dumped? Again?

Jaeger didn’t answer, so I left a message. He hasn’t called back.

Four days. Four days since Kate interrupted our date at Tao, and no word from Jaeger. Any normal human being would assume it’s over. I should have learned after Eric, but I can’t wrap my head around it. Everything with Jaeger was different. I knew it was over with Eric when he didn’t call. With Jaeger, I’m not sure I
can
believe it’s over until I hear it from him.

I’ve signed up for classes, but I have no way to pay for them. I refuse to mooch off my mom after she spent years financing college. I’m not even sure she could afford to help me, now that she has a mortgage. A crazed desperation drives me these days.

I work through the second pint of butter pecan and ponder the fact I might end up attending law school after all. At least at Harvard I have a loan established that will cover living and tuition. And isn’t that ironic? All this introspection and reinvention to end up right where I started—miserable, but surviving. There’s got to be more to life than this.

The front door bolt scrapes and Gen walks in. It’s after one in the morning and she’s dressed in tight jeans and a slinky tank. Tyler’s still out with one of his buddies.

I raise an eyebrow. Gen doesn’t just look beautiful tonight, she looks
hot.
Like, trying to impress a guy hot. I’m instantly suspicious. “Where’ve you been? Did you go out with someone?”

For a moment she looks like a teenager slipping in after curfew. She sinks onto the couch, glaring at my ice cream. “How much of that have you eaten this week?”

I study the carton. “
This
week?”

She lets out a nervous laugh. “Cali …”

“Five pints?”

She pokes my belly. It’s stuffed with slushy goodness. “I think you need to cool it with that. Time for an intervention.”

That’s funny. I’m usually giving Gen interventions about the smutty books she’s addicted to—trashy TV I fully support—and her poor taste in men.

My, how things have changed.

I glare at her and reload my spoon, but I can’t bring it to my mouth. I am stuffed. I’ve eaten so much ice cream these last few days I’ve grown immune to the sugar high, like a junkie. “I don’t need an intervention. I need a job. I need a life.” My voice catches on that last bit.

“I know, hon.” She drapes her arm around my shoulders. “You’ve had some challenges, but it’s time to pick yourself up.”

“How?” I sink lower and curl into her. Being a loser sucks. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Yes you do. You’re an artist. You took all those fancy classes back in college, because it was easy for you and it’s what other people would have done if they had your brains. But now you need to think about how you want to live the rest of your life.”

Gen’s been dealing with the deep stuff while I’ve lived a relatively charmed existence. Finances were tight, but I had a smooth home life. Gen, meanwhile, mentioned a few of the trials she grew up with living with her mom, none of them good. It’s a wonder she came out normal. She’s stronger and wiser than she knows.

“I have, and it’s not working out. I should just go to law school,” I mumble stubbornly. “It’s not too late.”

Gen pinches my chin and lifts my head until she’s staring me down. “Don’t throw your life away because you’re scared.” There’s strength behind her words. She’s mentioned her fears before and how they crippled her. She’s speaking from experience.

I thought I had everything figured out, but it was artificial, shallow. I should have focused on my own life and left Gen to deal with hers. She’s doing fine without me meddling.

Pity party is over. I squish the top of the carton back on the ice cream and set it on the floor.

Gen watches me approvingly. She shifts and taps her toe, her chin propped on her fist. She looks pretty and powerful. My BF has changed these last two months. She’s still her, just more confident. I thought I was confident, and maybe I am, but it was because others told me what I was doing was fantastic, not because it was what I wanted in life. When I get out of this, I’ll be stronger and it will be genuine. I’ll have confidence because I’m doing what makes me happy, not just what’s expected.

“I’d bet money Drake has something to do with Blue giving you poor references. You’ll have a hard time finding a job.”

“I know, and I’ve already considered he’s probably behind it.”

Gen’s eyes narrow as she gazes absently across the room. She nods as if she’s having a silent conversation with herself. “I’ve already put in a call to Nessa. I’ll follow up. We’ll find something.”

I close my eyes and let out a weighty sigh. It’s difficult to imagine there’s a job out there that doesn’t require references and still pays enough to cover my expenses. As much as the job situation upsets me, it’s not the thing hurting me the most right now.

Gen squeezes my hand. “I don’t know why he hasn’t called, Cali,” she says softly. “He’s dealing with stuff. Big stuff. Have you tried talking to your brother? Has he heard anything?”

“Jaeger’s off the grid. He’s not taking calls. He never returned Tyler’s texts.”

“Give him time. A few days isn’t long, considering what he’s dealing with. He’s one of the good guys.”

“I know.” My eyes bead up with tears. I shake my head. “This hurts worse.”

“Worse than Eric,” she says, understanding without me having to say it.

“Losing Eric was nothing compared to the pain of … My pride took a hit with Eric and I was sad, but this … this is like someone took an ice pick to my heart and punched a few thousand holes in it.” I buckle and lay my head in her lap.

Gen strokes my head for several seconds. “There’s only one thing to do in this situation.”

“Apply for a heart transplant?” I mumble.

She reaches over me, smashing my skull on her lap in the process. The television clicks on and I look up. She’s running through our DVR list. The chalet is ancient, but it has a modern television system.

Obviously, a man owns the rental.

What Would William Pelt Do?
starts up.

“We ogle hot William for twelve to fifteen hours until our minds go numb,” Gen answers.

As solutions go, this one isn’t bad. Gen and I watch William’s abs and his dating mishaps for the next couple of hours. I end up laughing so hard my ice cream gut cramps.

Life could be worse.

Jaeger finally called this morning while I was in the shower. It’s what I wanted and what I dreaded. I haven’t called him back. I’m scared. If we don’t talk, I can believe for a little longer that I still have a wonderful new boyfriend. Focus on the positives, like the fact that Gen lined up a job interview for me this afternoon. She was texting back and forth with Nessa last night during our
William
marathon and apparently scheming. I woke to a note tacked to the fridge that she must have left after I’d passed out in bed.

Sallee Construction, Pinecone Chalet Business Center. Interview with John Sallee at 2 p.m. Mention me and Nessa and don’t be late!

The irony of how this summer began, with me thinking I had everything figured out, determined to help Gen, and how it’s ending with our positions reversed, has not escaped me.

I would have liked to have grilled Gen about this interview, but she left early—Gen, the thou-shall-not-rise-before-ten person. Something has gotten into her. She is not herself lately, but I’m not complaining because she got me an actual interview. I managed to squeeze a couple of details out of her via text before she said she’d be going out of range. Nessa knows the owner, and Gen said to bring my sketches. She didn’t mention what the position was for, but I imagine it has something to do with art. Who cares if it doesn’t? I’m desperate.

Fingers crossed, I pull up to the Pinecone Chalet Business Center. If this job doesn’t work out, I’m not sure what I’ll do. I threatened myself with going to Harvard, but I won’t. In fact, I notified the university this morning that I won’t be attending. If this job doesn’t pan out, I’ll find another. It might not pay as much, and I’ll have to put off art classes for a while, but it’ll be the beginning of something that feels right.

The receptionist at Sallee Construction has on a pair of light wash jeans and a purple top, her blond, frizzy hair pulled back in a scrunchy. She’s the complete antithesis of the receptionist who handed me my closing papers at Blue. I’m already optimistic.

“Just a moment, honey.” She types on her keyboard with the tips of her stubby finger nails and makes a note in a log to the side of her desk. “Okay.” She beams. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m Cali Morgan. I have an appointment with John Sallee. Genevieve Tierney and Nessa Villanueva referred me.”

“He’s expecting you. Go right on back. First door on your left.” She smiles and turns back to her computer.

John Sallee’s office is open when I walk up. He’s flipping through documents on his desk as if searching for something. I knock. “Hello?”

He looks up, startled for a moment, before a wide smile sweeps his face. “You must be Cali.” He pushes the stack he shuffled to the side, though I’m not sure why. His desk is covered in papers and rolled-up blueprints, as is the rest of his office. Shuffling things around won’t create space; he’d need a shredder for that. “Come on in.”

I take a seat across from John and sit up to see him over the mountain of crap on his desk. He has one of those friendly faces with dark, tanned skin and deep laugh lines that match his smile.

“So, I hear you need a job,” he says without preamble.

I’m like a charity case. “Yes, sir. I do.”

“And you’re friends with Gen and Nessa?”

“Gen is my best friend. We went to college together at Dawson University. I met Nessa through her.” I don’t mention the casino. John can read about it on my resume—I’m not hiding the fact that I worked there—but I’m not going to encourage him to contact them. He’d receive the same poor feedback about my employment every other hiring manager did.

He nods, considering me from across the desk. “Gen said you’re passing up an opportunity to attend Harvard Law to pursue art.” I thought John was Nessa’s contact? When would Gen have spoken to him? John whistles. “You sure you want to do that?”

My chin tips up. “I’ve been considering a different career all year.” The truth is, I’ve been considering how I wasn’t looking forward to law school all year. I didn’t realize until this summer how much I’d been dreading it. In junior high, the fact that I liked arguing with people seemed a good enough reason to pursue law, but not now. It’s taken me a while to figure that out. I’m stubborn that way.

“Mm-hmm. Well—” He looks at a piece of paper in front of him. “It says here you’re taking a CAD course.”

“It begins tonight.”

“And you took upper division economics at Dawson and are proficient with mathematics.”

“Uh, higher mathematics, yes.”

If he wants me to perform advanced calculus, we’re good. If he asks me which way is left or to do simple addition, my brain might implode. The only way I got away with dealing at the casino was by memorizing the card combinations.

“Okay, well, I’ve got an in-house architect who’s been riding me to hire an assistant with CAD experience. Once you learn CAD, you’ll work exclusively with him. Until then, you’ll do odd jobs for the architect and engineer. An artist comes in handy more than you would think in this business. You’ll be asked to do anything from making coffee runs to sketching a foundation. I’ll pay you a base salary with benefits. You’ll get a raise with your CAD qualifications.”

John goes over some figures, and with a few quick calculations on my iPhone back at the car, I realize I can actually survive on the salary. It’s not as much as I made as a dealer, but once my pay increases with the CAD skills, I’ll make enough to live comfortably.

More important, it’s a job. With health benefits. I could kiss Gen and Nessa right now.

I’m to start the day after tomorrow. John said he’d schedule a staff meeting and lay down the law so his co-workers don’t pull me apart assigning me to projects. He’s actually eager to have me on board, and I’ll be
drawing
—okay, and making coffee runs, but still. This work will pay bills and give me practical experience as an artist.

John never asked for references. My connection to Gen, the few sketches I brought per Gen’s suggestion, and my transcripts from college were enough for him to hire me.

I’m so excited I’m shaking. I pull up to the chalet and Tyler is sitting on the cement pad that is our front porch. His legs are outstretched in the dirt. He looks up, and the permagrin I drove home with fades.

Something’s wrong. His eyes are fixed and tense, his mouth stiff. I get out of the car and cross to him. “What happened?”

Tyler picks up a brown pine needle and twists it in his fingers. “I spoke to a friend who ran into Jaeger’s sister.”

My heart thumps heavily inside my chest. I drop beside him, dust from the powdery soil smearing my navy interview skirt. “Just say it.”

Tyler bends his legs and props an arm on his knee. “Jaeger’s ex has moved in with him.”

The pain hits me like a bullet, instant and sharp. I swallow and wobble to my feet, gripping the side of the house.