Page 28 of I Saw You First

“What’s fast-tracked?”

“When you move up through the ranks really fast. You know, promotions.”

Abbey snorts. “Well, I don’t see myself getting promoted anytime soon. And no one has said anything to me about this fast-track business. I don’t even know that I’m cut out for that kind of job. I went to school for journalism, not retail management.”

“You wait and see,” Marina says. “You’re getting noticed, trust me. You’re going places.”

Marina’s right. Abbey’s getting noticed because she’s doing a fantastic job. My hunch about her was spot on. She’s sharp and efficient, and yes, she’s going places—but not until after we pass the eval.

Later, Abbey grabs her purse and tells Marina she’s going to use the restroom. She’s gone a long time, and it makes me antsy. She’s only had one margarita, but I worry that something’s wrong, that she’s not okay to drive. Or maybe that the creepy guy who’s always in the bar is hitting on her. That idea launches me out of my seat. I find Abbey at the cashier stand.

“Hey,” I say in a quiet, low voice. Even so, she jumps. “What are you doing?”

The cashier hands her a receipt and a pen, and she scribbles her signature at the bottom. “Paying the bill.”

“Why?” I look over her shoulder at the items on the receipt. Her margarita and the queso, and my beer, for some reason, and she left a generous tip. “I told you I would pay. You said you didn’t have any money tonight.”

She bites her lip, then slides the pen and receipt back to the cashier. “I said I didn’t have any cash. I used my emergency credit card.”

I frown. “Is this an emergency?”

“Kind of,” she says. “I need to go. I have to be back at the store at six.”

She steps to move around me, but I reach for her elbow to stop her. She gasps and looks down at my hand like I’ve burned her before shaking herself loose. She looks up at me with wide eyes. Is that—fear? Or general irritation?

“I’m sorry.” I step back to give her more space. “I didn’t mean to startle you. You shouldn’t have to use your emergency credit card when I offered to cover you. Here, let me give you some cash.”

She takes a step backward. “No, it’s fine. You can’t pay for my drinks and queso, Wil, okay? Not unless you’re buying for everyone, and I wouldn’t advise it with this crowd. Even if you are loaded, it’s Cesar’s birthday, and you know how he gets.”

I narrow my eyes in confusion. “What do you mean, I’m loaded?” My heartbeat picks up speed. What the fuck? Is this Candy, part two? Except Candy would be simpering at me, rubbing her hand along my forearm, telling me how sweet I am to pay for her drinks, not telling me I couldn’t. And Candy, of course, would never sneak off to pay the check.

Abbey at least has the decency to flush under my scrutiny. “God, that was rude. But as the CEO’s son⁠—”

I cut her off. “Don’t make assumptions based on my name and who my father is, Rhodes.” I try to keep my voice steady. “At least let me pay you back for my beer.”

She shakes her head. “I got it. Tell Cesar I said happy birthday.”

And then she’s gone, and I’m left wondering what the hell just happened.

NINE

“PERHAPS, PERHAPS, PERHAPS” BY CAKE, 1996

ABBEY

On my day off a couple of weeks later, which happens to be payday, I bring my grandmother lunch from Rooted Market. Glamma loves their roast beef sandwiches, and I splurge on a cranberry turkey melt with fries and the cheapest autumn-inspired bouquet they have, mostly orange and yellow carnations and a lot of baby’s breath. Not bad for under five bucks. Glamma will slip me a couple of twenties on my way out, anyway, which I’ll use to pay down my emergency credit card. I also buy three copies of psycho logic—one for Glamma, one for my parents, and one for my portfolio. For this issue, I interviewed a local feminist playwright and wrote an homage to Coya Knutson, the first female Minnesotan elected to Congress, who died last week.

Writing for the zine has been a balm to my soul. I just wish Hal could pay me more. My checking account balance is dwindling, and I’ve gotten no responses to the resumes I’ve mailed to every newspaper in the Twin Cities metro, including TC Weekly’s top competitor, Squall. I’ve even sent resumes to advertising agencies—talk about selling out. As much as I like my job at Hometown, I wish things had worked out differently at TC Weekly.

The image of Ryan’s smug face comes rushing back, the feeling of his fingers on my skin⁠—

I shudder. No. I will not think about that. I shove it back in the dark, dusty corner of my mind where it belongs.

It’s almost the twenty-first century. Men should be capable of treating women with respect. Elizabeth Cady Stanton would be so disappointed. And what’s wrong with me that I couldn’t find the words to tell off Ryan or even Tyrell in the moment?

Glamma and I eat at the table in the sunroom to catch the warm autumn rays, a Doris Day record playing quietly from Papa’s turntable in the opposite corner of the room.

Glamma is easily my favorite person on the planet. She lives next door to my parents in a perfectly preserved mid-century ranch house. She’s Dad’s mother, who married and buried two husbands. She bought the house next door for my parents with the money she’d inherited and invested after her first husband, Dad’s father, died in a car accident. Her second husband, my Papa, died a year ago of lung cancer, but that hasn’t stopped Glamma from smoking her Virginia Slims, no ma’am. With her boxed red hair and costume jewelry, she reminds me a little of Endora from Bewitched, and—as she’s fond of saying—she doesn’t give a flying fig about what anyone thinks of her.