Some girl with two million followers is showing off her “morning routine” which involves fresh-pressed juice, a Peloton, and skin that looks Facetuned.
Around noon, I finally drag myself out of bed. Shower. Put on actual clothes instead of the oversized shirt I’ve been living in. Brush my hair.
Look at myself in the mirror.
You used to have a career. You used to have prospects. You used to matter. Used to be someone.
I look away.
My phone is still on the counter. I pick it up. Open my messages. Find Marco’s contact information.
Why is he still in my phone?
I should have deleted it after sending the Venmo.
Well, I didn’t, so might as well make use of it.
I tap his name and the message window opens up.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
I could interview?
I type it. Stare at it. Delete it.
Wouldyou be open to discussing the position?
Too formal.Delete.
So.Nanny stuff. We should talk.
What am I,a mafia boss? Delete.
I throw my phone on the couch and go make coffee I don’t need.
The rent notice is still judging me from the counter.
I pick it up. Read it again. Do math in my head that I already know the answer to.
Savings divided by rent plus utilities plus student loans plus the fact that I still have to eat occasionally equals...
Ineed this job.
I really, really need this job.
But working for Marco? Seeing him every day? Pretending that night didn’t happen while taking care of his daughter and navigating whatever weird dynamic we’d have now?
My chest gets tight. I count breaths without meaning to.
One. Two. Three.
I call Amara at work. Or rather, a work from home day, if I’m remembering her schedule correctly.
She answers on the first ring. “Please tell me you’re calling with good news.”
“Define good.”
“Employment. Income. Anything that isn’t you crying into my voicemail at two a.m.”
