Em picks up the paper and points to some small font at the bottom my tired eyes didn’t have the energy to read. “Yeah, but you get paid eight thousand dollars to do it.”
I snap my attention back to her. “Are you for real?”
She nods. “It’s perfect. You spend four weeks at the sleep study, we’ll have the rest of our summer,andyou get paid better than a summer school teacher’s salary.”
Only in America would someone in a clinical trial get paid better than someone who’s in charge of shaping the minds of the next generation.
Em gets out her phone and starts typing.
“What are you doing?”
“Signing you up,” she says.
“I didn’t say yes,” I say, without a hint of conviction. I mean, the moneywouldbe enough to pay my rent until fall with a little left over to keep our summer traditions alive. I, for one, am looking forward to learning the latest TikTok dance of the summer, drinking booze out of brown paper bags at the beach with salt in our hair and sand between our toes, and planning our elaborate Halloween party. Hell, maybe we’ll even take up tennis.
“That coffee will hit your synapses in about three minutes, and you’ll be thanking me because you know it’ll be stupid to knock back this opportunity.”
“There,” Em says with a final tap of her phone. “You’ve got an interview next Friday.” She puts it down just as the waiter brings our breakfast. “That solves the rent issue,” she says, like it was nothing. “And gives us twelve weeks to figure out how to get your job back.” She takes a bite of her bacon.
I raise an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t bet on it. I went through the options when Holland was firing me. With the lawyers they have on retainer, it’s not going to happen,” I say with more bitterness than I intended.
“You’ll be walking in with me on the first day of school, like we always do. Just you wait and see,” Em says, smiling.
Emily’s always had the knack of spinning shit to gold. And I want to buy it. I really do. I hear gold is always a good investment.
But to invest in gold, you need money.
I take a bite of my eggs, considering my current options. Looks like I’m going to that interview after all.
One midmorning sofa nap later, I’m showered and sitting in the garden of an upscale caféI would never patronize by choice. It’sthe kind with white tablecloths and waiters who never let your water dip below a quarter full. If there was an Olympic sport in keeping their patrons hydrated, they’d win gold.
I’m waiting for my mother, Hillary Hutchinson, whose bio reads world-renowned relationship expert,New York Timesbestselling author ofDating, Mating, and Masturbating, esteemed professor at UCLA, host of Netflix’s number one seriesSwipe Right with Dr. Hutchinson,and most importantly, ageless beauty. If I had a dollar for every time someone told my mother there was “no way she could have a thirty-year-old daughter,” I wouldn’t need to do the stupid sleep study. She’s an eye roll, but she’s my mom. And I love her. Which is why I agree to these monthly brunches at places where people go not to eat, but to be seen.
I look up at the entrance from my seat—a huge comfy chair that would be more at home in a living room than on the patio of a café—and realize I’m going to be here a while, so I wave down a waiter and order two flutes of champagne. That’s the level of fancy.Flutes.Ofchampagne. And so begins the waiting ritual.
If Mom makes it before I finish the first glass, the second is all hers. If not, dibs.
My phone vibrates on the white tablecloth and I pick it up. It’s the Bone It app. I just matched with a Morgan.
Free tonight?
When I swipe open the message to investigate further, a gym selfie accompanies said message. Morgan’s body takes up the entire photo frame. My eyes are immediately drawn to his white T-shirt straining against his abs. Abs that seem to draw the eye down, down … down. Abs that make me notice he’s wearing gray sweatpants. Gray sweatpants that make me well aware he isn’t planning on coming over to talk. Which works out perfect, because I don’t intend on listening.
I use two fingers on the photo to zoom in, studying my potential hookup for tonight. Morgan is your classic kind of hot. His clean, short sandy-blond hair is styled into a side part.
I bet he gets eye-banged by every woman he walks past. Most men, too. And he’d deserve it. It’s obvious he works for it. I can only imagine the stamina.
I bang out a quickyesas I polish off the second glass, the bubbles carbonating my blood and making me feel light and happy, like the summers of old when I used to enjoy knowing I was getting paid and there was a new class of eager students waiting for me on the other side. That done, I look up just as Mom materializes at the entrance, wearing a T-shirt dress with sneakers. Stealing the show is her untamed curly hair and signature CHA-NEL earrings. You know those ones that spell CHA in one ear and NEL in the other and are so fucking obvious that everyone’s a bit like,Yeah, we get the message loud and clear. You’re wearing Chanel.But damn, she looks so at home in herself. I make a mental note to replicate this ensemble when I get home, minus the thousand-dollar earrings.
I watch as she’s stopped by someone equally as confident as Mom, the owner maybe, and her whole demeanor changes. There’s an overly enthusiastic hello. There’s a one-two cheek kiss. There’s a lot of arm holding. And then the arm holder lets go and fishes Mom’s book out of her bag.
Mom pulls out a pen, cracks open the cover, and signs the first page. When she finally sees me, she begrudgingly removes herself from her fan, who is obviously a better companion than her only daughter.
She must catch the involuntary sigh because as she approaches our table, she says, “I’m here! I’m here!” like she deserves a medal for doing the bare minimum like turning up to the brunch shescheduled that I would have happily rain checked. I remind myself to take more than the recommended dosage of Tylenol before I attend these monthly catch-ups. As a preventive.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, making a point to greet her as a waiter appears to pour her champagne before her butt cheeks hit the seat. I’m tempted to top myself up just to see if the waiter will have a stroke.
“Hello, Ashleigh,how are you?” she says in a low and slow register, reminding me why there’s a morning show somewhere that always wants a soundbite. Her eyes are trained on me, and I immediately chide myself. Sheisa therapist, and she loves a good reason to therapize.
