Golden Boys (Golden Boys, #1)(48)

“You can go to them, but I won’t.” I say it firmly, but my insides are a little more Jell-O–like about it. “I don’t want to mess this up, guys.”

They look conflicted about my answer, but before they can try to argue, my pocket vibrates. A chill sweeps through me. I pull it out to see a text from Meghan.

“Crap,” I shout, and scare myself a little for the outburst. “It’s Meghan. Wright missed his first flight, so she and Pasquale are stuck at the airport waiting for him, and she needs someone to receive the catering to the office before the vote tonight.”

“Don’t respond,” April pleads.

“You’re off the clock,” Josh says. “You’ve worked forty-eight hours this week. You don’t owe them anything else, Sal.”

They’re right. I know they’re right. But …

I type a response to Meghan, and I find myself dripping with guilt as I hit send. I look to the two sets of pleading eyes and shake my head.

“They’re sending a car for me,” I say. “I’ve got to go.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

GABRIEL

Today is the day.

Today is the day I get my first donation.

I’ve tried every technique in the guidebook. Some made me cringe so hard, like when I stopped a lady to ask her to “Name a state that starts with T!” (Apparently, asking people an easy, unexpected question throws them off enough to stop, and answer. When they answer, they feel more of an obligation to keep participating in the conversation.)

This lady, however, replied with “Tennesee you later!” and just kept walking. Which, in retrospect, was such a power move.

I’m tired of feeling useless. I’m tired of feeling anxious. But mostly, I’m tired of feeling like a failure. Today, I’m wearing the shirt Matt got for me, with I AM SORRY written in a large font across the front. I’ve decided not to go by the guidebook anymore. Making people feel awkward and uncomfortable makes me feel awkward, which is why I can’t get any of my prepared talking points out.

Here, standing in the middle of our busy sidewalk during lunch hour, I keep an eye out for my target. But before I can even make eye contact, people are veering around me. The iPad I hold gives me away as someone who’s about to ask for money. I don’t blame them, but also, I’m about to explode.

My therapist says it’ll get easier. Sal says not to worry about what others think. But no advice has made this any easier.

I throw my head back and take a deep breath.

“Does ANYONE want to talk to me about Boston’s parks?”

I shout this, and immediately feel embarrassment flood my exhausted, sunburnt body. And then, I hear a faint, “Sure.”

A businessperson stands before me. She’s in a light gray pantsuit, and she is someone I’d never have marked as a target—the more dressed up they are, the more of a hurry they’re usually in. They also tend to be rude, but to be fair they have to deal with people like me every day for god knows how long, so I don’t blame them.

“Wait, really?” I ask.

She laughs. “I’ve got a minute. I love Boston’s parks. Give me your pitch.”

“Wow, okay. I’m with Boston’s Save the Trees Foundation, and we’re raising funds to help make our parks safer, more accessible, more sustainable places.” I veer off script. “In full transparency, I’m not from here, but that’s actually made me love the parks more. Could you imagine what the city would be like if there weren’t community parks every few blocks?”

“I truly couldn’t,” she replies. “I take my lunch break in the park two blocks down every day I can. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane.”

“I never knew just how much it took to keep these parks running. These spaces didn’t just … show up, you know? I think sometimes we take it for granted, but taxpayer dollars only go so far. Our programs pay for the planting of new trees in parks just like the one you visit every day.”

I wait for her to stop me, to say an abrupt thank-you and walk away, but she doesn’t. I go back on script, letting her know the different donation tiers and what our goals are for this summer program.

“If you’re up for it, I could … get you all set up to donate right here and now. I know it’s a little weird, but it’s totally safe and takes about thirty seconds. You just put in your email and swipe your credit card.”

I wince, because even on the rare occasion someone lets me get this far, this is when I get let down easy. It takes a lot of convincing to get someone to give you their credit card.

But instead, she pulls a wallet out of her purse.

“The highest tier—you said I’d be sponsoring ten trees and I’d get access to some of your webinar programs?”

I nod. “And you get a laptop sticker with our logo on it.”

“Well, in that case, I’m sold,” she says with a laugh.

She hands over her credit card to me, and I quickly swipe it, then let her put in her information.

“I can only imagine how hard it is to be out here in this heat, but you’ve got a good cause. I know not everyone gets it, but a few people do. I’ll try to send a few of my more philanthropic colleagues this way.”

“Wow, thank you so much.”