“Have a good trip,” I said.
“I’m so sorry, Ellie.”
“Yeah,” I said, pressing the END button. The phone fell from my palm onto the bed. I looked out the window at the snow blowing off the trees. Get a job? I have a degree in ceramics. Where in the fuck am I going to get a job in Estes Park?
CHAPTER FIVE
“I said no,” I said, picking at the wood on Sterling’s monstrosity of a dining room table.
“It’s perfect for you,” Sterling said, sipping his third glass of red wine. He was still licking his wounds from our night with Finley. Contrary to what he’d said when he’d invited me over, Sterling wasn’t the least invested in ideas for me to find a job in Estes Park.
“A bartender?” I said. “The people in this town know who I am—most of all the bartenders. They will laugh me out of the building if I go looking for a job. They won’t believe that I need one.”
“They can’t discriminate against you, Ellie. If you’re qualified more than anyone else who’s applied, they’ll have to give it to you.”
“That’s not how this works. They hire grandsons and nieces in this town. And, no. Not a bartender. I just got kicked out of Turk’s. They’ll be afraid I’ll drink up their stock. Especially now that José has been ordered to remove all the liquor from the house.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I grumbled.
“What the hell did you do, Ellie? It can’t be worse than the time you—”
“It wasn’t. A painting was broken. A few vases and a table. Some vomit on the floor … nothing the cleaning crew couldn’t handle.”
“Then it’s not about the money.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re fucked. They’re not trying to teach you responsibility or appreciation, Ellison. They’re trying to save you from yourself. Betsy March’s parents did the same thing to her. You have no way out of this. You might as well give in or end it all now.”
My mouth fell open. “You are an unbelievable asshole.”
He took another sip of wine. “People keep saying that. I’m inclined to believe it.”
I looked up at him, my cheeks already burning from humiliation. “You don’t need a … um … an assistant or anything, do you?”
“Me? Fuck no. I already have four. Oh. You mean … hire you?”
My eyes fell to the floor. “Only if you need one. I don’t want charity.”
“It would never work, Ellie.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re friends, and I want to continue to be friends.”
“You just told me to kill myself.”
He chuckled. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Fine.”
He pointed at me. “That’s why.”
I frowned. “What are you talking about now?”
“You didn’t even put up a fight. I said ‘no,’ and you folded. I don’t want a pussy working for me. I was raised with more nannies than I have assistants. One to wipe my ass, one to wash my hands, one to feed me, one to play with me during the day, and one to wake up with me at night. There were more. I don’t remember their names. But my favorite? Beatrice. She was meaner than a cat with a firecracker in its ass, and I loved it. No one else talked to me like that. I need people who aren’t afraid to tell me the truth. You can, but you can’t, and we remain friends.”
I sighed, and then nodded, already bored with his speech. He did love to hear himself talk.
Sterling tossed the paper at me, leaned across the table, and turned to the classifieds. There were already red circles in the Help Wanted section.
“Mail sorter,” I said, reading his suggestions. “McDonald’s.” I looked up at him. He held up his hands. “Bank teller. I’m broke, and you think it’s a good idea that a pot head without money for pot works at a bank?”
He shrugged, standing up and heading for the bar. “I’m trying. You need a drink.”
“Desk clerk for a hotel. Nights. Checking guests in and out, light cleaning, and putting out continental breakfast.” I looked up at Sterling. “They pay people fifteen dollars an hour to do this?”
“It’s a tourist town. They can’t get people to work for minimum wage even at minimum wage jobs. The cost of living is too high.”
“There’s nothing else?”
“An assistant at the local magazine.” He chuckled. “The MountainEar,” he said in a mocking tone. “Guess who owns it?”
“Philip Edson?” I snorted.
“Nope, this is one your father doesn’t own. It’s the new endeavor of J.W. Chadwick, the owner of Turk’s. He’s not going to hire you. There’s also a server position at the resort, but you’d be dealing with dicks like us all day.”
I covered my face, letting the paper fall to the table. “This is what I get for majoring in something I knew wasn’t going to come with the expectation of a job. They’ve fucked me. My parents have fucked me.”
“You’ve fucked yourself. Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing.”
I pulled a wadded one hundred dollar bill from my pocket and tossed it on the table. “This is all I have left.”
“They left you one hundred dollars?”
“No, they left me nothing. Fin left me eight hundred forty dollars. I drank it all.”