Very Important People

It's the early aughts, and Nicole Sharp, a sheltered young woman from a small town, has courageously - albeit impulsively - left her friends, family, and long-time boyfriend behind to begin a new life in Boston. But when dreams of cubicle life and casual Fridays are derailed by an abysmal economy, Nicole stumbles upon a gig as a waitress in one of the city's ritziest nightclubs. Through this twist of fate, she is accepted into an exclusive club: the Boston service industry. She tumbles down the rabbit hole, captivated by all the VIP rooms, celebrity sightings, and endless after-hours parties. For her and her new friends, it's when the club doors are locked and everyone else is home asleep that their fun begins. But the nightlife is not carefree for someone who doesn't truly belong in the "VIP crowd." With mounting credit card bills, a bullying boss, an uptight roommate, and a nagging sense of guilt over ignoring everyone else in her life, Nicole struggles to find her footing. And when cracks in the glitz begin to show, she must reckon with who she's becoming, who she wants to be, and who the very important people in her life really are. Excerpt: "Anyway, what about you? What's your story?" He pointed toward me with his fork, his tone cheerful again. I had no intention of telling Josh the actual truth about me. I had planned to embody the laid-back, life-on-the-edge, cool, confident chick that one might interpret from what he referred to as "my story." I mean, if all one knew about me was that I'd picked up and moved on a whim, it was totally realistic that I could be one of those interesting, artsy free spirits who spontaneously tries new cities and starts new lives. He would have believed it. It's what I'd planned to be to him. But before I could control it, my answer to Josh's simple question morphed into a monologue about all the pain, anxiety and drama that led up to that very moment. I was aware I was talking a lot, but a sense of urgency prompted me to keep going, my hands gesturing more emphatically with every phrase. Eventually, I was no longer speaking to Josh, but talking at him, like a child excitedly telling an adult something they couldn't contain. I barely looked directly at him, but I knew Josh was listening. He nodded sympathetically and offered understanding sighs, and his gaze didn't budge when he handed the waiter his credit card. There was something about him that made me feel as though I could tell him everything. And I did. Literally, everything - up until the part about how my father always found an excuse not to talk to me when I called home. With this, my hand made a sweeping motion across the table, crashing into my near-full wine glass. Red liquid flooded across the white linen.