Page 16 of Over & Out

Tru’s lips quirk up a bit, as if she can hear my inner battle. “The role is only for three months, Chris. I’ve promised my husband our lives will be away from this job for three full months. And it’ll be here, primarily, so you won’t need to relocate. Hopper’s filming a movie nearby and we’ve already rented him a place just north of town. I’ll be back just as soon as this child is able to hold its head up.”

Three months. Here, in Redbeard Cove. Stylist. Cars.

“I already have a job,” I say. But my body’s betraying me. I’m leaning forward in my chair, my voicelacking the adamant conviction it contained a moment ago.

“My apologies if this is too personal, but I notice you’ve been rubbing your shoulder a bit—are you in pain? Because we have a full suite of medical and wellness professionals at your disposal. Open spa access here and in several locations in Beverley Hills.”

“Will the job buy my groceries and walk my dog, too?” I ask weakly.

“We could arrange for that.”

I flop my head back on the chair. “I don’t have a dog.”

Three months where I could figure out what’s next for me at this fork in the road. All while taking care of my body, wearing fancy clothes bought by someone else, and driving in hot cars. And all I’d have to do is yell at that man. Just…boss a movie star around.

“Does he know you’re doing this?” I ask. “I can’t believe he’d want me working for him.”

Tru looks away. “Well, he knows what’s good for him.”

I open my mouth to tell her how bad this would be. He’d hate it. But I snap it closed again when I turn that around in my mind. He’dhateit. A devious glee turns my lips up as I imagine Hopper’s ridiculous movie-star face when he learns the lowly server who pissed him off so badly is his new handler. It would be the ultimate last word. I think this, if anything, is what makes me seriously consider Tru’s offer.

I chew my lip. “You’re due?—”

“In a month.”

“Just out of curiosity, why did you wait so long to find someone?” And what was going to happen if she didn’t?

“No one was just right. Not until you. Your friend out there, Lana, she says you’re the best server this place has got. That you’re the one who has the most…sasswhen it comes to the rude customers. It’s all I needed to hear—that your handling of Hop today wasn’t a one-off. Although, frankly, I was ready to offer you the job the minute you got him to eat those eggs. That was a masterpiece.”

Here I was thinking that was impulsive and stupid. That I should have let him burn out. “What can I say? The guy has a talent for pushing every single one of my buttons.”

But as I say that, I have to privately admit there was something about the way he had a comeback for each of my jabs that was exciting. I felt alive in a way I haven’t for a long time.

“I won’t twist your arm,” Tru says as if she hasn’t already been fully doing just that. She moves to rise and I jump up to help her. “But here”—she scribbles on a piece of paper on Mac’s desk—“is the pay for the term.” She folds the paper and slides it over to me. “Plus, of course, all those other benefits we discussed. Oh, did I mention the Iggies in January? I’d need you to walk the red carpet with Hop.”

I pause in opening the paper as my eyes practically flash with stars. “I’m sorry. Did you say…”

“Yes. The Iggies. Are you familiar?”

I actually gulp. Like an audible cartoon gulp. I watch them every year. I’m not necessarily a movie star person,but they’re amazing. “Yes,” I say weakly, my cool cover fully blown. “I’m familiar with the awards where people wear thrifted outfits and donate their fashion budgets to charities and have peer-voted awards likeHero in a leading role most likely to join themselves in a lookalike contest—” I’m pretty sure Hopper won that one last year. Who am I kidding? I know he did. Lana, Annie, Shelby, and I shrieked at the accuracy at our watch party.

If Tru knows I know, she doesn’t say anything. She just smiles. “They’re the party version of the Oscars,” she says. “The place the stars let loose. They’re, well, they’re a shit ton of fun, if I’m being frank.”

How can I not get swept up in that?

She smiles. “You going to look at that?”

I look down at the paper in my slightly sweaty hand.

The number she’s written is…obscene. It’s three times what I make at the restaurantin a year.I clear my throat, folding the paper back up as if it’s not a life-changing amount of money.

“I see,” I say. I scratch behind my ear, trying to calm down.

My whole body is vibrating with excitement. But my hands are also clammy, my stomach flipping so much I think I might throw up. This feeling of being hand-picked is so unfamiliar it feels like a threat. My dad was sometimes wonderful, but lots of times, he’d been so wrapped up in his own problems, he’d fully forget about me. Like not come home, eight-year-old using a stool to make her own dinner and put herself to bed forget about me. Later, when he was gone, I was the problem. The one sent to families who took the “difficultkids.” I was too angry, too reckless. Too much. Unwanted.

But Truwantsme.

What if this isn’t too good to be true? What if, for once in my life, I get a taste of the kind of big, beautiful life I always thought was reserved for people more deserving? More together? More everything?

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