Page 74 of The Fall Classic

All I wanted to do was impress her, and I’m not even the one who’s trying to hire someone right now. I want her to want to do it because she believes in me and cares about me.

I must look so pathetic.

I glance at this girl—Olivia Turner—hoping she isn’t silently yet openly judging me, but instead, she’s eyeing Marlowe like she would a stray dog. Her brown eyes are even darker than mine beneath her long bangs, and she has a short wavy brown bob with platinum streaks. Although she’s sitting still with her hands clasped in front of her on the table, she has the energy of a coiled spring, with her knee bouncing beneath the table and her black backpack sitting next to her feet.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, extending my hand to shake hers. “I’m Georgie Ashman.”

“Good to meet you,” Olivia says. She has a natural grit to her voice that makes me wish she narrated audiobooks. “I don’t mean to be rude, but are you okay? You look”—she grimaces—“not good.”

“I’ve been up for work since four thirty,” I explain before adding, “but I’m all right.”

“It’s the lighting in here. She’s fine in natural light.” Marlowe looks up from Olivia’s resume, taking in my wrinkled T-shirt from the heat of the truck combined with nine hours wearing an apron. Her lips pull into a smile. Does she think that was a compliment? Then to Olivia, she says, “When my daughter returns, we can start the interview.”

Her words slice with the sharpness of a knife, making me stand up straight even as I get cut down.

I’ve spent ten years trying to fit into a sentence where her “daughter” is mentioned, not as the only one, but at least as someone on the list. I would give every branch on my tree to hear her say “my other daughter.”

“I’m right here, Mom,” Nicolette says, returning from the restroom with Lulabelle in tow. Lulabelle gives me a huge hug before taking her tablet and turning on an episode of Bluey in the next booth.

Nicolette isn’t wearing her usual easy smile. Her eyes are flitting between me and Marlowe and then to Olivia, who looks incredibly uncomfortable. Marlowe smiles up at her daughter, oblivious to the coldness of her own words.

Nicolette gives me a quick hug. “Hey, sis,” she says softly. Then she slides into the booth and mutters, “You have two daughters, Mom.”

Marlowe waves a hand in the air, smiling. “You know what I mean. I was waiting for my daughter who helps with hiring,” Marlowe says to Olivia, like this is an unnecessary clarification. She picks up her pen, clicking it. “Now shall we begin?”

Olivia’s eyes fly to mine, putting the pieces together, and Nicolette’s eyes follow.

“My lanta,” Nicolette says, her voice thick with worry. “You look exhausted, Georgie. Are you okay?”

I breathe through my smile. “Yeah, just tired.”

“She was up at four thirty,” Olivia says for me.

“Four thirty?” Nicolette repeats in horror. “Why?”

“For work. The coffee truck,” I say.

“Georgie, you need a break. Swap with the afternoon shift.”

My eyes are sandy as I give her a tired blink. “I’m the only one working the truck right now.”

Nicolette’s mouth falls open. “Mom, did you know about this?”

Marlowe stiffens. “She asked to take the extra shifts. The early farm lot was her idea. The weekends were her idea. I can’t force her to rest if she won’t.”

“Mom.” Nicolette sounds exasperated. “If she’s working weekends, too, she probably hasn’t taken a break in weeks. She needs a break.”

“She insisted,” Marlowe says. “Who am I to tell her what to do?”

Nicolette protests that Marlowe tells her what to do constantly, and all I can think is what would it be like to have a mother care enough to want to tell me what to do instead of telling me what I’m doing wrong?

“I’m fine,” I say, but my body revolts and chokes on the word. I have to clear my voice. “I’m fine,” I repeat.

Olivia holds my eye before looking at Marlowe. “It sounds like your manager was right: You are short-staffed.”

Marlowe clicks her pen again, looking at me. “Bringing someone on is an additional overhead cost, and we’re still carrying the loan.”

My head is swimming, and suddenly, thoughts of the Tree fill my mind—no longer a tree, but a stump.