“Good,” I say, pulling a stock standard smile that gives nothing away. And while she is a brilliant therapist, I am a brilliant therapist’s daughter. “Hungover. You know how it is, end of school party and all. I’m a little slow today,” I add, knowing a simple “good” is like catnip for her. I will give her exactly what she needs to hear today to make this as painless as possible.
Before she can respond, we’re cut off by a commotion at the entrance as a man carrying a monstrous bunch of flowers the size of his head, plus five other heads combined, attempts to enter. A security guard steps in front of the flower delivery man, blocking him from fulfilling his contractual duties. How did I not notice this beef-hunk security man standing at the entrance when I arrived? I mean, his back alone is whatMen’s Health“body part of the month” dreams are made of. We’re talking broad shoulders that taper into a V down to his waist.Form an orderly queue for the pull-down machine, lads.
“Please. I need to see her,” Flower Dude says, pleading, and I realize we’re witnessing some sort of romantic-gesture-slash- allergy-nightmare.
“I’m sorry, that’s not happening,” Beef Hunk says with a soothing tone that carries a hint of authority, and I can’t help but wonder what he’d sound like in the bedroom saying, “Good girl.”
While the tone would most definitely work on me, lovestruck Flower Boy isn’t buying it. He doesn’t leave. Instead he loiters, attempting to catch a glimpse of his beloved inside.
I look around the caféand notice everyone has bailed on their conversations in favor of watching this episode ofDays of Our Livesunfold. That’s one way to get through brunch without having to engage with Mom. Thank you, one-night-stand-turned- sad-lover-boy.
But then the show takes a turn.
“I need to see Hillary now,” Flower Boy says, as his eyes lock on my mother—and of course, he’s talking about my mom.
Mom, to her credit, hasn’t bothered to turn around at her name and instead takes a sip of her champagne. “Mom,” I say with alarm, trying to get her to face up to the drama she’s creating.
“It’s being handled,” she says, picking up the menu for a quick perusal, like nothing is happening.
“Is it?” I slide my eyes back to the entrance, and that’s when I see Annie, her assistant, standing next to Flower Boy, like it’s just another service provided by our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. There’s hushed conversation between them as Annie wraps her arms around him and guides him away. “I hope you’re giving Annie a generous bonus this year,” I say under my breath.
Mom looks at me, head tilted, and I question whether I’ve taken the smartass daughter schtick a little too far, insinuating that my mother doesn’t pay her staff well when I damn sureknow she does. But then her phone pings. Annie. No doubt briefing her on the Flower Boy development. Which I’m positive wasn’t part of the job description when Annie agreed to work with my mother. Knowing this feels like a minor victory.
Mom flips the phone over and thinks twice about the lecture I’m pretty sure was on the tip of her tongue. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you,” she says instead, reaching into her bag and pulling out an envelope. “It’s from your father.”
I take the envelope, not bothering to ask what it is. When it comes to Mom and Dad, and their marriage-turned-divorce-turned-friendship, I just ignore it.
“You can let him know tomorrow.” Before I can ask what she’s talking about my mind snags on the wordtomorrow. She must see it written all over my face.
“Isn’t tomorrow your Sunday lunch?” she asks.
My mouth goes dry.Oh.That lunch.
“Right. Of course.” I point to my head and make a stupid “silly me” face. “Damn hangover,” I repeat, trying to recover the fumble. I wouldn’t want Mom thinking I haven’t spoken to Dad in months.
It’s not that I’ve been avoiding him. Or that he’s been avoiding me. I don’t think. I guess you just wake up one day—that day being today—and realize you haven’t been invited over for Sunday lunch in months.
Mom looks at me with those trained therapist eyes for a long, hard moment. I’m not sure she’s buying it, but then, with a shrug, she decides to let it go. Thank goodness for small favors.
“So, what’s new?” Mom asks, taking a sip of her champagne as if this brunch hasn’t provided enough talking points to get us through to the last bite.
I got fired. I’m not teaching next semester. I have no money.
Of course, I say none of that out loud. Instead, I say, “Not much,” and this gives Mom the opening to launch into her latest hookup, who—surprise, surprise—wasn’t actually Flower Boy.
None of this shocks me—where do you think I got the idea for one-night stands from?
CHAPTER THREE
I stand outside the nondescript building known as the Sleep Lab, my phone pressed against my ear. “I can’t believe I’m prostituting my sleep for money,” I say to Emily.
In the week since Em signed me up, I’ve swung between actively ignoring the fact I’m desperate enough to enroll myself into a sleep study—or at least apply—to secretly wishing and hoping a teaching job will materialize in front of me, to thinking and praying my rent will magically get paid. But nope. Here I am, about to peddle my sleep for money. Oh, how the teacher has fallen.
“Money, money, money,” Em sings through the phone.
“Yeah, yeah. Must be funny in a rich man’s world.”
We hang up and I push through the doors, blinking at the sudden change in light. The walls of the room are blindingly white, and I momentarily wish I hadn’t left my sunglasses in the car. When my eyes have finally adjusted, I notice two things—one, the limp indoor plant in the corner of the room istrying—and failing—to bring life to the place, and two, there are a surprising number of people in the room. And even though only minutes ago I was bitching to Em about being here, now faced with the prospect of losing out on getting paid to sleep, I realize I want this gig. Bad.
