Beautiful Failure (6 page)

“No, but it’s always good to double check.”

“Young girls have been a problem for you in the past?”

He laughs. “You have a
very
smart mouth.”

“Pay me enough and I’ll show you what I can really do with it.”

He raises his eyebrow. “
Excuse me
?”

I don’t back down. That’s one of Leah’s old lines—it used to net her an easy four hundred bucks, and I’ve often wondered what would happen if I ever used it.

“Are you propositioning me to
pay you
for a blowjob?”

“Is that what it sounds like?”

“It does.” He smirks. “It also sounds like you’re full of shit.”

I blink, and then I burst into laughter. “It was a joke.”

“So you
are
a child?”

I roll my eyes and stand up. “Whatever. Enjoy your coffee.” I walk away without letting him get another word out.

Sexy as hell or not, I don’t need an unnecessary distraction; I need to focus on getting out of this city.

Over the next few weeks, he comes in every day—at the exact same time, ordering the exact same coffee. He always lets his fingers linger against mine for a few extra seconds after I hand him his cup, and he always asks me a random question after he does his customary test sip: “What’s your favorite color?” “Are you having a good day?” “Why haven’t you quit yet?”

I almost start looking forward to seeing him every day—until he stops coming altogether.

I
t’s raining again.

The days of bright sunshine and cloudless skies that I’ve been enjoying at the bistro are no longer here. They’ve been replaced with ominous gray skies, wild winds, and a torrential downpour.

The bistro is closed until later tonight—when the storm is supposed to pass, but the manager wants me to show up anyway. He says he needs to talk to me one on one about some new employee procedures.

It takes me a few minutes to realize that I still don’t know his name, so I look it up online before I head out.

Mr. Wes...Mr. Wes...Mr. Wes...

As I pull into the parking lot, I notice that there is only one car here: A gray pickup truck.

I park my car right next to it and pull out my phone—ready to call and ask why no one else is around. Before I can hit the call button, there’s a tapping on my window and I roll it down.

“Yes?” I see Mr. Wes holding a poncho over his head. “Why is no one else here?”

“Can I sit inside your car?”

“Go ahead.”

He reaches inside my car and pulls the button up to unlock it. Then he slips inside, getting water all over my seat. After he rolls the window up, he turns to face me and sighs. “I’m going to have to let you go, Emerald.”

“
What
?”

“I was running the numbers yesterday. You logged five hundred orders of coffee last week, but the amount of receipts don’t reflect that...I did some investigating and found that you were letting forty percent of the patrons get their coffee for free.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

He clears his throat, clearly taken aback by my language. “You also told ten different customers to ‘fix it your fucking self’ when they asked you to remake their coffee. That’s against company policy. Now,” he says as he shifts in the seat, “I’m really good friends with your grandmother so I won’t tell her about this if you won’t. I’ll put in a good word for you at the soup kitchen or something and tell her you decided to go the volunteer route, or—”

“Get the fuck out of my car. Now.”

“Emerald...” He sighs and places his fat hand over mine. “It’s not personal, but we do
sell
coffee and expect good customer service for a
reason
. I need someone who is going to—”

“Do you think this is the first job I’ve been fired from?” I yank my hand away from his grasp. “
It’s not
, so you can save me your shitty pep talk.
It’s not personal
,” I mock him, “but you could’ve told me this shit over the phone and I could’ve saved my goddamn gas.
Out
.”

He shakes his head, whispering something that sounds like “I’ll pray for you” and steps out of my car.

I shut my eyes and grip the steering wheel once he slams the door shut.

I should’ve known this would happen. I should’ve fucking known...

I slam my car in reverse and swerve around, speeding out of the parking lot. I’ve done well over the past couple weeks—dealing with the annoying AA meetings, the invasive urine tests, and that dreadful, confined bistro, but this shit calls for a relapse.

I
need
alcohol.

Now
.

Speeding, I drive to a small liquor store on the outskirts of town. I buy two pints of vodka, a six pack of beer, and a pack of cigarettes. I place everything in my purse and rush home, locking myself in my room.

I force the huge bay windows open and toss one of my legs over the edge—straddling the sill. Ignoring the wind and the rain, I unscrew the top of the vodka and take a long, sweet swig.

I’m never getting out of here...

I take swig after swig until my throat burns, until my thoughts become blurry, and a memory I’ve been trying to suppress all week forces its way across my mind...

“Em?” Leah steps into my room and hits the light.

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you go to school today?”

“Like you really care...” I mutter and roll over on my bed, hiding my tears.

“Of course I don’t care whether you go to school or not.” She caresses my shoulder. “I do care when you miss the writing competition you’ve been telling me about for MONTHS—when your teacher calls me and tells me you didn’t show up to present your paper....What the hell is wrong with you?”

I’m silent. That paper is the last thing on my mind, and if I could somehow vanish from the face of the earth at this moment, nothing would make me happier.

“Em...Talk to me...” She presses.

I shake my head and feel her pulling my arm—turning me over. When I’m facing her, I feel her wiping my tears away with her fingertips.

She looks into my eyes and I know she knows what’s wrong. I can see the exact moment that it registers in her mind.

“Give me one second, Em.” She stands up and walks out of my room. She returns seconds later with a bottle of alcohol, two glasses, and a half-used pack of Marlboros.

She urges me to sit up and pours me a glass. “Tell me what happened...”

“You know how you said your first time was slow and passionate?”

She nods and motions for me to toss the drink back.

“It wasn’t like that for me...”

“Did you tell him to stop?”

I shake my head. “I wanted to do it...Two dates was long enough to make him wait, right?”

“Right.”

“I feel like he was just...” Images of him, my first boyfriend Sean, laying me across the bleachers after the game force tears to fall down my eyes. “He was really rough and he um...He said his ex-girlfriend’s name when he came...He said her name twice.”

“Oh, Em...”

I feel her patting me on the back, hear her saying, “That sucks, but you shouldn’t be crying over it.”

Shaking my head and pulling myself away from her, I let more tears fall. “You said it would feel good, Leah. It didn’t. It really didn’t.”

“The first time never actually feels good, Em. It’s more-so the emotions...Sex gets better as you go along...Your next time will probably be better. Didn’t you say he was just an okay kisser?”

I nod.

“Well, that’s half of the problem.” She pulls me up and walks me out onto my room’s balcony. “There’s a high correlation—”

“Correlation? That’s a four syllable word for you. I’m impressed.”

She rolls her eyes. “Next time make sure the guy you choose is a kick-ass kisser. It’ll be better, Trust me. In the meantime...” She leans close and dabs my eyes until they’re dry. Then she pulls a tube of mascara from her pocket, applying a new coat to my lashes. “This should make you feel better. What do you say we finish off that bottle together?”

I take one last swig from the bottle and move myself off the ledge. My shirt is damp and clinging to my chest, but I couldn’t care less right now.

I need to sleep away this frustration. 

Just in case my grandparents come upstairs to check on me, I hide the evidence of drinking and stuff the unopened cigarettes into my desk drawer. I crash onto my bed and pull a quilt over my body—slowly slipping into a familiar state of blackness.

––––––––

B
eep! Beep! Beep!

My phone alarm yanks me out of my sleep.

I shut it off and look at the time: Nine o’ clock.

Dinner is probably long over, but I roll out of bed and make my way downstairs anyway.

Shockingly, my grandparents aren’t lounging in front of the TV or sitting at the table talking. There’s no sign of them anywhere.

On the refrigerator they’ve left a note:

“Emerald! Congratulations on keeping your Starbucks job for more than two weeks! We hope you keep it for several more! We’ll be on the church fishing trip until tomorrow, so call us if you need anything.

Two plate dinners are wrapped and ready in the fridge for you.

Pray over them first!

Love,

Henry & Virginia

I shake my head at the note and unwrap one of the chicken dinners, grabbing today’s newspaper off the counter.

I need to start my job search all over again, so I might as well start now.

Before I can take a bite of food, my phone vibrates. A text.

“Hey. Heard you got fired, though I’m not really surprised LOL. Call me if you ever want to get out of bitch mode. I know somewhere else you can work...Oh and Carter asked about you tonight. You want me to tell him that you got canned?—Sarah.”

I roll my eyes and continue reading the employment ads. They’re a lot slimmer than usual, and I’ve applied to most of these places in months past.

Annoyed, I crumple the paper and toss it onto the floor—thinking of a way I can get through tonight without beating my head against the wall.

I have alcohol of course, but I don’t want to push my luck any further. My probation officer hasn’t shown up in a week, and I already have to do a cleanse to get rid of what I drank hours ago.

He’ll probably show up this weekend...

I have cigarettes, but I really am trying to quit; the late night infomercials have been working their charm on me in mysterious ways.

I have a few bottles of an intense system cleansing drink but—

Is there weed in Blythe?

Scrolling down my phone, I click on Sarah’s text and save her number before I call. 

“Hello?” She answers after three rings.

“Hey. You got a minute?”

“For my former bitchy co-worker?” There’s a smile in her voice. “Always. What’s up?”

“Where can I get some weed around here?”

“
What
?!” She bursts into laughter and it sounds as if she’s near tears. “Oh god, Emerald...You just...You are a true piece of work!”

“Is there weed or
not
?”

“Are your grandparents at home?”

“No.”

“I’ll be over in fifteen.” She hangs up.

I rush upstairs and pull my hidden pack of cigarettes out of the bottom drawer. I slowly cut them into pieces over the trash to prevent myself from sneaking a smoke later. I consider pouring the rest of my vodka down the drain, but I can’t completely cut off alcohol.

I’m not even going to try.

Outside the window, I see bright headlights coming down the driveway and assume it’s Sarah. I stuff crumpled paper towels on top of my cigar clippings and grab my lighter before heading outside.

Sarah parks her car behind mine and doesn’t get out. Instead she honks and waves her hand out of the window, motioning for me to get in.

I don’t.

I walk over to her window. “Give me a minute. I have a twenty in my car, but I only need a nickel bag. You got change?”

“It’s on me. Get in.”

I stand frozen. Back when I smoked weed with Leah, she always stressed two things: 1) When contemplating life, always smoke alone. 2) When you want to smoke alone,
smoke alone
.

“No...” I shake my head. “That’s okay. I’ll just—”

“Get in the goddamn car, Emerald.” She rolls her eyes.

I sigh and get in, and before I can fasten my seatbelt she speeds off into the night.

Jay Z’s “99 Problems” is blaring through her speakers, and two new Tiffany & Co. bracelets are sparkling on her wrist.

After what feels like forever, she pulls into a deserted field where an abandoned billboard and a water tower stand side by side. She grabs a small box from the center console and tells me to join her on the hood.

“Here,” she says as she hands me a triple pack of sweet apple cigars. “Shed those for me while I grind the seeds.”

We sit in silence—letting the mosquitos peck at our skin, concentrating on our separate tasks. When I’m finished, she evenly disburses the weed into each empty paper and I roll them, licking the ends to make sure they’re tight.

She pulls a lighter out of her pocket and burns the end of one, taking a long drag before passing it to me. “Did Mr. Wes at least fire you in person?”

“Does it matter? Being fired is
being fired
. The personal touch doesn’t make it any better.”

“I’ve never been fired so I wouldn’t know.”

“Lucky you...” I inhale the smoke until it burns in my chest, and then I form an “O” with my lips, puffing white rings across the night. “I’ll find something else.”

“Hmmm.” She pulls a folded napkin from her pocket and hands it to me. “This is from your friend.”

“My
friend
?” I open the napkin and read the note: 

“I miss your terrible service and your bitter coffee.

—Carter.

I don’t want to be a stranger. 555-0965”

I suppress a smile and put his note into my pocket.

Sarah and I continue to pass the blunt back and forth until it’s so small it burns our fingers. Then she lights up another one.

“There’s this other place I work at,” she whispers. “I think you would be a good fit there.”