Chapter 3

Jamie

• Read the previous chapter 

• Start from the beginning 

First of all, you don’t know shit about me. I know my cunt boss Grace got to you first, as if she’s the Jamie expert. You think because she told you the basics, pre-med at Notre Dame and that I’m from the quote unquote nice part of town, you know me? You think I’m some prissy rich kid with a copy of my dad’s credit card? Who makes TikToks in front of my bathroom vanity on break? OK, one or both of those things may be true but you still don’t know shit.

She’s not even my real boss, Grace. It’s an internship. At the orthodontist’s office in my hometown. It’s not even the nice orthodontist’s office. That guy got decapitated in a car accident some years ago. But I think Grace already told you that. Cunt. I would’ve added all the good parts, like how he was on his way home from a quote unquote camping trip with a bunch of guys he barely knew. They met up to…you know. 

Anyway, the second I met Grace I thought she had a giant phone pole up her ass. She spoke about mundane tasks like buying newspapers and opening up a new Google browser as if they were going to save lives. The most complicated thing she did all day was slice lemons. Cool, bitch. Try slicing into a human heart like they’re about to do to Damian.

Here’s all you really need to know: I don’t need anyone else to take care of me. You’re telling me I need to buy a couple newspapers and sprinkle them around some old guy’s desk like the goddamn Corps de Ballet in Swan Lake? OK. Sure. I can do that in my sleep. You’re telling me I need to restart his computer before 8 a.m. as if some early morning hour can spook me? Try me, bitch.

Grace wouldn’t last a day in my real life. Remember the smartest person in your class? Valedictorian? Take the smartest person in every class in the whole goddamn country and that’s who I’m around, all day, every semester. Check your phone when you’re out of class, if you even make it that long, and that photo you thought you were going to post now sucks because there are ten photos on your feed of girls looking hotter than you and if you aren’t pumping them up by commenting LEGEND or ICONIC you’re a stuck-up whore.

So maybe now you’ll understand why I needed a goddamn break that summer. A reset, if you will. A guy in my organic chemistry class got me a fake I.D.—not that the bartenders in Maidentown even know what a hologram means. Slid it across the lab table in a goddamn birthday card, happy 21st! Isn’t that great? Haha.

I’ll admit, I was nervous the first night I tried it out at home. C’mon, when you were my age your blood pressure ticked up a little too, you felt that heaviness in your chest, and if you don’t know what I mean you’re either lying or never went out in college, which you should never tell anyone. I chose Culpepper’s, the shittier of the two bars in town. And I went alone, late, when the place was crowded, so that anyone who thought they knew one of Steve’s kids would be well into their night and too far gone to come over and say hello or worse, hit on me. I wasn’t looking for some hick Maidentown boyfriend twenty years my senior. Just wanted a vodka soda with good vodka instead of the shit we bought on campus.

I handed my I.D. to the bouncer, a large, surly man with dreadlocks, and tried to keep a straight face, staring into the bar like I belonged there. The left corner of his lip raised, I wasn’t tricking nobody, and he handed it back to me.

“Go on,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, slipping the card into my back pocket, suppressing a grin.

The bar was dark, covered in cheap wood from floor to ceiling. It reeked of smoke and grease from all the fryers in the kitchen. But I loved it. It already felt like home.

The actual bar, one long slab of wood, was near empty, with all the notable townies down the street at The Coney. One guy with wiry hair and skin the texture of a dusty quilt sat alone in the corner, seemingly harmless. I counted five stools between us and took a seat.

An obscure indie rock band played low in the background. The bartender, a guy around my age with pale skin and rosy cherub cheeks, wiped the inside of a beer glass with a crimson cloth while I waited for him to catch my eye. There was no glimmer or nothing when he caught it, just sauntered over like I was his eighty-seventh customer that night and asked what’ll it be.

“Vodka soda,” I said confidently. “Grey Goose.”

He nodded and mixed the drink for me, glancing at the TV in the corner once when the announcer praised a touchdown, and slid it my way on a black paper napkin.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling so goddamn adult. Bubbles fizzed toward the surface. I picked out the thick lime wedge, squeezed its juices into the glass and stirred it in with my tiny straw.

I tossed back the first gulp and let the alcohol sting my throat, immediately feeling warmer in my chest. Goosebumps on my arms. I was drinking. And damn it felt good.

Along the wall behind the bar, bottles glittered over cheap floor lighting. Everything I’d yet to try: Maker’s Mark, Jack Daniel’s, Belvedere. I knew jack shit about any of them but in due time I’d have my preferences. Bulleit bourbon. Casamigos mezcal. Expensive shit. There was a drugstore across the street, easy enough to buy girly crap like CoverGirl mascara and get cashback for the night. Steve thought nothing of it.

Anyway, for now, the chalkboard menu above Culpepper’s Shrine de Booze told me I had enough petty cash for three more rounds plus tip. Maybe a shot or something extra if I turned out to be the bartender’s type.

Two drinks later and I was nice and buzzed. I checked my phone for new messages, switching idly between apps. And then I saw her. A new post. I stopped scrolling and used my fingers to zoom in. It was an ad, another stupid juice cleanse. She held a glass full of neon green juice in a way that showed off the tattoos along her arm. Some demon looking thing, and then tinier, more delicate designs around her wrist. Her eyes got me the most. Saying ocean blue didn’t do them justice because that could mean shitty New Jersey shore blue. These were tropical ocean blue. Maldives ocean blue. Rare ocean blue. She wore her chocolate brown hair in a pixie cut, raised on top with some kind of pomade. Thick brows, plump lips. Cute button nose that went against the tough exterior she projected.

I imagined laying with her, first in bed, then on a beach. My head on her chest, the two of us listening to the birds and the waves meeting the shore. Feeling the breeze on our legs, tangled and sandy.

“Hey,” the bartender said. I looked up from my phone. “Another round?”

“Sure,” I said, sliding my glass toward him, keeping the soaked paper napkin to myself.

I glanced to my right, looking for Dusty Quilt Face, who must’ve stumbled off to bed. Now it was just me, Cherub Cheeks and the Foo Fighters.

“Bad breakup?” asked Cherub Cheeks, sliding a fresh glass toward me with a new, dry-so-far napkin.

“No, thank you,” I said, realizing I was now full-on drunk as I tried to form a coherent response. “First day at a new job.”

“Oh shit,” he said. “Take it easy. You want to make it to your second.”

I stiffened, met his eyes determinedly and sucked back a good fourth of my drink. “I can take care of myself, thanks.”

He raised his hands like I was a cop. “Just joking!”

“It’s cool.”

“So where’s the new gig, if I may ask.”

“Orthodontist’s office, front desk.”

“No shit. Dr. Ossor?”

“That’s the one.”

“He totally did my braces when I was 13 or something. Took forever to get them off. At least he let me pick out the bands. I had blue and green at first, but then I went through a goth phase and demanded black to match the rest of my vibe.”

Something softened in me, trying to imagine Cherub Cheeks with severely cut ink black hair, trading Gap hoodies for Hot Topic t-shirts that fully represented his deep angst.

“I’m Jeff by the way.” He smeared his hand across the towel on his shoulder and extended his arm toward me.

“Jamie,” I said.

He grabbed a beer glass from a stack of drying racks and shoved it under a spigot. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, handing me the water. “I just hope you’ll wake up tomorrow and want to come back here again.”