Better Than Perfect by Melissa Kantor Read Free Book Online Page B

guy was glancing my way and wondering how he’d gotten stuck driving a mentally unstable girl the five hundred yards she was too shaky to drive. When the driveway opened up into the parking lot, he swung my car into a spot next to the van.
    â€œHere you go,” he said, turning off the car and handing me my keys.
    I took the keys from him, opened the door, and headed for the building, relieved that my legs were holding me up. I’d walked a few feet from the car before I realized I hadn’t even thanked him for the ride.
    He was just closing the door of my car behind him when I got back. “Thanks,” I said, embarrassed by my rudeness.
    â€œNo problem,” he said, and he seemed to mean it.
    â€œI really appreciate your driving me,” I added.
    â€œIt’s no big deal,” he said.
    There was a loud bang from the far side of the van, and the girl from the passenger seat said to someone I couldn’t see, “Do you have to be such a complete wanker?” In reply, a voice I was sure was the driver’s answered, “Blow me.” Both of them sounded pretty annoyed, but my driver didn’t bother investigating.
    â€œLook, I don’t know you, but are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.
    â€œI’m fine,” I said. Immediately, to my complete and utter humiliation, my eyes started to well up.
    He took a step toward me. “Jesus,” he whispered. He patted the pockets of his cargo shorts, and on the third try extracted a couple of napkins. “They’re clean,” he assured me, pressing them into my hand.
    â€œI’m really . . .” I blew my nose. “I’m really okay.” Since I was still crying, I probably wasn’t making the most convincing case for my okayness.
    â€œCan I help you find your friend?” he asked.
    I balled up the napkins and stuffed them in my pocket. “I’m just . . . I’ve had a really hard day. I’m sorry that . . . I’m really okay.”
    He studied my face, not rudely but curiously. “Well, okay then,” he said finally. “I hope everything’s . . . okay for you.”
    â€œYeah,” I said again. “Thanks.” I suddenly remembered his name. “Thanks, Declan.”
    He gave me a two-fingered salute. “Anytime.”
    Feeling like a total ass for losing it in front of Declan, I headed toward the main house, which rose up over the parking lot like a mountain. There was a sign above the glass-and-wooden door I’d been walking toward that read EMPLOYEES ONLY . I opened it and went inside, where I found myself in a long, low-ceilinged corridor lit by fluorescent lights. It was nothing like the wide, carpeted hallways with their rococo moldings and wall sconces holding faux candles that I knew from upstairs at the club. I passed metal carts piled high with dirty coffee cups, used plates, and crumpled napkins, following the sound of loudly banging pots and pans, and then, pushing through another glass-and-wooden door, I found myself in the enormous kitchen.
    There were at least a dozen people running around, all wearing hairnets and black aprons with elaborate white script M s on them. At first I didn’t think Sofia was there, but then I spotted her over in a relatively quiet corner, standing in front of an enormous tray of pastry puffs that she was methodically filling with cream from a pastry bag.
    I crossed the kitchen, half expecting someone to stop me, but everyone was too intent on whatever they were doing to care about who I was. Sofia jumped and spun around when I tapped her on the shoulder.
    â€œJuliet!” She popped out one of her earbuds. “What are you doing here?”
    Having started bawling when Declan asked me if I was okay, I was surprised that I delivered my news to Sofia without a single tear.
    â€œMy mom’s in the hospital,” I said. “She . . . she swallowed some pills.”
    â€œOh my God,”