One Broke Girl (6 page)

“That’s so not appropriate,” Gavin said. “You shouldn’t repeat things you hear the older kids say.” He gripped the kid’s shoulder and led him back to his table.

Well, it was probably good that Balls Kid had interrupted us. I didn’t need to be kinda-flirting with him anyway. Not only because I had a boyfriend, but because I was crazy occupied at the moment. I had a busy life, what with this job, fixing stuff up at home, starting the maid work and possibly delivering pizza on my bike.

The fun times never ended.

I got through the rest of my serving shift then darted to the back to clean. I already had the routine down and moved from counter to counter, methodically cleaning each surface. Mrs. Portwell came over and patted me on the back as I stepped back to examine the kitchen as a whole.

“You’re doing a great job,” she said in what sounded like a surprised tone. I should have been offended by her shock, but I made myself focus on the good words. “I’m glad we have you here.”

“Thank you,” I told her sincerely as I removed my hairnet and tossed it in the garbage. “I’m trying to learn.”

“If you keep up the good work, maybe we can get you started on helping us cook food someday. It means a few more hours a week, too.”

“That would be great.” Since the elementary school was small, they only had a couple of lunch periods, which meant I was maybe putting in two to three hours a day right now. I grabbed my purse and headed out of the kitchen. The hallways were emptied, and from the classrooms I could hear kids talking over each other in excitement to answer their teachers’ questions.

When I got to Gavin’s classroom, I paused and let myself peer in. He was standing against the chalkboard, shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms, head tilted as he talked to his class. Then he grabbed a book, took a nearby seat and waved the kids over on the small blue rug.

His voice was warm and steady as he read to them, and with each page he turned the book toward them and pointed at words and images. The kids chanted along and clapped when they got to the end.

I stepped away and continued to the double doors, not wanting to get busted for creeping on his class. What had made him decide to teach—and kindergarteners, of all ages? Suddenly I wanted to know more about him. Where he lived, why he’d stayed in town instead of moving away, what music he liked.

What he looked like in a casual T-shirt or puttering around the house.

I shove the doors open and stepped into the brisk air. It was overcast, and a light breeze chilled my face and hands as I walked to my bike.

Steven never wore just a T-shirt and jeans. Even while fishing or hiking, he had on a nice polo and khakis. He always looked like he stepped off the pages of a men’s magazine, ready to conquer the world. I couldn’t imagine him with a bad hair day.

I got on my bike and headed to town. Honestly, his put-togetherness was one of the reasons I’d been attracted to him in the first place. Steven had his shit together. He knew what he wanted out of life, where he’d be five years, ten years, fifty years from today.

Right now, I didn’t even know where I’d be next month, for the most part.

I navigated to the front of the barber shop and impulsively stopped, locking my bike in the nearby bike rack. I’d ridden through town dozens of times now, back and forth on my way to and from work, but I hadn’t really stopped to take it all in.

With a casual gait, I strolled down the sidewalk, eyed the antique shop brimming with old furniture, fur coats and eccentric costume jewelry. The travel agency next door was manned by a woman who looked to be about five hundred years old. I could almost hear her bones creak as she stood and crept toward a large rack containing numerous pamphlets.

The town was much more charming than I remembered it as a kid. If I had to be stuck somewhere flat broke and desperate for money, there were worse places it could have happened. And at least my dad was starting to leave the house, going on walks in the nearby woods. Maybe soon, he’d even start taking his sketching pencils and paper along, the way he used to all over New York City.

My phone buzzed. I removed it from my pocket and saw that it was a text with a picture from Fiona.

You’re missing this!
she wrote, and the picture showed her and several other people posed in Times Square. A follow-up text said,
We’re seeing a musical. Daddy got us box seats!

I leaned back against the brick wall and absorbed the picture, my heart throbbing in a sharp pain of longing. I loved prowling around Times Square. Yeah, it was a tourist trap filled with chaos, but the energy that hummed there was potent. And going to see a musical on Broadway? One of the best ways to spend an evening.

Just a month before I’d moved away, Fiona and some random date of hers, with Steven and me, had gone to see a stunning production of Les Mis. We’d scored amazing seats, courtesy of Fiona’s dad, who had connections I couldn’t imagine. Then we’d dropped five hundred bucks on dinner and drinks.

God, what I could do with five hundred bucks right about now.

Hope you guys have fun,
I wrote back and stuck my phone in my pocket before the sadness and jealousy overtook me. For some reason, as dumb as it might sound, I’d thought my friends would miss me more. But Fiona was the only person who still bothered to text me at this point—and even that was scattered and inconsistent.

That life was so far gone from me now.

I continued down the sidewalk and saw the library perched at the end in a pristine brick building. I wandered inside then took a seat in front of a computer terminal. We didn’t have internet or phone or cable at home, so I’d been using my cell to check my scant email. I barely even got on my social media anymore, not wanting to see the bragging food pictures, shopping excursions and so on.

Besides, what would I post? A shot of my raggedy-ass purple bike?
Got a sweet new ride. Are you jealous?
I snorted at the thought.

I logged on to the computer and took a peek at the screen of the older woman beside me. She was typing away at what looked to be some kind of online course.

I bit my lip and stared at my screen. I missed school. A lot.

Bianca had made an offhand comment at the bar that when a student’s financial situation had a drastic change, the student could fill out a revised financial aid application. With all the money my parents had before the split, we hadn’t bothered. But now…maybe I could qualify for loans or grants or some kind of assistance.

In fact, Natalie had gotten her associate’s degree in nursing from a nearby college that was small but respectable with a combination of loans and scholarships.

A thought crawled into my head. If I had to stay here, if I ended up not going back to the city as I’d planned, it would be good to have a backup plan. Of course, such a plan probably wouldn’t ever be enacted. Even if the bulk of my so-called friends in New York City were proving to be flakes, that city still held my heart. No other location could compare. Fair-weather friends couldn’t detract from its beauty, its hold on me. I’d simply make new friends when I returned, and they could all suck it.

Whenever that might be.

Which might not be for a while, if I were honest with myself. So I should think about transferring my credits and possibly finishing my marketing degree somewhere else.

I typed in the name of Natalie’s college and pulled up the contact information. I entered it in my phone’s contact app. Just to have handy should I need it. Then I closed it and went to tuck my phone in my purse. My fingers brushed against a folded piece of paper, which I pulled out.

It was my mom’s letter. I reread it, blinking away the sting of tears in my eyes. Dad had gotten a strange call yesterday where he’d just sat in silence for a couple of minutes then grunted a “Fine” and hung up. When I’d asked him about it, he’d said he’d talk about it later. Then he’d shut himself in his room for the rest of the night.

I’d bet the ten bucks in my purse that the call had been about Mom, and whatever it was had sent him into a bout of depression. Maybe I should press him more about it when I got home. He couldn’t keep leaving me out of the loop; right now, it was my work that was carrying us.

I left the library and headed back to my bike. As I did, I pulled up the PI’s contact info; Bianca had texted it to me after leaving the house on Saturday. I dialed the number before I could change my mind.

It went to voicemail.

“Um, my name is Anna Parker, and I was referred to you by Bianca,” I started. “I’m searching for someone and was hoping you could help. I understand you’re willing to be flexible insofar as payment plans go. Can we talk soon?” I rattled off my number then hung up.

If that hadn’t been the attorney calling Dad, I was done waiting. It was past time to get the ball rolling on finding Mom since all my efforts had failed. Where the money would come from, I didn’t know, nor did I care. I’d make it work.

Dad needed to move forward with his life, and I did too. And the only way to do so was for Mom to own up to what she’d done and right the wrongs. I was sure Dad would qualify for spousal support or something. That would help him supplement his income while he got back into his art or found another job. Which would make it easier for me to go back to my own life.

I hopped on my purple bike and pedaled my way home.

Bread. Milk. Lunch meat. Chicken. Veggies. Pasta. Sauce. Pork. Soda. Tea bags.

I eyed my grocery list with a heavy sigh as I chewed on the back of the pen. I had a grand total of thirty bucks to buy food for the week. My careful budgeting meant all the bills would be paid this month and we’d be fine, so long as we didn’t spend any extra. But would it be enough to get all of this food? I was still so new to shopping for us.

Trial by fire, baby. Only way to learn was to go forth and do it.

I folded the list and stowed it in my purse. As I stood from the kitchen table, my cell rang. My heart stuttered when I realized who it was—Kyle the PI. It had been two days since I’d left that voicemail, and I figured he’d decided to not take me on as a client.

“Hello?” I said as I tried to fight back the nervous flutter in my voice.

“Is this Anna Parker?” The voice was professional, though a little curt. He sounded rather young, closer to my age than what I’d assumed.

“Yes, this is she,” I replied cautiously.

“Anna, this is Kyle Winslow, private investigator at Winslow Investigations. I just received your message. Sorry, I was out of town this weekend and didn’t return to work until today.”

Well, that solved that mystery. I shook my head at myself at my lame joke. “Thanks for calling me back.”

I heard the clack of a keyboard in the background. “I’d be happy to talk to you more about your case and get specifics on this missing person. I’m assuming this isn’t an emergency situation, correct?”

I sighed. “No, she told us she was leaving. We just need to find her.”

“Okay.” More clacking. “Are you free to meet today? We’re open until six.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was three already, but if I met with him, I’d have time to hit the grocery store on the way back. “Sure. What’s your address?”

He directed me to a place near the center of town, and we hung up. I slipped on a jacket, locked the door behind me, then headed down the street on my bike. Soon enough, I’d need to get a real ride. Once winter hit, the bike wouldn’t cut it.

My stomach lurched.
One day at a time, Anna,
I told myself. Once the condo finally sold and we paid off the mortgage, we’d have a little bit of extra money to buy a family car. I just needed to hang in there.

The air cut straight through my jacket, and I shivered. Shoulda worn something thicker. October was brisk in Ohio, and leaves were already spilling across the sidewalk and turning that crunchy brown texture that made bike riding loud but strangely enjoyable.

Downtown bustled with people strolling down sidewalks, moms pushing strollers, old people holding hands and popping into antique stores. I couldn’t help but smile as I navigated my bike across Main Street to Founders Street, where the PI business was located. When I reached it, my brows shot straight up in surprise. Not quite what I’d expected.

The company was being run out of an old Victorian-style home that had been repurposed into a business. Cheery white shutters were flung open on the light blue exterior, and lacy curtains framed the windows. The front door was a large slab of wood framed by two panes of stained glass. So pretty. Did he live here or just work here?

I leaned my bike against the side and went up the wooden steps then rang the doorbell. A moment later, the door was flung open by a super-tall blond guy wearing a pair of scruffy jeans with a wrinkled dress shirt. No way was he more than a year or two older than I was at most.

My guard went up instantly.

“Anna, right? I’m Kyle. Come on in,” he said in that rumbling tone of his as he waved toward the inside of the house. Apparently, the skepticism on my face must have been evident because he sighed and propped a hip against the doorway. “Yeah, I get it. I look like a fetus. Far too young to be a PI, right? Lemme give you the spiel I give everyone. This is our family business, and I’ve taken over it for my dad. I started working with him when I was sixteen, so I have plenty of experience.” He paused and raised a brow. “I’d also like to point out that I’m the only PI around who will work with you on a payment plan…and who’s within bike-riding distance.”

Touché. He had me by the short hairs and he knew it. I nodded and followed him in. The grand stairway up the middle of the large entryway was hand-carved wood that went to the second floor. I was tempted to explore more of this beautiful house, but he led me toward a door on the left that opened into a small office.

“Have a seat.” He moved around to his chair behind the beat-up desk covered in papers. When Kyle grabbed a notebook, he finally deigned to look at me, leaning back in his chair and hovering a pen over the paper. “I need you to tell me everything. Then I can let you know what I can do for you.”