Down and Out(6)

He shakes his head, almost like he can’t believe what he’s about to do, and stands. “What’s your name?”
“Savannah.”
“I’m Declan.” He extends his hand over the desk, and I shake it. “Welcome to Whitmore and Son. When can you start?”

I’m on cloud nine for all of an hour, when my stomach starts to rumble and I remember I have exactly three dollars and twelve cents to my name. I couldn’t have fallen faster from that cloud if I had an anvil strapped to my feet.
I glance at the laundry basket behind me in the rearview mirror of my beat-up Civic and frown, feeling myself fall even further. It’s piled high with dirty clothes, and I’m on my last pair of clean undies. I have enough money for dinner or laundry, but not both.
My stomach grumbles again, and I roll my eyes. “I know what your vote is,” I mumble.
The thought of going commando tomorrow doesn’t sound appealing at all, but neither does skipping dinner tonight—especially since I skipped lunch, too. I bite my lip, thinking maybe there’s a way I can have both after all, and start the car.
Now where was that McDonald’s I passed earlier?
Five minutes later, I smile as the golden arches come into view, their yellow glow standing out in the night like a beacon of hope. Mickey D’s and I are BFFs. Their dollar menu saved my ass more times than I could count.
I pull into the closest parking spot, kill the engine, and grab a plastic bag from the back seat, stuffing it full of clothing. Once inside, I order my usual—a McChicken sandwich and side salad—and fill up my water bottle from the tap in the bathroom. It might not be a gourmet meal, but it’s less than $2.20 and somewhat healthy.
After I eat, I hole myself up in the tiny bathroom and fill the sink with hot, soapy water. I keep my eyes down as I work, diligently avoiding my reflection in the mirror in front of me. Washing my underwear in the sink of a McDonald’s bathroom is definitely not my finest moment. I can’t even bear to look at myself right now.

? ? ?
Declan frowns as he digs through a box of shirts in his office. It’s the only expression I’ve seen him wear, and I don’t know him well enough to know if I should take the furrowed brows and tight lips personally or not. Maybe he’s a big ball of sunshine around everyone else, but I kinda doubt it.
He sighs. “I don’t have any smalls,” he says, handing me a black t-shirt from the box. “I’ll have to order you some.”
“Thank you.” I spread it out, taking in the gym’s logo on the back as he sets the box back on top of a filing cabinet.
I pull it on over my tank top, then tug my ponytail out of the back of the shirt. The men’s large dwarfs me, so I gather the excess fabric off to the side, tying it in a knot. When I look back up, Declan blinks and looks away quickly.
The space between his brows wrinkles as he frowns yet again and pretends to look at some papers on his desk. It’s got me self-consciously trying to tug down the hem of the knotted-up shirt, which I now realize is riding a little high and pulling up the bottom of my tank top with it.
He clears his throat. “We’re open six days a week, from six AM till eight PM, and closed on Sundays. The only Saturdays I need you to work are the third Saturdays, every month.” He finally looks back at me. “Okay?”
I nod. “Not a problem.” What little social life I had is non-existent now, but I’m not about to tell him that, because he (a) doesn’t care, and (b) doesn’t need to know. No use broadcasting that I’m a friendless loser, right?
Right.
“Good.” He looks as close to pleased as I imagine his surly attitude will let him get and motions for me to follow him out of his office. As we walk through the gym, he says, “Your job serves two purposes. First, I need someone to pick up around here. Things like vacuuming, putting back the occasional piece of equipment that’s left in the wrong spot, and—probably the most important part of your job—towels.”
He leads me down the hallway to the locker room and off to the side is a door marked Laundry. Pushing it open, he flips on the lights. On one side of the room sits two industrial-sized washing machines, and on the other side are two equally huge dryers. A big metal table sits in the middle of the room, ostensibly for folding.
“Ninety percent of your job’s gonna be keeping the towels in the locker room stocked. It’s a never-ending pile of laundry that needs to be washed, dried, folded, and put away. Pretty simple, but it gets repetitive really fast. Any questions so far?”
I shake my head. “I’m a maid, basically.”
Declan’s lips turn up into the closest thing I’ve seen him do that resembles a smile. It’s beautiful and distracting—two things I definitely don’t need right now. “Basically.”
“What’s the second part of my job?”
He exhales. “Locking up at night. Ever since the old manager retired a few weeks ago, I’ve been working double shifts from open to close, six days a week, and I’m really f*ckin’ tired of it,” he says, lightly chuckling. “I need you to work from twelve to eight, with an hour for lunch, Monday through Friday. Think you can handle that?”
“Yeah, I just, um. . . You want me to close by myself? I’ve never been in charge of anything like that.”
“All you need to do is stock clean towels in the locker room, turn off the lights, and make sure the doors are locked when you leave. These guys come in, do their thing, and go. I promise they won’t need your help with anything, but I still need someone here while the place is open. And hey, if you need any help, my apartment’s right upstairs. Okay?”