Page 32 of Tasty Cherry

Was she? My gut pangs.

I’m dying to ask my question before she goes. This might be our last completely private conversation. “Can you tell me why you chose me? For your…first?”

She slowly slides the strap of her bag from the chair to her shoulder, as if giving herself time to consider how to answer. “I didn’t think someone like me could attract someone like you. You were funny and friendly. I wanted to do it with someone like you. That’s all.”

Someone like me. Not necessarily me.

“But you couldn’t face it the next morning, so you hid behind a potted plant?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, basically. I was ready to start my new life.”

I stack the two menus to prove I won’t try to convince her to stay. “I won’t get in the way of that.”

She grips the strap of her purse. “Thank you. Really. Thank you.”

Then she’s out the door.

I sit there, feeling far more wrecked than I should for losing someone I barely knew twenty-four hours.

Bethany eventually returns, her concerned expression back. “Do you want anything to eat?”

I consider the empty chair. “Sure. I’ll call my sister over. Go ahead and put in for our usuals.”

“Absolutely.”

I pull out my phone to text Arya. She had no idea I was going to meet the woman from my walk of shame.

Me: I’m at Sicily’s. Already ordered your favorite.

Arya: Are you serious? On my way!!!!!!!!!

Her exuberant punctuation makes me smile.

I have to salvage this day somehow.

13

MILA

Ican stay.

I can stay!

The realization that my mistake isn’t going to cost me after all sustains me all the way through a hurried unpacking, ordering my first food from the castle — more of those prime rib sliders — and texting pictures of my new place to Camille and my parents.

I decide not to bother Brooklyn and Owen, eating my free food while watching my free premium television stations, and constantly looking around at my own little space in the castle, in awe of where I am.

The next morning, I put on one of the three uniforms that were hanging in my closet. Black pants, white shirt, and black vest, all made according to the measurements they had us send in. I hang my ID badge around my neck and head to the meeting room.

Already the halls are making more sense. Staff wing one, staff wing two, main service hall, past the ballroom, and to the offices.

Raya is inside, talking to Ilsa, who has her thick black hair neatly piled high. Brooklyn, too, has her hair pulled back. I finger my curling mass, worrying I should have done the same.

Brooklyn comes over. “The guys are late,” she says. “There’s coffee and pastries. Get the chocolate one. Swoon worthy.”

I pour a cup of coffee. “Should I put my hair up?” I ask.

“It depends on your rotation.”