Look away. Trust me on this.
Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t sound completely pathetic, my phone rings.
Jessa. Thank You, God.
I pop in my earbuds and answer. “Hey! How’s your day going? Is it great? Because mine’s great too! Super great!”
“That bad?” Jessa says without preamble.
“Definebad.”
“On a scale from minor inconvenience to hiding in a coffee shop eating your feelings, where are we?”
I look at my decimated cookie skillet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Cookies are brain food. I’m hard at work on Maya’s wedding designs!”
“Chloe.”
“Jessa.”
“What happened at dinner?”
And there it is. The question I’ve been trying not to think about for the past hour while I stress-sketch and stress-eat and stress-post to Instagram like a well-adjusted person.
“Nothing! It was fine! Maya loved my napkin-fold design!” My voice is doing that thing where it’s too bright, too enthusiastic, like I’m a children’s TV host discussing something deeply upsetting. “She thought it was super cute!”
“That’s…good?”
“And then she asked if I could ‘maybe consult with someone more established’ to make sure it’s sophisticated enough for her venue.” I’m smiling while I say this, even though Jessa can’t see me. “You know. Someone who’s done this before. Someone professional.”
The wordprofessionalsticks in my throat a little.
“She didn’t.”
“Oh, she absolutely did! In front of everyone.” My parents. Derek and his parents. Even the waiter. I take another stab at my cookie, shoveling a spoonful of crumbs into my mouth. “It’s fine! It’s totally fine! She’s the bride. She gets to want what she wants. I’m just here to help make her day special.”
Jessa is quiet, but I think I can almost hear her eyes rolling. “So what did you do?”
I look down at my napkin. At the swan fold I’d originally designed. “Oh, I invented a client emergency to escape, which everyone knew was a lie because I have exactly three clients, Jess. Three. In six months—all from Maple Lake. Which I’m starting to get a sneaking suspicion my mom had something to do with.” I flatten the napkin again. “And then I came here and got a cookie, so I’d call that a win.”
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“The thing you do where you make everything sound cheerful so people won’t worry about you.”
I open my mouth to deny it, then close it. “I don’t do that.”
“You absolutely do that. You’ve been doing it since college.” Jessa’s voice goes gentler. “How are you really? The truth.”
The truth.
The truth is I have five days to pay rent, and about sixteen dollars left in my bank account after paying for my twelve-dollar cookie. My student loans are in collections because I haven’t been able to make payments in three months, and I’m living off dog-sitting money and the occasional dog-walking gig, which pays approximately enough to keep me in instant ramen and creative bankruptcy.
The truth is, I’m terrified I’m going to have to give up and ask my family for money, which means admitting I failed at the one thing I was supposed to be good at.
But I can’t say any of that, because Jessa already worries, and she’s got her life together—steady job working for an online magazine, benefits, a 401(k)—and I can’t be the friend who’s always drowning.
“I’m okay,” I say, aiming for somewhere between honest and not completely alarming. “I’m just…adjusting to the entrepreneurial lifestyle! You know how it is! Ups and downs!”
