28. Blaise

TWENTY-EIGHT

All I can thinkabout is the email.

It's haunting me. Since it arrived two days ago, it's overshadowed everything I've thought and said and done. All through the ball game this afternoon, including the wild celebrations we had in the stands when Marty hit his third home run of the season, it's been a tiny, horrible seed in my mind.

Even now, as we wait with a pitcher at Shenanigans for the guys on the team to arrive, I can't stop my thoughts from going back to it. I only read it once, and it was only a few sentences, but they're burned into my brain.

Hi Blaise,

Touching base about the Joy Inc. Costume Wardrobe internship that we discussed last year. Applications for the July intake close at the end of this month, and I haven't seen one from you yet, so I thought I'd remind you.

Look forward to your application,

Dinesh Bakshi

Coordinator

Joy Incorporated Internship Program

"Blaise?" Xera says, and it sounds like it's not the first time. "Do you want wings?"

"Uh…" My stomach is churning, and I've barely touched food since I read the email the first time, so my instinctive reaction is to say no. But I can't keep skipping meals.

I need to deal with this. Reply to the email and close the issue.

"Yeah, wings sound good. Want some cash?"

She waves me off. "They're on Marty. He just doesn't know it yet."

That makes everyone laugh, because it's not the first time she's done that, and Marty always rolls his eyes, threatens to tell their mom on her, and then pays for it from the account the two of them share that their mom puts money into. Jordan said once that Marty calls it "the friendship fund," because their mom thinks they need to buy friends. I'm not sure if I'd like her.

Under the cover of everyone's merriment, I slip my phone out of my pocket, open the right app, and hit reply on the email.

Hi Dinesh,

Thanks for thinking of me, but I won't be applying this year. Maybe next year.

Best wishes,

Blaise

Hitting Send is the hardest thing I've done since Mom's funeral, and my hand is literally shaking as I return my phone to my pocket. So much, in fact, that I fumble and it falls to the floor with a clatter.

Then clatters some more as it rings.

I scramble to pick it up. I don't recognize the number, but I really need a few minutes to pull myself together before someone asks me what's wrong, so I say brightly, "Just going to take this," and head for the door.

"Hello?"

"Blaise? It's Dinesh here."

I freeze two steps outside and get a bunch of dirty looks from people going inside who have to dodge around me. Fuck. Moving to the side, I swallow and say, "Oh, hi."

"I swear I don't normally work on a Saturday," he says wryly. "Well, not often, anyway. But I was checking on something that was due yesterday, and I saw your email come in. You're not applying this year?"

"I'd hoped to," I admit, "but some things came up, and my financial position won't allow it. But I definitely will next year." It's a promise more to myself than to him.

He sighs. "I can't deny I'm disappointed. The Costume Wardrobe Director will be, too, when I tell her. We've both been waiting for your application."

Jesus, does he want to stab that knife a little deeper into my heart?

"I'm disappointed as well," I manage. "Things will be different next year, though, and I hope you'll still be happy to see my application then."

"We will," he assures me. "Imani saw you tagged on social media for some cosplay outfits, and she's told me three times since then that I need to prioritize your interview for the program."

Imani Jennings is the head of costume and wardrobe for Joy Inc., and the thought that she liked my designs makes me want to dance a jig… and break down in tears. Because that interview isn't happening.

"In the meantime, keep doing as much side work as you can," Dinesh continues. "The more experience you have, the better the chance we can hire you for an actual paying assistant job if the right project comes along. I just wish we could pay you for the internship, get you on board right away." The clear frustration in his voice makes me feel a little better. Not much, but anything's an improvement on rock bottom.

"Thank you," I say politely. "I'll keep my Instagram updated with my work. If a project that does seem like a good fit for me comes up, I'd appreciate the chance to send over my latest résumé and portfolio." Jobs like that don't get advertised, so I'm basically asking him for a heads-up. It's pushier than I usually am.

"I'll let Imani know you're interested," he assures me, which means exactly zero. "Thanks for taking my call."

"No problem. Bye."

I stare at the black screen of my phone, then rub my palm over my eyes and sigh. That was painful, but it's done. It's over. Finished. I'm not applying for the internship this year.

To draw a line under the whole thing and put it completely out of my mind, I open my email app and file his message away, out of the inbox. Out of sight.

Then I take a deep breath, letting the tang of briny air soothe me, and go back inside.

"Who was that?" Calla asks as I sit down.

"Nobody."

"You were talking to nobody for a while," Xera observes. "Is this like ‘nobody I want to tell you about,' or ‘nobody it was a telemarketer but I've started smoking and don't want my friends to know'?"

Phil immediately leans over, sniffs me, then shakes his head.

"Thanks for that," I tell him, and his shy smile gets a cheeky quirk. "It's not important," I continue, knowing I have to tell them something or they'll nag about it until the end of time. And I don't want us to be talking about this when Jordan gets here. He still thinks I should apply and hope things work out, money-wise. "I got an email from the guy running the internship." I don't need to give details—even Xera knows my plans. "He wanted to know why I hadn't applied yet. I told him I wasn't going to, and he called to follow up." I shrug. "That's it."

From the expressions on my friends' faces, you'd think someone had died.

"You're really not going to apply?" Butch asks.

"Not this year." I shake my head. "I haven't even found a car within the price range I'm willing to pay, but if I had, I still have no chance of making up the gap to what I'd need. Not in time. And the last thing I need halfway through the internship is to run out of money and be living in my not-so-new car somewhere in LA."

"But…" Calla looks like she's going to cry. "You're so close."

God, why are they doing this to me? I get that they're sad on my behalf, but can't they see they're just rubbing salt into the wound?

"I was, but life happens. It's fine. And it means that next year, I'll have a nice fat safety cushion in my bank account."

Harold clears his throat and glances around the table. "Maybe you should apply anyway. We were talking about it, and between all of us, we can?—"

"No."

"Blaise," Butch starts, using her most cajoling voice, but I hold up a hand.

"Stop. I'm grateful, I really am, and I love you all so much for the offer, but I'm not borrowing money from you. Especially when I know you don't really have it to lend."

"I do," Xera says coolly, her gaze almost a challenge. She's wearing her usual game-day makeup colors of purple and gold, with her favorite red lipstick that somehow doesn't clash, and nobody would guess from looking at her rah-rah Franklin outfit that she's a double major in finance and economics, planning to take over her mom's investment banking firm one day. "I've got plenty of money, I've seen your work, and I'm willing to invest in you. We'll draw up a contract with repayments and interest rates and everything. Not a favor; a genuine investment."

I can't deny it—the temptation is real. I've known Xera long enough now to know she doesn't fuck around with money. If she says this isn't a pity thing, a charitable donation of sorts, then I believe that.

But what if the internship doesn't go as well as I'd hoped? Or there's another strike just as I'm finishing it, and work dries up for a while? There's no 100 percent guarantee I'll get a paying job when I'm done, and then where will I be? Owing money to a friend. Worse, it'll put Butch in the middle. Things are going so well with them, and I don't want to be the cause of any hiccups.

Reluctantly, I shake my head. "Thank you, but no. I won't borrow from a friend. If I decide to get a loan, I'll go to a bank."

She looks me dead in the eye. "You have no collateral and plan to leave your job in July. A bank won't lend to you—definitely not with the terms I'm prepared to offer."

I smile, suddenly so grateful for my friends. "And that's why I won't borrow from you." Looking around the table, I add, "Really, it's fine. This is just a temporary setback, not the end. Applying this year was always the reach goal, remember? I'll still get there, and in the meantime, I get to hang out with you again next year."

None of them look all that convinced by my fake bravado, but they rally, and the wings arrive thirty seconds later, providing a much-needed distraction.

We've decimated half the platter when the team starts dribbling in, most of them stopping by our table to say hi and accept our congratulations, or at least waving on their way to the bar. Then Marty arrives with Jordan and Polly, and we all stand up and cheer, applauding and hollering. Butch even whistles. The non-baseball-supporting patrons look at us as though we're crazy, but Marty laps it up, waving like a celebrity and taking an elaborate bow when he gets to our table.

"Your conquering hero has arrived," he announces. "Where's the beer?"

Phil passes him the pitcher, and we make room for them to join us. Jordan slides into the seat beside me and squeezes my knee under the table. It's times like this I wish we could just be completely public; I really want a kiss and a cuddle right now.

"Have you called Mom yet?" Xera asks. "Because it's killing me. Call her."

"I called on the way over here, and she was just as unimpressed as always by my miraculous feats. But she agreed that a deal is a deal and told me I could start looking from now."

"So you might be moving before the semester's even over?" Calla asks. "Are you going to leave it empty all summer?"

"Fuck, no," both siblings say in unison.

"If he finds somewhere before end of semester, we'll be staying here in Cali for the summer," Xera explains. "I'm using the excuse of needing to sort out accommodation near UCLA before my postgrad starts as a reason not to go home and have Mom explain all the ways I'm failing at life." She casts a sidelong glance at Butch. "You'll stay with us for part of the summer at least, won't you?"

"Are you inviting your girlfriend to live in my apartment?" Marty turns to us, a teasing gleam in his eye. "You all heard her treat my home like she owns it, right?"

"Oh please, like you wouldn?—"

"Before this turns into a family fight," Butch interrupts Xera, giving her a kiss on the cheek, "let's all toast to the man of the hour. Congratulations on the homer, Marty!"

"To Marty!" we yell, lifting our glasses, and he grins and blushes.

"Aww, shucks. Sure, I am a hero"—he ignores the laughter that erupts—"but I couldn't do it without my teammates to support me. And hey, I'm not the only one whose amazingness got recognized today. Jordan got scouted!"

I hang on to my smile with sheer grit. What?

"Oh my god, that's great!" Calla squeals. "Who by?"

Jordan shrugs modestly, but he's grinning. "The White Sox. It's nothing… I don't even know if that's what I want."

My head's spinning. Seriously? This is such amazing news, but I don't have the emotional bandwidth to process it right now. I'm thrilled for Jordan, but the dark part of me, the whiny, horrible side that drowns me in feelings of failure and inadequacy and makes me want to crawl into bed for a week and cry… that part of me wants to know why today? Why is my boyfriend getting an amazing opportunity on the same day my career got officially put on hold?

And what does he mean, he doesn't know if that's what he wants?