She wishes she could get her hands on the paperwork she signed when she got hired and see what it says about something like this, but she never got her own copy. At the time, it didn’t seem like an issue as long as there was a roof over her head, food in her belly, and the promise of enough money to live on and an eventual vaccination. Now she sees that she’s always been too trusting of any authority figure that wasn’t her own mother, whom she’s never trusted.
No one else seems to have witnessed what occurred around the corner of the RV, or at least they’re not being weird about it. The rest of her co-workers are all in fabulous moods, drinking Harlan’s liquor and eating Harlan’s snacks, scrolling through their splashy new pages online, grateful that the gambit is paying off. As soon as the first woman yawns and peels off for bed, Chelsea follows. With only half the bunks occupied and voices still murmuring outside, she can’t sleep. She would give anything for what seemed like the most basic of technology at home—an old tablet and a Netflix account and enough Wi-Fi to watch a show, something stupid to take her mind off the seriousness of real life. She still remembers during the Covid pandemic when she and Ella binged all of Gilmore Girls in a couple of weeks as David kept stubbornly going into work, living his life quarantined in the spare bedroom upstairs, furious about how much the daily death toll impacted his clients’ investments—and equally furious that Chelsea wouldn’t get within six feet of him.
That should’ve been a red flag, right there. The man has no empathy, no semblance of feeling for anything beyond himself. With her current distance from him, she can’t believe how much she’d been ignoring or repressing the horrible things he did, turning away with a bright smile when he didn’t seem to give a shit about the girls when they were upset or refusing to tip delivery drivers during the pandemic because he was “already being price-gouged for groceries.”
For hours, she lies in bed on her back, feeling her bruises and sore spots from what might possibly be her first and last match in the VFR, thinking about every goddamn thing she’s done wrong.
The only thing she’s proud of since her high school grades is being a mother. If David was cold or cruel, she was the flowered umbrella over their heads, protecting them from the violent storms of their father.
She was a good mother.
Is a good mother.
And the only reason she would ever leave her children would be to avoid hurting them, which is why she’s here instead of somewhere else. She might not have Ella’s number or her mom’s, but she’s going to get a phone and get in touch with them as soon as possible.
That is, if she hasn’t gotten herself fired, in which case the greasy cash in her pocket is all she has in the entire world.
She falls asleep—well, how the hell would she know when? She doesn’t have a working phone and she doesn’t have a window in her bunk and time no longer has any meaning. But she wakes up the next morning to Arlene’s alarm and rubs her eyes as she waits her turn for the tiny bathroom, stomach grumbling and mouth fuzzy from last night’s wine.
What would it’ve been like to kiss Harlan Payne? Even if it was something she wanted, which she doesn’t think it is, the scent of beer sickens her these days, and the tang of cigar is even worse. It brings back memories of David’s barbecues, after his friends had all gone home drunk, their tipsy wives chauffeuring them, when David tottered into their bedroom and clumsily woke her up and bullied her into sloppy, whiny sex.
She does not want to kiss Harlan Payne. The thought doesn’t give her those flutters she used to get in her tummy, back when she was just a girl.
She wonders if anything ever will again.
David once gave her those flutters, and now she has to question if her body has any goddamn sense at all.
* * *
—
“You went to bed early,” Amy says on the way to breakfast.
“Tired.” In no way a lie. “Did I miss anything?”
“Nah. Nobody drank too much—not with training going hard core. Are you excited?” Without waiting for an answer, she keeps talking. “I hate that I didn’t get to go last time—it was like when you wait in line for three hours for the roller coaster and then it breaks down right before it’s your turn, you know? It looks so exhilarating. Like it’ll make your heart pound. Nothing ever feels that way, once you’re past your twenties. Even roller coasters. Even skydiving. Everything is just…Ah, so we’re doing this. Okay. We did that. Right?”
Chelsea felt that kind of exhilaration when she was giving birth, but knowing what she now knows about Amy, she’s not going to bring it up.
“Pretty much,” she agrees.
“Chelsea, can I borrow you for a minute?”
It’s Arlene, her eyes big and apologetic, her hand on Chelsea’s arm.
This isn’t a flutter or a pounding heart—this is a feeling that definitely doesn’t go away with adulthood. A sinking, dark, thick feeling, a stone in her stomach.
Something bad is going to happen, and nothing can stop it.
Chelsea knows this feeling intimately.
She pastes on a fake smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and says, “Sure.”
Arlene nods and leads her away, toward Harlan’s RV. Chelsea jerks back a little, tripping over her feet, but Arlene’s hand is there to steady her. Arlene isn’t going to leave her alone with Harlan, is she? Chelsea’s heart is definitely stuttering now as they near what is by far the nicest of the RVs. This one doesn’t have an awning and tarp and grill outside. This one is for the big boss alone, and to her knowledge, no one outside of Harlan and his lieutenants, Chris and Arlene and maybe Sienna, has been in there.
“I’m going in with you,” Arlene says as if reading her mind, firm and warm as always. “I’ll go in first.”
With a smile and a pat on the arm, Arlene knocks on the RV door, and when Harlan calls, “Come in!,” she steps in first. Chelsea follows, although what she really wants is to turn and run away. She isn’t sure where she would even go, but she has always felt this instinct around David and has never been able to follow her body’s yearning. This time she forces herself to keep walking. Not because she’s afraid of Harlan or wants to please him personally, but because she sees now that the VFR is real, that it’s going to be wildly successful, and she wants to stay a part of it and grow along with it. If Harlan pays them in kind, doing this will get her vaccinated and back with her daughters much faster than delivering pizza will.
Inside, the RV is outrageously sumptuous. It reminds her of pictures of the Rock on a private jet. Creamy leather, gleaming wood, shining metal. Harlan sits at a booth-style table wearing his usual costume, his scarf a quiet gray. He’s sitting up straight, his face neutral. It’s odd, seeing someone so vibrant and alive trying to mute himself.
Arlene scoots into the booth across from him and pats the leather seat beside her. Chelsea slides in, too, noting the neat stack of stapled paper in front of her seat, along with a silver pen—no plastic bank pen here.
“I’ll be acting as arbiter,” Arlene says, sounding like she’s in court. “Chelsea, have you read the agreement you signed when you accepted employment with the VFR?”