The Leftover Club Read Online Free Page B

couldn’t have functioned without me. He was the one to give me a job after my divorce nine years ago, when he was still working at one of the Big Five agencies . Within the first two years he decided to finally branch out on his own. I was the one who helped him transition, and he rewarded me with a rather impressive salary that was smaller than when I worked at one of the Big Five, but big enough to keep me shopping around for another job. Why would I? It was comfortable. It was safe. And it allowed me to squirrel away a modest savings for the future, as well as purchase a condo and do my part to keep Meghan in the newest designer clothes.
    Unlike my meager childhood, Meghan had never worn handmade hand-me-downs. Two reasons: One, I knew what kind of social death came with such a thing. Two, it was the 21 st century. Who had time to sew?
    My solid, middle-class salary came with an undefined job description. I was a receptionist-secretary-accountant-PR agent-gopher-therapist-personal buyer-bouncer. Whatever job Tony didn’t want to or couldn’t do usually fell to me. I guess you could say I was a professional juggler, only instead of flaming swords or chainsaws I juggled the careers of key players in Hollywood.
    On some days I think I would have rather had the chainsaws.
    By 2003, I had to hire my own assistant. I gave her a nod as I headed to my office, to tackle my tasks for the day, which for the end of the month meant a whole week of accounting.
    I gulped down the caffeine and sugar that masqueraded as my coffee order while my computer switched on. Within minutes, I was immersed in a jumble of numbers I had to enter into our database, processing payments and bills. I was going cross-eyed by the time someone knocked on the door around noon. I glanced up in time to see Dylan poke his head through the door.
    He was just as flawless in 2007 as he had been in 1985, or 1982, or 1979 or 1976, when I first met him. His smile was still whiter than white, his skin still unblemished, the sharp angle of his chin could still cut glass. His wavy dark hair brushed his shoulders and his dark brown eyes were endless.
    And he was still my friend.
    Sorta .
    “Hey,” he greeted happily. “Can you break for lunch?”
    “As long as it doesn’t involve math, I can break for anything. Am I too young for a colonoscopy?”
    He laughed as he entered my office. “Tell me how someone who had to cheat off my math homework now does accounting for a major entertainment agency?”
    “I never cheated,” I informed him with the proper amount of indignation. “Not from you, anyway. You sucked just as bad as I did. Bryan, now that’s a different story.”
    He plopped down on the chair facing my desk. “Ah, yes. Bryan. I guess we’ll be seeing him again at the reunion.”
    My brow furrowed. “What reunion?”
    “Didn’t you get the email?” he asked.
    I indicated the gargantuan stack of paperwork on my desk. “I haven’t exactly had a chance to look.”
    “Spoiler warning, there’s going to be a 20-year reunion for the Fighting Jaguars of Hermosa Vista High, Class of ’88.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Count me out.”
    “What? Why?”
    I gave him a pointed stare. “I didn’t like most of those assholes in twelfth grade. You t hink my opinion has changed?”
    “You went to the last one,” he pointed out.
    I rolled my eyes again. “That’s even more reason not to go.”
    “Come on,” he cajoled with a smile. “I’ll sneak you wine coolers, just like senior year. It’ll be fun.”
    “I’d rather have the colonoscopy,” I muttered as I looked back at my computer screen.
    He shrugged. “ Suit yourself. I’ve got nearly a year to change your mind. And don’t think I won’t,” he shot over his shoulder as he strode confidently toward the door.
    I’d never tell him as much, but Dylan Fenn was the primary reason I’d never attend another reunion again.
     

3: Together Again
     
    June 26, 1998
     
    Our car pulled in behind