My fingers finally found my phone, poking and pressing to make the siren noise stop. When the screen lit up, I saw the time.
4:30 am.
“Holy hell.” As normal brain functioning oozed back into my cranium, I remembered what the super loud, super annoying red alert sound effect meant. It was a special alert I had set for any text messages from Marcus at LuxeLife.
Realization dawning (unlike the actual dawn, which was still hours away), I went from a state of sleep-deprived-pissed-off to a state of wide-awake-terror in the span of 1.2 seconds. As I scrambled to open my messaging app, second guesses and self-doubts poured through my inner monologue like a horde of teen girls at a Taylor Swift concert.
LuxeLife changed its mind …
Victoria realized I was a total fraud …
Golf Voice and Slick Hair staged a corporate coup and made it their life mission to destroy me …
The text message from Marcus wasn’t any of those things.
It was worse.
My phone made more noise. This time, a buzzing sound, an incoming call from Parker.
“Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god. Did you see the email? Did you see the text?” Parker’s voice was annoyingly alert for pre-sunlight.
“No. I was sleeping. Like a normal person.” My voice came out as a croak.
“Well, you better stop sleeping and start moving because you leave for Aster Park Regional Airport in two hours.”
4:32am.
I briefly considered the possibility I was still dreaming, or more accurately, nightmaring, but then I rammed my big toe into the crate of arctic glacier detox masks at the foot of my bed and the sharp stab of pain confirmed that I was, indeed, awake.
“Sam, did you hear what I said? You leave in TWOHOURS.” There was a brief pause, then Parker added, “Actually, make that one hour and fifty-seven minutes.”
I’d transitioned from sleep-deprived-pissed-off to wide-awake-terror, which now gave way to five-alarm-panic. My torso shot straight up in bed, knocking a jar of sponsor-supplied truffle-infused night cream halfway across the room.
Over the past few years, my downtown pseudo-affordable apartment had transformed into a mixed-use space. Forty-nine percent video studio, forty-nine percent warehouse, and two percent living quarters. With all the free product people sent me for reviews and reveals, I could have opened my own beauty supply store.
“Now one hour and fifty-six minutes,” said Parker’s voice, now emanating from the nightstand where I’d switched him to speakerphone.
“Call them back!” I ordered. “Tell them to book me on a later flight.” When Marcus said his assistant would work out the travel arrangements after our LuxeLife meeting, I had thought it would take a few days to pull everything together, not a few hours. I’d also assumed there would be a step where they checked in with me first before booking me on a flight halfway across the country.
“I already tried,” said Parker. “The six thirty was the only flight to Aster Park that still had a seat open in first class.” He paused dramatically. “Unless you’d prefer to fly coach.”
“I’d rather start flapping my arms and fly there myself.”
My phone rang yet again. According to the display, this time, my parents. Somehow, my LA apartment had transformed into Grand Central Station overnight. “What do they want?” I mumbled to myself. “I don’t have time for this.” I sent their call straight to voicemail.
4:35am.
My mental state shifted back to wide-awake-terror, whichwas followed quickly by overwhelming paralysis. The million different things I would have to do to get ready for the trip were engulfed in a battle-royale for my sleep-hampered attention span.
I needed to pee. And eat. And shower, I confirmed after a quick sniff.
Or should I shower, then eat, then pee? And then pack and get dressed. Or get dressed and then pack. Or pack and then eat? But did I even have time to shower? Did I even have time to pee?
Some people are good with surprises. Emergency room surgeons. Navy Seals. Kindergarten teachers.
I was not.
One time, when I was seven, my parents threw me a surprise birthday party with all my friends, and when Dad opened the door and everyone yelled “surprise,” I grabbed the piñata bat and hit a home run in his crotch.
