Racing the Sun(46)

“I won’t judge you,” I say, trying anyway.

He swallows and looks away. “There is nothing to judge.” A moment passes where I’m sure he’s about to go on, then his eyes slide to me. “You know, you don’t speak very much of your home.”

Now it’s my turn to be stunned. “Oh. Well, I don’t really get a chance to speak to you often. You know. ’Cause you’re in here all the time.”

“We are speaking now,” he says. “Tell me about Amber MacLean’s life in San Jose, California.”

“Oh God,” I say, my eyes widening. “What’s there to even say? It’s like that whole world, that whole life I had, doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Because you were traveling?”

“Yeah. And to be honest, there really isn’t much to remember.”

“You had a job,” he says. “I saw it on your résumé.”

Right. Résumé. He’s my boss.

“I worked as a receptionist for a company that made cases for electronics, like iPads and smartphones and all that.”

He raises his brow. “That doesn’t seem like the place for you.”

“Thank you,” I say, taking that as a compliment. “And it wasn’t. But I was desperate. I was one of those idiots who majored in English. I thought maybe I could get a job in marketing or communications or something and when I finally got this job they told me I would start off as receptionist and then move on up to something that used my skills. But that never happened. I worked my ass off, was paid like crap, treated like shit, and then they let me go, saying they didn’t have the budget.” I push my glass toward him. “I need more scotch.”

“Yes, I think you do,” he says with a half smile, and promptly pours some into my glass before topping up his as well.

I take a sip, coughing a bit but still finishing at least half the glass. His eyes light up, impressed. “Anyway,” I go on, “I found out afterward that they were hiring unpaid interns for my position. That’s the problem now: Everyone goes to college and spends all their money getting their degrees and when they come out it’s almost impossible to find a job in their chosen field, one that makes them feel useful, like their degree was worth it, let alone finding just any damn job. And then most of the fucking places won’t even pay them. They want you to work for free to build up ‘experience.’” I use air quotes around the word. “My friend Angela went to school for psychology. Psychology! And she spent two years working at clinics and hospitals and health care centers, all for free, all to build up experience, and she still couldn’t get a paying job. Now she works in construction. She’s one of those road people who holds up the signs. She likes that she’s outdoors all day and the pay is actually really good, but holy hell, talk about being underused and undervalued.”

I realize I’ve been talking a mile a minute. The scotch has really lubricated my vocal cords. Also, it’s rare to have someone ask about your life and actually be invested and interested in what you have to say. Derio is both those things. He’s staring at me as if I’m absolutely fascinating and not boring and mundane.

“Do you feel underused and undervalued now?” he asks quietly.

“No,” I automatically say. “I feel overused,” I add, jokingly.

“What about undervalued?”

I press my lips together in thought. “No. Actually, for the first time in a long time . . . maybe even ever . . . I feel worthy. Like I’m worth something. The kids depend on me, which is annoying and nerve-racking and scary but it makes me feel like I’m doing something important. And teaching them English . . . well, it finally feels like my degree is being put to good use. You know, when I first started traveling, I had a little dream that maybe I would end up in a small village on the Mediterranean teaching English. I guess it kind of came true.”

He’s watching me carefully, silently.

“What is it?” I ask.

“How is it that someone like you hasn’t felt worthy until now?”

I shrug and finish the rest of the scotch. The darkness of the room is starting to feel a bit heavy. “I don’t know.”

“Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

“Only child.”

“And your parents, how are they?”

I glance at him shrewdly. “If I tell you about my parents, will you tell me about your parents?”

He nods, conceding. “Yes. But not tonight. It is getting late.”

“There is no getting, it is late,” I tell him. “And I’m seconds from crawling into my bed and passing out. You don’t have to be up early tomorrow, but I do.”