Page 18 of A Fool's Game

It must be a rejection letter.

And somehow, even though it would crush a dream that’s been growing and taking shape over the last two years, the thought is a bit of a relief. Because this opportunity, as amazing as it would be, would mean complete and utter chaos in my personal life.

Not only would I be returning to the east coast, the scene of all my childhood sadness and loss, I would be leaving behind the people who care about me most in the world. The first and only place I’ve ever felt truly secure and understood.

The man who has supported me through all my healing, my growth, my blossoming into the person I always dreamed I could be.

Just the thought of telling him I’m leaving is enough to turn my stomach. He’d be so happy for me. He’d smile and tell me I deserved it and never let me turn it down, not even if it meant moving thousands of miles away.

I tear open the envelope, relieved that I won’t ever have that conversation. Ready for the madness of waiting and wondering and watching the mailbox to be over.

I’ll just read this rejection letter and move on with my life. I’ve been accepted to half a dozen other internships, most of them right here in the Seattle area, or low residency other places on the west coast. I’ll accept one of them and it will be just fine.

Flopping back down in my seat, I toss the envelope onto the table and unfold the single sheet of paper.

Congratulationsis the only word I see before I shriek and throw the letter as hard as I can.

Chapter 8

Ainsley

My lip still hurts the next day, but at least I have my phone to feed me tiny hits of dopamine throughout the day. I show up early with coffees from the little café near my house for myself and Seth.

“I got you a mocha. I hope that’s okay.” I watched him putting packet after packet of sugar into his creamy coffee yesterday, so I assumed sweet would be fine.

“I’ve never had one.” He takes a drink and his face lights up. “Wow, that’s coffee?”

I laugh and shake my head. “You’ve never had a mocha? How is that possible?”

He just shrugs.

We head into the locker room, and I pull out my other surprise. Insta-Cart came through for me last night, delivering a couple of rubber aprons all the way from a restaurant supply store in SoDo.

“I found these. Do you want a new one?” The apron the cafeteria supplied him is covered with cracks from the creasing. There’s no way the thing is waterproof anymore.

“Wow. Thanks, man.” Seth ties the new apron on and grabs his coffee. “This is going to be a great day.”

I should have taken his foreshadowing as irony. Or possibly he just jinxed us.

Because the day is not great.

At the morning meeting, Taylor calls me out for having brought in coffee—ours isn’t good enough for you, pretty boy?And for having bought new aprons—some of us don’t have to buy our friends, rich boy.

I shrug it all off, sipping my delicious latte as I watch him get angrier and angrier, seemingly just at my existence. I zone out a bit during his dressing down and only snap back to attention when he steps right into my space, his nose less than a foot from mine. “You don’t have anything to say in your defense?”

I take a deep breath and sigh, knowing already that it’s a lost cause. “Well, I am rich, so there’s no point in arguing with that,” I start flippantly. Taylor’s face turns a whole new shade of red as he bares his teeth. “And I appreciate you calling me pretty. That makes me feel good about myself.”

Just like yesterday, the room full of cooks reacts as if I just threw the guy to the ground and body slammed him. The oohs and laughter explode out of them in unison, a single wall of sound hitting me and forcing a smile against my will.

But Taylor isn’t smiling. “You’re on soup today,” is his only response.

The peanut gallery’soohsturn tooh dangsand the collective pitch falls, letting me know I just got demoted.

“I love soup,” I answer without missing a beat.

Apparently, though, you can’t make soup without onions. Mountains and mountains of onions. The first hour is the worst, my sinuses in full revolt against the toxic air escaping from the evil vegetables.

Or maybe it’s gas. What is it that makes onions so damn sad?

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