Harper: Comic Sans? Are you trying to get exiled from society? You’re lucky I love chaos.
Harper: Also, this is the most unhinged invite I’ve ever seen.
10/10. Don’t change a thing.
I lift my kombucha. “To dead husbands, dating apps, and glitter bombs.”
Viv clinks her glass to mine. “And to you, Birdie. For finally telling off the snack mafia.”
“Honestly.” Marin raises her phone like a toast. “I think we’re all a little feral tonight.”
“Probably buzzed on probiotics,” I mutter.
______________
The phone pings on the kitchen counter, wedged between ahalf-eaten granola bar and a crumpled grocery list that says “milk?” in three different handwritings.
I wipe my hands on my pajama pants and answer without checking the number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, may I speak with Birdie Lawson?”
My stomach drops. The voice is young and crisp, someone I don’t recognize.
“This is her.” I already regret my tone, which somehow comes out like I’m either answering a census or being interrogated.
“This is Callie from the Seattle Art Museum. I’m calling about your application for the Exhibition Curator Internship. We'd love to schedule an interview if you're still interested?”
Still interested? I choke on air.
“Oh! Yes! I’m very interested. Enthusiastic, even.” I sound like I’ve never spoken to another human before.
“Great!” I can hear the smile in her voice, but she otherwise seems unfazed by my exuberance. “Does tomorrow at 10:00 AM work?”
“Absolutely.”
“Wonderful, I’ll email you the details shortly.”
We hang up, and I stare at my phone like it proposed marriage.
Chapter Nineteen
Marin is upstairs doing what Viv calls “final date prep” and what I call “light panic grooming.” Viv swore she had a foolproof plan—lip gloss, highlighter, and a touch of cleavage.
“We’re going to manifest love through power lipstick and spiritual contouring.” She’s already pulling out a makeup bag the size of a carry-on.
Marin blinks. “Is that a real thing?”
Viv ignores her. “You’ve been cloaked in beige cardigans and widow energy for far too long. We’re opening your aura with bronzer and unleashing your inner hot girl.”
By the time she’s done, Marin is barely recognizable. Fake lashes that won’t stop peeling at the corners are pasted onto her eyelids, lip color that could stop traffic pops off her lips, and a flowy floral kimono is giving her a “mystical but accessible” vibe.
Marin tries to act cool, but the minute she attempts to leave, her sleeve gets caught in the doorframe.
“Jesus,” she mutters, trying to wriggle free while also keeping her lashes intact.
Harper, naturally, is filming the entire thing on her phone from my bed.
