Golden Girl(93)

The question is outrageous. Has this dude not heard of #MeToo? Does he not know that women are no longer to be messed with? Carson can see the other so-called gentlemen watching Brock with barely suppressed alarm and maybe also delight. He’s showing off. Okay, then, Carson thinks. She pulls Brock forward by the front of his beautiful, expensive shirt and lays on one hell of a kiss with tongue, a kiss old Brock can’t handle; he’ll be tenting the front of his trousers when she’s done with him. The gentlemen are cheering and Carson guesses that the rest of the bar is starting to take notice and that probably a few phones are out. She milks it for another second or two, sending a psychic message to Zach: At least someone wants to kiss me! Carson could easily take this guy as a sugar daddy; she could wear Balenciaga and travel in private jets. No more Cape Air flights for Carson!

She lets Brock go. The gentlemen cheer, and she runs the card.

Jamey (boy) comes over and says, “Do you know that guy? Is he your boyfriend or something?”

“My uncle,” she says.

The look on Jamey’s face is priceless but Carson can’t maintain a straight face. “Kidding. He’s just a customer.”



Four kamikaze shots have gotten her seriously buzzed.

Two Whale’s Tales, vodka soda, vodka tonic, Mount Gay and tonic, Diet Coke (Carson looks up to make sure that isn’t Pamela), margarita, no salt. Carson handles the orders but her head is swimming; she’s sloppy with the soda gun. Bartending isn’t a job that can be done well while intoxicated.

She lassos Jamey (boy) and says, “Cover me for a minute, please, bruh. I’ll be right back.”



She’s not drunk, but she’s not sober. She neglected to eat today—no smoothie, no bagel—which was why the espresso hit so hard and why she’s spinning now. She needs to clear her head and make it through her shift, then she can go home and rage against the machine, the machine being love.

She’s not quite all the way in the bathroom stall when she pulls out her vial of cocaine. She sits on the toilet and bumps, then bumps again, not realizing that the stall door is hanging open and that someone is watching her and that the someone is Jaime until it’s too late.

Jaime walks out of the ladies’ room without a word. Carson stuffs the cocaine down into her purse—no, that’s not good enough, she needs to throw it away, but she can’t bring herself to throw it away. Jaime won’t tell, she’s too chickenshit, and even if she does tell, it’s Jaime’s word against Carson’s.

Carson strides out to the bar, shoulders back, beaming. Jamey looks relieved to see her. He says, “There’s stuff on your nose.”

“Thanks, now piss off,” Carson says, and she runs the back of her hand under her nostrils.

Vodka tonic, planter’s punch, sauvignon blanc. Carson is pulling a fresh bottle of Matua from the minifridge when she sees a pair of legs. Carson’s eyes travel up. It’s Nikki.

“George wants to see you in his office,” she says.

“Now?” Carson says. “I’m busy.”

“Now,” Nikki says.



It’s not true Jaime is holding a grudge about something I said earlier, my boyfriend broke up with me, my mother is dead, it will never happen again, I’ll do whatever you want me to do, I’ll go to a program, see a therapist, just please don’t fire me.

“I’m sorry, Carson,” George says. “You were warned. I knew you were lying to me when we talked last time. And, frankly, the nonsense with Brock Sheltingham didn’t help.”

“He asked me for a kiss.”

“I’m sure he did, but you should have ignored the guy instead of turning it into a public spectacle. This isn’t Vegas, Carson. This isn’t Coyote Ugly. It’s a family restaurant.”

“Don’t be grandiose. It’s a beach bar.”

“There are children around and those children have parents and your behavior was inappropriate and doing four shots in a row with customers is obviously unacceptable. I could maybe have looked the other way on that stuff in the name of fun and you showing Sheltingham who’s boss. But drugs on your shift? No. I told you I would fire you and I’m firing you.”

Carson nods to let George know she heard him, but she can’t accept this outcome. “I need this job, George.”

“Take some time, properly grieve your mother, clean up your act or tone it down, do what you need to do. I’ll give you a glowing recommendation in the fall and you’ll be able to work anywhere on Nantucket that you want, or you can go off-island. But you have to get your head on straight.” He sighs. “I like you, Carson. I want what’s best for my business but I also want what’s best for you.”

Carson stands up. She’s getting a hangover, and the coke has made her jittery. There’s a mounting wave of destructive energy inside of her that is telling her to burn this bridge. George says he gets it, but he doesn’t.

“I understand,” Carson says. “You should give my job to Jaime. She’d be great.” With that, Carson leaves the office and walks out of the Oystercatcher, swiping a bottle of Triple Eight vodka as she goes.



In her car, she checks her phone. Nothing from Zach. She sends him a text: Got fired.

Fired. She got fired. It’s so humiliating—and yet, she full-on deserved it. Only two hours earlier, she had considered calling in sick and thought that was the worst thing she could do.