A Not So Meet Cute

Hands on the steering wheel, I stare out at my childhood home and also current place of residence, a small bungalow that has been in the family for years. I mean . . . years. Grandma Pru bought it back in the fifties and passed it on to my mom, who raised me and my sister, Kelsey, all by herself.

The white stucco has faded over the years and looks more cream than anything, and the red clay tile roof needs more repairs than what Mom can afford despite her live-in boyfriend of thirteen years, Jeff, wanting to replace it for her.

Speaking of Jeff, he’s out in the front yard in his oversized jean shorts and classic white undershirt, pushing his mower. Jeff always has an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, because even though he doesn’t smoke it, ever, he finds comfort in knowing that he could if he wanted. Don’t ask me about the psychology behind it; he’s great to my mom and he’s been a wonderful sounding board over the past ten years for me and my sister as well. So, if a cigarette dangles from his mouth, so be it. Could be worse.

But Jeff being in the front yard creates a flaw in my ability to bring my box of office things into my room without questions. And I don’t want any questions from Jeff or my mom. They can’t find out about Angela firing me. That would be a debilitating disaster.

No, they can NEVER find out.

Why?

Well, because they were the ones who begged and pleaded for me to find another job that wouldn’t include me working for someone with whom I’ve shared a toxic relationship for years.

But you know how it goes. Parents know nothing, we know everything, and then we have to eat our freaking words later on when we realize . . . should’ve listened to said parents.

Ughhh.

Not wanting Jeff to become suspicious, I get out of my dilapidated VW Bug, leaving the box in the back, strap my purse over my shoulder, and plaster on a beautiful smile that I know will bring joy to Jeff’s day.

“Hey, Lottie Bug,” he says, using the nickname Mom gave me years ago.

“Hey, Jeff.” I wave as he turns off the mower and adjusts his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. “Yard is looking great.”

“Thank you. I think the beautification committee will have to notice us this year.”

Oh, Jeff, always so hopeful.

You see, we live on the border, and I mean, one street over, from The Flats in Beverly Hills. And every summer, there’s a committee that walks from house to house, picking out the best yards in the neighborhood and awarding them prizes. We’ve always walked through The Flats, taking in the fabulously manicured lawns curated by professional landscapers, not the actual owners. It’s a bloodbath the week before the judges take their walk, including here at our house, because the last house on the route is across the street, and in order to see the house, you see ours, just past the bushes, and Jeff is bound and determined to be noticed.

“You’ll have to get Mom to fix the roof if you want any shot at it.”

There’s a fat chance in hell that our yard would ever be noticed. The beautification committee is made up of a bunch of rich snobs who would never look across the street. But it’s nice to give Jeff hope, especially since he works so hard.

His shoulders slump in defeat. “I told her that. I need the roof to be pristine. Those broken shingles will never get the win. I think I’m going to call the boys over one of these days and fix it while she’s at work. Act first, ask for forgiveness later.”

“Very smart approach.”

“How was work?”

I pause in my pursuit of the front door. Keeping my smile in full force, I say, “Great. Just a typical day.” Yup, a typical day of meandering around the streets of Los Angeles, killing time before I could return home, knowing full well my mom and Jeff are aware of my schedule and if I arrived home any earlier than normal, they’d be suspicious. And luckily for me, during my meandering, I was told to go buy some pantyhose by an endearing homeless man who scowled at my bare legs. I bought some consolation mint ice cream, which fell victim to the summer California sun and ended up dripping down the front of my white blouse, and, to top it off, I tripped over a street grate and tore a heel off my two-seasons-ago Jimmy Choo shoes, which is why I’m walking barefoot into the house.

It’s been one of those days.

“Promotion is in a week, right?” Jeff asks. “Are you excited? You can finally find a place of your own.”

Insert the deep sigh here.

I give him a thumbs up. “Super pumped.”

Without another word, I open the door to the house and immediately smell Mom’s homemade fish sticks. Lord Jesus, not again.

This girl can’t catch a break.

“Jeff, dinner is almost ready.”

“It’s me, Mom,” I say, heading to my room, but before I can get too far down the hallway, Mom peeks her head around the doorway to the kitchen.

“Lottie Bug, just in time for dinner.”

I wave my hand at her. “Not really hungry.” I grip my stomach. “Late lunch. I might have an apple later.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Go wash your hands”—yes, she still makes me wash my hands before a meal—“and freshen up. I’ll have a place setting waiting for you.”

Sighing, I say, “Thanks, Mom.” I reach my room, shut the door, and then slide down against it until my butt hits the floor. “God, I need booze.” I pull my phone out of my purse and text my sister.

Lottie: Booze needed. Day drinking when Mom and Jeff leave tomorrow. You in?

Kelsey, my Irish twin as Mom likes to call her, is only twelve months younger than me, and is an up-and-coming organizer—yeah, I was confused when she told me that little nugget of information as well. Basically, she’s started her own organizing business where she goes to different people’s houses to show them how to organize their pantries and closets to be more functional—so, how to not be pack rats. I asked her how she differs from everyone else jumping on The Home Edit trend, and her answer blew me away—because it was actually well-thought-out. She focuses on organizing sustainably. Instead of encouraging all of her clients to use clear acrylic bins, she works with a company that offers sustainably sourced organizational products, as well as products made from fully recycled materials. Better for the environment and better for your home. See? Blown away. Apparently, she’s one celebrity away from being discovered. I believe her. She makes just enough right now to grow her business and to afford a small studio apartment in West Hollywood.

My phone beeps with a text.

Kelsey: Shouldn’t you be at work tomorrow?

I stand from my spot on the floor and untuck my shirt before texting her back.

Lottie: I should . . .

I set my phone down and undress, tossing my clothes in my hamper, not even bothering with the stain. The damage has been done. I put on a pair of shorts and a tank top and tie my long brown hair up in a knot.

Kelsey: Don’t tell me that ho fired you.

Lottie: Consider me unemployed.

Kelsey: I FREAKING told you this was going to happen. She’s such a . . . God, Lottie, if you ever talk to her again, I’m going to disown you. Do you hear me?

Lottie: Trust me, Angela is dead to me now, despite what SHE might think.

Kelsey: Let me guess, the narcissist still thinks you’re going to be friends.

Lottie: Yup. Anyway, I’m not telling Mom and Jeff, not until I can figure something out. They still think I’m moving out next week when I get my “promotion”—aka, downgraded to unemployed.

Kelsey: Your secret is safe with me. I’ll be over around nine with tequila and margarita fixings.

Lottie: Can you come with the idea notebook?

Kelsey: Already packing it. I got you, sis.

Lottie: I love you.

Kelsey: Love you. And don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.

Feeling relieved, I set my phone down on the dresser, because if Mom sees a phone anywhere near the dinner table, she snatches it away and tosses it in the toilet. I’ve fallen victim to such thievery once and only once. After drying your toilet-water phone in rice overnight, you quickly learn to never do that again.

I head down the hallway and to the dining room, where I catch Jeff press a chaste kiss to my mom’s cheek. He whispers “thank you” to her before taking a seat. He’s changed his clothes as well, hands free from any landscaping dirt. I know he’ll be right back outside after this, but I appreciate his understanding for my mom’s rules at the table.

“Smells good, Mom,” I lie as I take a seat. Jeff loves her homemade fish sticks. I loathe them. But I eat them because I was taught at a very early age, you eat what’s on your plate and you don’t complain about it. Be happy you have food at all.

“Thank you. I made some of your favorite cobbler for dessert.”

Now that’s something I can choke down fish sticks for.

“You’re amazing. Thank you.”

Mom takes a seat, and then as a cute family of three, we link hands, Mom leads us in a prayer, and then we dig in. Thankfully, Mom gave me smaller portions. I can easily take this down for the promise of some fresh cobbler.

“How was work, sweetie?” Mom asks while putting a dollop of tartar sauce on her plate. She passes the sauce to Jeff, who takes a scoop as well, and then to me. I load up my plate with the pickle-ridden dipping sauce because it’s the only way I can chew through the sticks of fish.

“It was great,” I answer, the lie feeling raw on my tongue.

Three things I learned while growing up with a strong, independent woman—you don’t lie, you don’t cheat, and you always work for what you want. Well, I just lied, but I can’t possibly stomach telling the truth. Not when Mom and Jeff told me—just like Kelsey—what a bad idea it was to take a job from Angela. Hot and cold Angela. Narcissistic and erratic Angela. They told me to wait out the job market, that something would come along for a graduate from UC Irvine with a master’s in business.

Something would come.

Anything would come.

Nothing came.

Absolutely zero opportunities.

I became desperate.

Student loans were knocking at my door, responsibility was flooding around my feet.

I needed a job.

Angela was my only option. She offered me temporary placement within the company, a low-ball salary that forced me to live with my mom so I could maintain living in Southern California, and a promise that if I performed my job well, that after a year, my salary would triple—yes, triple, that’s how much of a pay cut I took—and she’d give me a permanent position. Mom and Jeff said I’d be a fool to take it. That she’d screw me over somehow.

But I had no other options. Absolutely none. So, I had no choice, in my mind. I took it.

And I slayed.

Over the next few months, I saw extreme growth of the lifestyle blog. Celebrities started backing it, and before I knew it, Angeloop had become a household name. I was a part of that. I threw a “told you so” right at Mom and Jeff after our first featured spot on the Today Show. I said I had to put the time in, and good things would happen.

Can you hear the sarcastic laughter now?

Not only do I have no money, but now I have no job, and in a week—unless I want to tell Mom and Jeff the truth—nowhere to live.

As Rachel Green would say, isn’t that just kick-you-in-the-crotch, spit-on-your-neck fantastic?

“Did you sign a lease yet? I know you found a place over in West Hollywood near your sister you liked.”

That I did, but thank God for my fear of commitment, because I didn’t sign the lease. That would’ve just added to this nightmare.

“I didn’t quite like that place; the vibe wasn’t there.”

Jeff laughs. “Maura, do you remember being twenty-five, searching for a place to live based off a vibe?” He playfully clutches his chest. “The memories.”

My mom chuckles and smooths her hand over his back. “I remember I found a one-room square over in Koreatown where the toilet was next to my bed and I’d use it as a nightstand. It was in those nightstand-toilet-seat moments that I thought, wow, the vibe here is real . . .” Mom looks at me. “Real poor, that is.”

Chuckling, Jeff nods. “Toilet nightstand, got me beat there. I just had a neighbor with a broom that wrecked my vibe all the time.”

I look between the two of them. “You know I’m borderline a Gen Z’er; the sarcasm can cut deep at times.”

They both laugh and then Mom says, “You’re a soft millennial. That’s okay, honey. You can stay with Mommy and Stepdaddy for as long as you want. We love having no privacy.” She smirks and I know she’s teasing. She’d never kick me out of the house, but I also know they’ve been looking forward to my departure for a while.

“If you like having no privacy, then we might as well have a slumber party tonight. We can all cuddle up in your queen-size bed.”

Jeff holds up his hand. “Please, spare me.”

Poor Jeff, such a good guy, and I can see that he does want to have some privacy with my mom. He’s been with us since I was fifteen. I think he’s ready to have some serious alone time with my mom. And just like that, the guilt builds. Does it suck that Angela fucked me over? Of course, but what sucks even more is if I don’t figure this out, I’m going to be fucking Jeff and my mom out of the freedom they’ve been looking forward to.

“We really want to walk around naked,” Mom says out of the blue. When I give her a horrified look, she says, “Whenever you’re hanging out with your sister, that’s what we do. We turn on some Harry Connick Jr., strip down, and then dance naked in the living room.”

“Oh my God, why are you telling me this?” I set my fork down, the possibility of eating dwindling. Yes, Jeff and my mom are attractive people; Jeff lifts weights in the garage and Mom keeps up with her physique, but good Christ! Not something you want to envision.

“Just so you know what we’re looking forward to.” She winks and then dips a fish stick in tartar sauce casually.

“I could’ve done without knowing.” I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest.

Mom waves her fork at my plate. “Eat up, sweetie. Cobbler is waiting for you.”

How could I forget?

FROM BEHIND A BUSH, I peek through the branches and watch as Jeff pulls my mom in for a kiss, gives her ass a squeeze—ugh, old people—and then they both get in their cars and head to work. I don’t pop out of the bushes right away, instead, I wait another two minutes just to make sure they didn’t forget anything. With my luck, they’d return home just as I was busting open a bag of chips.

When I feel the coast is clear, I move around the bush, attempting to not snag my black pencil skirt on a branch—can’t afford to lose any good interview clothes—and I trudge across the street in my generic black heels. Thank God for seven-foot shrubs, because I don’t think they noticed a thing. I tiptoe up the sidewalk to the house, unlock the door, slip inside, and then let out a deep breath.

Mission accomplished. Although, now I’m wondering why I didn’t just drive to Kelsey’s place rather than worry about all this subterfuge.

The hum of the fridge fills the rather quiet house. Everything is in order, not a throw pillow out of place, not a single dish in the sink. Mom probably wants this. Peace. The ability to enjoy the home she’s worked so hard to keep.

Not that I’m loud or obnoxious or a bad “roommate,” but there’s something to having a house to yourself, being able to do what you want without the repercussions of someone walking in on you. That’s what Mom and Jeff want desperately.

I know this because they mention it almost every day.

I need to find a job, and quick.

Not only because I want to be able to give my mom peace with Jeff, but because this girl doesn’t have much in the bank account and student loans won’t pay themselves. Not to mention my high school reunion is coming up and wouldn’t it just be a freaking cactus to the armpit if I show up, unemployed, up to my eyeballs in student loans, wearing a dress from five years ago, and still living with my mom?

And it’s not as if I can’t show up, because if I don’t show up, Angela will know why, and I can’t give her the satisfaction of knowing I relied on her.

No, I need to figure this out.

I head back to my bedroom and change out of my work outfit and into a pair of shorts and a ratty Taylor Swift shirt that I’ve had for over a decade.

As I make it back into the living room, my phone beeps with a text.

Kelsey: All clear?

Lottie: Clear.

A few minutes later, Kelsey comes busting through the door with tequila and margarita fixings in hand. “The items to forget all your troubles are here.”

I walk up to her, take the tequila, and then give her a hug. “Thank you for coming over.”

“What are sisters for? Plus, I have a light day today. Just fielding some emails. I brought my computer with me so I can get some work done as well.”

“While drinking?” I ask, brow raised. “Doesn’t seem like a smart idea.”

“We’re going to take it slow.” She gives me a pointed look. “Alcohol can ease the pain, but it’s not going to fix anything. Unless . . . have you decided to tell Mom and Jeff? Because if that’s the case, I’ll get shit-faced with you right now. You say the word, and our heads will be battling for prime-time toilet space in two hours.”

I shake my head. “No, I’m not telling Mom and Jeff.” Margarita fixings in hand, we both walk to the kitchen, where we set everything on the counter. “I don’t think I have it in me to tell them. You should’ve seen their faces last night when they were talking about having the house to themselves and having the opportunity to finally dance around naked.”

“Ew.” Kelsey’s face scrunches up.

“Tell me about it. It was a visual I didn’t need while trying to choke down Mom’s fish sticks.” I grab two glasses and a shaker from the cabinet. Kelsey goes to the freezer for a tray of ice cubes—Mom doesn’t believe her fridge needs to be updated, just like the roof. “But they were excited about me leaving, and to tell them that there’s no end in sight at this moment, it makes me want to drink this entire bottle of tequila.” I press my hand to my face. “I’m such a failure, Kelsey.”

She slips in behind me and gives me a hug. I wrap my arms around hers and hold her tight, letting myself take advantage of the sisterly hug.

“You’re not a failure,” Kelsey says. “You’ve just hit a bump in the road.”

“You all told me she was going to screw me over at some point, and maybe I thought that in the beginning, but after finding a groove with work and proving my worth at the company, I thought I could trust her. I truly thought I’d found my place.” I shake my head. “I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.” She pats my hands before releasing me. “But maybe you make some bad decisions at times.”

“I make so many bad decisions. Remember that time you told me not to ask out Tyler Dretch because you said he liked you, but I tried to prove you wrong and asked him out anyway? He told me he wanted to date the younger version of myself. That was in high school. HIGH SCHOOL, Kelsey.”

She chuckles. “I know. I told you not to.”

“And then when I bought those peach-colored seersuckers? I convinced you they were the newest fashion but it just hadn’t hit the market yet, and I wore them to the beach only for them to tear in the crotch seam when I bent over? My ass crack never cinched up so tight and so fast in my life.”

“I can still see the horrified look on your face as you felt the first ocean breeze cross your lady bits. Not wearing underwear, another bad decision.”

“You see? I don’t even know what a good decision is.”

“That’s not true. Those are just small things. You’ve made some good decisions.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, pouring the margarita ingredients into the shaker. “Please, regale me with my amazing decisions.”

Kelsey leans against the counter and taps her chin. “Uh . . . you . . . well, there was the time . . . hmm, oh, what about . . . eh, maybe not that . . .”

“Please, keep them coming,” I say dryly. “You’re showering me with all my good decisions. I can barely breathe from all the flattery.”

“Just give me a second, sheesh—oh, you got your master’s in business. That was a great idea.”

“Was it?” I ask her. “Because I’ve spent the last year using my measly paycheck to pay off my hefty student loans. And that master’s in business did absolutely nothing for me other than land me a job with Angela, which . . . we know how that ended.”

“Oh, I forgot about the student loans. Are they bad?” Kelsey’s face scrunches up.

I shake the mixer and say, “I honestly can’t even look, I’m too scared. I have them on autopay right now.”

“How much do you have in the bank?”

I wince.

It’s bad.

And I knew she was going to ask the question, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

I pour the margaritas into their respective glasses. “I don’t know. Once again, too scared to look.”

Kelsey takes a deep breath, picks up her drink, and says, “Well, if we’re going to figure out what you’re going to do, then we’re going to have to rip the bandage off and take a look at what we’re working with. We need to know your level of desperation.”

She pulls her computer from her bag and nods toward the dining room table.

“It’s time,” she says.

Crap . . . I’m afraid she’s right. It is time.

I stand there, lift the glass to my lips, and take a very large sip. I’m going to need it.

WE BOTH STARE BLANKLY at the wall in front of us.

Not a word.

Not a movement.

Just . . . staring.

The air conditioner will kick on every few minutes, blowing cool air over my heated body. But that’s it. That’s the only movement in the house, a slight wisp of my hair floating across my grief-stricken and incredibly shocked face.

I’ve heard of rock bottom before. I’ve read about it. I’ve even seen it on some people.

I thought I was at rock bottom yesterday.

But I was wrong.

This . . . this right here is rock bottom.

Finally, after at least five minutes of silence, Kelsey says, “So, I’d say our level of desperation is DEFCON 1.”

I tip back my drink and finish the contents. “Yup,” I say simply.

Over thirty thousand dollars in debt, less than three thousand dollars to my name.

Not enough for a deposit and first month’s rent for my own place.

Not enough to keep paying off my loans.

Not enough to consider some money to fall back on.

Nope.

DEFCON 1 is precisely what we’re dealing with—nuclear war.

“You really weren’t making much, were you?” Kelsey asks.

“No, I wasn’t.” I press my hand against my forehead, the severity of my situation really starting to sink in. “I hate to admit it, but I think I have to start stripping.”

“What?” Kelsey asks.

“Yup, stripping. I’ve seen how much those girls make. They’re raking in the dough.” I lift the collar of my shirt and peer down at my body. “I have nice boobs, maybe smaller than what some might enjoy, but guys like that, right? They’re perky enough. And I can . . . sway to the music.”

“Strip clubs aren’t looking for people to sway to Taylor Swift music, they want you gyrating. Do you know how to gyrate?”

“You’re never too old to learn something new. Gyrating is just thrusting your pelvis, right? I say we look up some strip clubs and just, you know, scope out the competition. See what’s getting the penises up around Hollywood these days.”

“I’m going to tell you right now, it’s not the kind of two-step, side-to-side dancing you do. Also, Mom would murder you. And you realize, you’d have to dance in a thong, and your boobs would be out for everyone to see.”

I roll my eyes. “I know what strippers do. I’m not an idiot.” I tap my chin. “Do you think if I get my nipple pierced, that would help my chances?”

Kelsey actually gives it some thought. “Maybe—wait, no.” She shakes her head. “You’re not going to be a stripper. There has to be a better idea than exposing men to your bare-breasted two-step.” She stands and holds her hand out to me. She helps me stand as well and then says, “Let’s go for a walk. Fresh air will clear our heads. Booze is always a good idea to forget, but we can’t forget, because we’re in DEFCON 1 mode right now. We need ideas, not sorrows.”

“Are you saying I’m not allowed to wallow?”

She shakes her head again. “No. We have no time for wallowing. Not unless you’re ready to tell Mom—”

“No way in hell.”

“Then get your shoes, because we need to get thinking.”

Not bothering with sneakers, I slip on my sandals, we lock up, and then we head out of the house. Kelsey walks across the street and turns right.

“You want to walk through The Flats?” I ask her. “Do you want to depress me?”

“Being surrounded by rich, elaborate houses might be exactly what you need. Inspiration.”

Dragging my feet, I follow her, and we start our walk through the neighborhood of the most elaborate and ornate houses in Los Angeles. The sidewalks are immaculate, with not a crack in the cement, and the grass is so pristinely cut that, from a quick glance, one would assume it is AstroTurf, that’s how perfect it is. A mixture of palm trees and old oak trees line the roads, while cascading bushes and wrought-iron gates protect the dwellings of the wealthy.

“This is depressing,” I say as I go to turn around.

“No, this is inspiring. You have to have a mindset change. Who knows? Maybe by walking these streets, we’ll run into someone rich who wants to work on a charity case—you.”

“Aren’t you cute.”

She chuckles. “Seriously, though, you never know who we might run into. Haven’t you heard those stories about people who meet an investor on an airplane and next thing you know, their product is in every Target in the country?”

“No,” I answer. “I haven’t heard those stories.”

“Well, they happen. You never know who you might run into.” She laughs. “You could possibly meet a rich husband, walking these streets.” She glances at me and then looks me up and down. “Well, not dressed like that, but—”

“You know, that might not be a bad idea,” I say.

“What? Meeting a rich husband?” Kelsey asks. “Sis, I was joking.”

But it’s not a joke in my head. And, yes, it might be the tequila—what little we had—talking, but there have to be men around here looking for someone to marry, right? Some singletons looking for a romp on their luxury mattress that could very well turn into a lifelong coupling? I’m not opposed to impressing with my sexual exploits to snag a man. Remember, DEFCON 1.

“No, this could be something.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Kelsey says in an exasperated tone. “Lottie, I know you’re desperate, but we need to be smart-desperate. Finding a rich husband isn’t the solution to your problems. What are you going to do, get married next week?”

“Love can happen that fast.”

“I’m going to stop you right there—this isn’t a solution. We need something concrete, something we can control.”

“No.” I gesture to the houses around us. “Look at these places. You can’t tell me all these people are living the perfect life. I bet there are some bachelors here looking for someone to keep them warm at night.” I point to my chest. “That person can be me. I’m warm. I have snuggly arms, and I’ll put out. I have no problem with such behavior.”

“Jesus, help me,” Kelsey says, pressing her hands together while looking up to the sky.

I lift my phone and open my browser.

“What are you doing?” Kelsey asks.

“Looking up how to snag a rich husband.”

“Lottie, you’ve lost it. Truly, this is an all-time low for you.”

“Precisely, which means I can only go up from here. Oh, look.” I point at my phone. “An article on how to impress the rich.” I click on it and start scrolling. “It says they like braids.” I look up at Kelsey. “Rich people like braids? Do your clients have braids in their hair?”

Kelsey thinks about it. “I mean . . . I guess I’ve worked with a few who have the cute mini braids in their hair.”

“Okay, braids—check.”

“Lottie, you can’t be serious.”

Desperation consumes me, and once I’m fixated on something that I think will save me from my current situation, I go all in. So . . . yes, I am serious.

“Classy clothes, nothing scandalous.” I glance down at my shirt. “Think they would like this Taylor Swift shirt?”

“No,” Kelsey says. “No one likes that shirt. It has holes in the armpits.”

“Unless you’ve experienced the kind of breeze received from these holes in the armpits, you have no opinion on the matter. But noted, the rich might not enjoy it.” I scan the article. “Makeup, sophisticated conversations. Knowledge on a vast array of topics.” I think about it. “Do I know a lot of things?”

“What kinds of things?”

I scan the article again. “Doesn’t say, just a vast array of topics.”

“Uh, I mean, you know a lot of random facts about reality TV.”

“I do.” I perk up. “That can be entertaining.”

“Probably not for someone who brings in enough money to afford a twenty-four-million-dollar home.”

“Hmm, yeah, maybe you’re right. Not to worry, I’ll peruse Wikipedia, brush up on some knowledge.”

“Yeah, because Wikipedia is the place to do that,” Kelsey says sarcastically and then stops to face me. “I think we really need to focus here, Lottie. Come up with a valid idea. I know this isn’t what you want to do, but maybe you can ask Ken if you can—”

“No,” I say, turning away from her and continuing to walk down the manicured streets. “I’m not contacting Ken.”

“But he’d have a job for you, you know he would.”

“Ken is out of the question. I’d rather rub my boob on some drunk man’s face than call Ken.”

“Is it because he’s dating Angela now?”

My jaw grows tight as my lips twist to the side. “No, I just don’t feel like crawling back to my ex who left me for my boss after I introduced him to her. Begging him for a job at his lame freight-shipping company is something I’ll never do. Seriously, my boob on a drunk man’s face is so much more appealing than that.”

“You know he’d help you,” Kelsey pushes.

I shake my head and then turn around to head back home. “This is useless. We should be thinking of useful ideas, not walking around, coming up with ideas like calling up my ex for a job. Honestly, Kelsey, you’re not bringing your A-game today.”

“I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night and I think that margarita mix was old.” She holds her stomach.

I take her hand and turn her around with me. “This fresh air idea was a flop.”

“Better than sitting on the couch with a pitcher of margaritas.”

“I beg to differ,” I say as a black car drives toward us, windows tinted black. “You know, that person in that car could be my escape out of this mess. I’m still thinking finding a rich husband is the way to go.”

“You’re delusional. You realize that? Especially dressed like an unemployed vagabond. No one is going to want anything to do with you in that getup.”

“I’ll have you know—these are my nice shorts. They’re only three years old.”

Kelsey slow claps for me. “Bravo, sis.”

We cross the street and head toward the house, and my phone beeps in my hand. We make our way up the sidewalk to the house as I bring my phone into view.

And then I stop dead.

Kelsey notices and asks, “What? What is it? Do Mom and Jeff know we’re home?”

I shake my head and show her my phone. “Angela texted me.”

“Noooooo.” Kelsey takes the phone from my hands and punches in my passcode. Yup, we’re that close. “What the hell do you think she wants?”

“I don’t know, you took my phone.”

Together, we lean in, and Kelsey holds the phone out in front of us so we can both read it.

Angela: Hey, girl, now that you have time on your hands, think you want to help me with the reunion planning? I could really use your magic touch. You’re so good at everything.

“What the actual fuck?” Kelsey shouts. “She has the audacity to text you and ask you for help? Has she lost her damn mind? And time on your hands? Uh, you have no time on your hands because of her; you have to spend all that time looking for a new job.”

I just stare down at the text, unable to move. Stunned that she’d say such a thing to me. That she’d think it’s okay, after firing me.

It’s nothing personal . . .

Yeah, well, it’s personal to me.

I shake my head. “She’s the worst human being I think I’ve ever met.”

“Glad you’re finally noticing that.” Kelsey pats me on the back and encourages me to enter the house, but I stay still.

“There’s no way I’m going to that reunion. Do you know why? Because she’s just going to spend it humiliating me.”

Kelsey turns me toward her and forces me to look her in the eyes.

“Oh . . . you’re going to that reunion. Do you hear me? You’re going, and you’re going to show up with some hot-as-shit guy on your arm who’s going to make Ken look like a freaking troll, and Angela is going to drool all over him.”

“It’s in two months. Currently, I have no job, I live with my mom, and I have zero prospects for arm candy.” I point at her and say, “And if you even joke about hiring an escort, our sistership is done. Got it?”

She nods. “I understand. Escort is not an option.” She taps her chin. “Let’s go inside, figure this out. Form a plan. We’ll get you out of this mess, even if it means you sleep on the floor of my studio apartment for a few weeks.”

“And here I thought I’d hit rock bottom, but you just offered up a whole new low.”

KELSEY: You know, I just measured out my studio. Another twin bed won’t fit in here with my furniture. What if we stack some pillows under my bistro table? Might feel like a bunk bed or something.

Lottie: I’m not staying at your place.

Kelsey: We spent all day yesterday trying to come up with something. That’s the best I’ve got. You know if I could afford to, I’d love to hire you so you could take care of all the business things, and I could focus more on client outreach. But you need money.

Lottie: Working with you would be the dream, but if I want to get out of Mom’s house, I need money. But don’t worry, I have it covered.

Kelsey: What do you mean you have it covered? I told you, no stripping, no matter how nice your boobs are.

Lottie: I’m not stripping. I don’t think my nips are ready for that kind of exposure.

Kelsey: Then, I’m afraid to ask what your plan is.

Lottie: I’m not saying this is the end goal, but at least it’s something until I can figure out more.

Kelsey: Lottie, what the hell are you doing?

Lottie: Just . . . taking a stroll.

Kelsey: Oh my GOD! Are you in The Flats right now?

Lottie: Nothing wrong with a little exercise. Got to get my muscles moving, you know?

Kelsey: What are you wearing? If you say heels and a dress, I’m going to drive over there and pick you up. This is not a Pretty Woman moment. You hear me? Julia Roberts lucked out with Edward. That’s once in a lifetime.

Lottie: That was fictional.

Kelsey: Either way, what are you wearing?

Lottie: [picture] Simple workout clothes.

Kelsey: You’re wearing a sports bra, no shirt. That’s flashy.

Lottie: Yeah, and these people are flashy. High ponytail so I look approachable and fun, with of course a braid on the side. Bright white sneakers, because they scream I like tennis. And I found a Fuji water bottle on the ground yesterday when I was pretending to come home from work, and I brought it home, cleaned it, and I’m carrying it now so it looks like I buy expensive water.

Kelsey: Eeeww. Are you drinking from it?

Lottie: God, no. I’m not ready to contract syphilis. It’s just a prop.

Kelsey: A prop? I’m sorry, are you in a movie I don’t know about?

Lottie: Not yet, but I did apply to some service that gathers extras for TV and film. You can make $40 a day. Score.

Kelsey: You know, I never thought I’d see you like this, but . . . wow.

Lottie: What’s that supposed to mean?

Kelsey: You’re excited about the possibility of making $40 a day, while perusing the streets for possible single, rich men, in a neighborhood you don’t belong in. CALL KEN!

Lottie: OVER MY DEAD BODY. I can feel it, Kels. This is it for me. Today, my life is going to change, even if it means I have to stay out here all day, walking up and down these damn streets. This is my out.

Kelsey: When you come home, don’t be surprised when there’s an intervention set up. Because this is a new low for you.

Lottie: I’m going to make you eat your words. Just watch!