I lift my head, wearily.
“Okay, I mean, apart from the divorce, and living at home with your mom, and trying to raise a moody teenager…”
“I’ve been offered a job,” I grumble.
“What? That’s great news! Cheers to that!”
She ‘clinks’ my paper cup against hers and settles in her seat. “What kinda job?”
I huff out a breath, unsure how to form the words. They already taste like failure.
She dips her head. “Well?”
“A barmaid job.”
Mallorie is one of the most optimistic people I know, but she’s trying hard right now, I can tell.
“Okay, well, it’s a start.” She clasps her hands on the table. “A regular income, right? A routine? You’ll be able to regain some financial independence.”
I chew on my lip. This job is none of those things. It’s a gig—there’s no contract. I don’t particularly want to get into the swing of a seven p.m. to three a.m. shift pattern, and it will bring in just enough for me to keep up this coffee habit.
“Don’t fake enthusiasm, Mallorie. It doesn’t work on you.”
“Ah jeez.” She sits back in her chair. “It’s shit. I’m not denying it. But it really is a start. You’re not in Cali anymore. You need to get back into the New York City way of life, you know? It won’t be forever. Something else will turn up. Where’s the bar?”
“Downtown. Rivington.”
She sucks in a breath through her teeth.
“Yeah. I rest my case.”
“Erin…” Mallorie leans forward and takes my hands. “You sure that’s safe?”
My brows hike. Not such a great start after all, huh? But it’s the only offer I’ve gotten so far. If another one comes along, I can quit.
“I’ll be fine. The landlord assured me the area is safe enough for women ‘of a certain age.’”
I bristle at the memory.
Mallorie’s scowl is priceless. And understandable.
“Are youfuckingkidding me?”
I shrug. This is my life now. I’m about to become a ‘woman of a certain age’ who works a bar on the sleaziest street in the city. #lifegoals.
“No,” I affirm. “But, I feel like I should do it. I’ve been supported by Gerard most of my adult life and I’m not a charity case. I need to stand on my own two feet again. Can we change the subject now?”
I glance down at the enormous tote at the side of her chair, overflowing with old, decapitated baby dolls.
“To, like, why you’re carrying around a graveyards-worth of plastic corpses?”
“Oh!” She reaches into the bag and pulls out one of the headless creatures and pats it to her chest affectionately. “I’ve been hired to do the Halloween windows for Jacksons. Even though it’s months away, I have to present my concept this week. I’m going all outChucky.”
My early thoughts about Mallorie’s dream career of being a stylist were that it was unsustainable, frivolous and overly optimistic. Yet, now, she earns six figures a year designing department store windows, consulting on sets for off-Broadway shows and small screen TV series, and styling the occasional minor celebrity. And she loves every second of it, which is priceless.
I tip my head slightly. “NotNightmare on Elm Street?”
I not-so-fondly remember being violently sick in Mallorie’s bedroom after watching that film for the first time. Blood and gore, I can handle. Constant shocks to the nervous system, I cannot.
