He leaned over. “Did they say anything back?”
My phone pinged with responses. “‘Pick me’ and lots of emojis.” Eggplants, water squirting, heart eyes, and feet.
He cackled and pulled my toes. “Bless you and your beautiful feet.”
“Theo, that tick–ahhhahaha.” I jerked away as he wiggled his fingers on the bottom of my arches. Bubbles wobbled up in protest.
He grabbed the pumice stone and jokingly swatted my leg with it. “Come on, gotta keep these babies happy.”
I splashed him, struggling to kick his hands off me. “You are so immature.” But as long as I could keep my head above water, we’d be fine. I was happy.
4
Workin’
New Year's Eve inspired a sickening slew of ‘inspirational’ posts on my social media feed: quotes, life goals, year-end summaries, weight loss ads, and tributes to various forms of relationships. It was all so boring. Was I supposed to list off what I’d done in the last year? I doubted anyone wanted to hear about selling feet pics or shoes unless I bought something nice with the cash.
I rolled over in my sheets until they cocooned me and kept scrolling. A familiar face popped up in the People You May Know tab: Sparkles–er, Shelby. Not that I knew her, really. I guessed her feed would be smiling selfies with her cute barista and family…family like Zack. I closed the app. Better not go down that rabbit hole.
My phone pinged with a text from Theo.
I’d already told him. Cassandra wouldn’t switch shifts with me because she wanted to celebrate with ‘the kiddos,’ and they went to bed at eight. As if her step-grandkids were going to be any more interesting at dinner than breakfast. This was a big deal forTheo, though. He’d sent me a million outfit pics for my opinion. My schedule must’ve slipped his mind.
Calling out would give me more time to get ready for his gig. I could rest. Be fresh. Renew my zest for crowded rooms and humans in general.
But despite blocking my boss on social media, fear wriggled in the back of my mind that he would call some other manager to catch me in some party pics. He might demand a doctor’s note. Write me up. Whatever. He’d fired one of my friends–well, ex-coworkers–for less. Odds were, he’d understand it was a holiday. But I didn’t want to lose my health insurance.
I huffed and threw my covers off, then gritted my teeth against the sudden chill. Damn capitalism. Such a double-edged sword. With any luck, my manager would be busy drinking himself into a stupor at the Cake Warehouse, so I could probably go in and do my own thing.
I packed a bag with enough stuff to get ready at work, if need be, and went in for my shift.
The second my footfall got within range of the shoe window, Cassandra poked her head from around the corner. “Ni-ni?”
I sighed and plugged my phone in. “What?” Why couldn’t she call me 'Nicole' or 'Nikki?'
“Do we have any Zeezy’s in size thirteen?” she asked.
I had just walked in. Unless I was psychic, she should know better than me if we’d had any deliveries. “Check the system,” I said.
“Okay.” At least she was trying. Two seconds later, she laughed. “Excuse me, ma’am, I have no idea what I’m doing with this thing.”
How had she worked here for three years and still not learned the system? I placed my phone in a cubby and headed out to help her. “Here, let me.”
A girl with thin lips recoiled. Her face drained of color and her eyes popped wide as if I’d crawled out of the crypt instead of the storage area.
“Hi.” I furrowed my brows. Was there a problem here?
The girl pulled her purple purse string taut across her chest and backed up. “H-hey. It’s okay. I don’t need anything.”
Cassandra waved her closer. “Don’t be silly. Ni-ni knows everything.” Something about her big smile emanated charm and hospitality. She’d spend hours chatting up customers instead of selling. Or stocking. It was annoying closing when she hadn’t cleaned up her sections, but at least she was happy.
