If I hadn’t been fired this morning, I never would have said yes. At least, that’s what I told myself. My face flushed with the humiliating memory: standing alone in front of Pablo’s massive I’m-obviously-compensating-for-something desk and realizing no one had backed me, Pablo’s smug face as he uttered the words his Napoleonic ego had been squirming to say for weeks, the sympathetic stares of my staff as I packed up my stuff, and the guilty absence of those who’d sworn to stand by me, but who’d evidently caved somewhere between vigorous nods in my attorney-general moment—Pablo is stealing money from you, he’s exploiting you, enough’s enough, we shouldn’t let him get away with it—and the sobering reality of monthly bills that needed to be paid.
As if Mondays weren’t bad enough.
As the credits for another Grey’s Anatomy episode rolled onto the screen, I blew my nose, dug out the remote from under a throw pillow, and hit the Mute button. I checked the time: 5:00 p.m. After being thrown out of the restaurant, I’d spent the day stretched out on my couch, working my way through copious amounts of Coke and corn chips while I watched impossibly attractive doctors tear into each other and their patients.
My phone rang, and I glanced at the screen: Lucas. Not Pablo, the Uruguayan chef turned restaurateur, admitting to a colossal mistake in firing me, begging my forgiveness and offering me and the rest of the staff at Mateo’s Grill a threefold pay increase. That was Fantasy Number Two. Lucas had taken the number one spot years ago, and it had never changed.
Sitting upright, I cleared my throat of the residues of a crying jag. “Lucas,” I answered lightly.
“So there’s a charity fundraiser this Saturday,” he said by way of greeting.
“No, no, and no,” I said. And then, as though Lucas was hard of hearing, which I knew he was not, just hard on resolve, I said again, “Definitely, no.”
“It’s for charity.”
“Still no.”
“The tickets cost me five hundred dollars. Each.”
I rolled my eyes, which only magnified my headache. That was a bodyguard for you. Trained to think of all the angles. “You can afford seven hundred.”
“Think of the kids in Zambia,” Lucas said. “They walk two hours every day to get fresh water. This will give them a tap right in their village.”
I frowned at my phone. And at the man who called himself my friend on the other end of the line. “Low blow, Lucas.”
“Did it work?” he asked hopefully. “Can you get someone to cover for you Saturday night?”
I’d been fired, so that wasn’t an issue, but I wasn’t ready to tell him. Not yet. I couldn’t cope with the resulting lecture—and there most certainly would be a lecture filled with uninteresting words like responsibility and discretion. Unlike the satisfying words I’d tossed at my ex-boss this morning: cretin, thief, bully.
“Saturday night?” I asked, considering. “You must be desperate.”
“Desperate enough to continue begging, if that would help.”
I laughed. And that was when I found myself saying yes.
Lucas gave a satisfied whoop. “Thank you. I owe you one.”
Add it to the tally, I thought, suppressing a sigh.
Wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear, I stood and stretched out too many hours of lying curled around comfort food. Finding a Doritos snagged on my pajama top, I absently pulled it free and bit into it.
There was a charged silence. “What was that noise?” Lucas asked suspiciously.
I swallowed. Quickly. “Noise? What noise?”
“Are you eating chips?”
“What?”
“You are,” Lucas accused. “You’re eating chips! Doritos, I bet.” I heard him give a loud sniff. “I can smell them.”
“As if,” I scoffed, and then groaned as I realized how neatly I’d fallen into his trap.
“What happened?” Lucas demanded.
“What makes you think something happened?”
“The last time you binged on junk food, that lowlife of the unmentionable name had just dumped you and you single-handedly upped Doritos’s profit margin.”
A half chuckle, half sob escaped me. “Objection to the word dumped,” I said, and burst into tears.
“Nina Sarah Abrahams,” Lucas said, drawing out my name in warning. “You better not be watching something sad and romantic.”
I hiccupped out a “Talking to you…so not watching…at this very moment.”
“Why do you do it?” he asked in exasperation. “Why do you torture yourself like this?”
“Meredith and Derek are never going to get it right!” I wailed.
“Grey’s Anatomy? Seriously?” Lucas’s sigh was heavy. “I’m coming over. You better not drink all the Coke.”
Lara Martin 