Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,1

lilting.

I ignore Keryn and push through the heavy revolving door of the hotel. I put my head down and hurry to the subway. I’m on autopilot. Another job lost. Another kitchen I’ve been banished from. Another job where the food wasn’t the issue, I was. At least I was at the McCormick Hotel the longest. Almost six months. That’s progress, right? I trot past the Dunkin’ Donuts in the Rockefeller Center subway station and take note. If all else fails, I can ask them for an application on my return trip.

“I’m not fired yet,” I mutter, finally shoving myself through the subway turnstile.

I stand on the subway platform and allow myself a moment. I close my eyes and breathe in. I can win this job back. I can change. I’ll plead my case. My food is good. It’s better practice to keep an already existing employee than to train someone new. This guy’s a businessman. He’s got to know that. The rush of air signals the incoming subway cars, and I can feel the crowd shift forward on the platform. I open my eyes. Even after two years in New York, I’ve never grown tired of the subway. I think it’s beautiful. I would never say that out loud, because it would surely brand me as a wide-eyed newbie just waiting to be taken down by this city. I can’t help it. Despite mounting evidence that New York has apparently grown tired of me, I have yet to be anything but spellbound by it. As I board the subway, bound for the West Village, I can’t blame New York for my inability to fit in. The city itself isn’t cruel. It’s just indifferent.

I tuck in next to the back of the car. I’ve never liked sitting on subways, always preferring to stand. I can’t even settle into a simple mode of transportation without some quick exit strategy. My stomach roils as the subway jostles its way under the city. I practice my speech. I won’t blow up. I’ll listen. I’m thirty-one years old and I’m about to be unemployed. Again. I’ve got nowhere to go if this job doesn’t work out. I negotiated a room in the hotel along with my salary. If I lose this job, I lose a place to stay. My hand grips the metal bar as I’m bumped and crowded. Even if Dunkin’ Donuts is hiring, where will I live? Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

I exit the subway and run up the stairs. I rush the three or four blocks to the head office trying to steady my breathing. I find the intercom and push the corresponding button.

“Yes?”

“Queenie Wake to see Brad Carter,” I say, trying to sound cool. The door buzzes open. I walk inside trying to smooth my hair, wiping the sweat off . . . everywhere. Get myself under control. More lobbies, more elevators, more long hallways until I find myself standing in front of a large desk. I’ve finally caught my breath.

“He’s ready for you. Down the hallway. He’s in the corner office,” the woman says, her face kind.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, her momentary kindness breaking through my guard, yielding an embarrassing slip back to my Texas roots. She nods and I know she’s obsessing about me calling her ma’am. “I’m too young for her to call me ma’am,” she’ll sob to her girlfriends over cocktails later than evening.

I walk down yet another hallway and see an open office door. I steel myself. I will win my job back. This is not my last day. I knock on the door, peeking in just a bit.

“Queenie. Come on in,” Brad says, looking up from his desk.

“Thanks,” I say, taking off my backpack and sitting.

Brad doesn’t look up. He’s typing something. I wait. My smile fades. I’ve met him only once before and maybe seen him a handful of times at the hotel. As he ignores me, I study him. You can tell, at one time, Brad was a good-looking guy. He’s effortless and cool. Golden curls cut short, crinkled blue eyes from being out in the sun frolicking. Probably in the Hamptons.

I look around his office. I’ve never been in here before. The walls are laden with every pop-culture reference most people either don’t “get” or wish they could forget. Hugh Grant’s mug shot framed and signed by Divine Brown, her red-lipsticked lips kissing Hugh’s cheek. A Shepard Fairey–style poster, but this time instead of President Obama and Hope being heralded, Brad’s got