“I appreciate you!”
Margie raises an eyebrow.
The cat leaps from the sofa, inspecting different corners of the room before lounging on the living room rug. Margie picks her up and heads for Jack’s bedroom. There, Cashmere has a good deal of fun with Jack’s coverlet and pillows. Margie even pulls back the white comforter so that Cashmere can explore Jack’s sheets. I laugh at the cat’s antics, running my hand over her head and scratching her belly.
“You said the sister’s cat made him itch? If that boy has an allergy, we’ll know,” Margie says.
“He’s an asshole, but I trust him to know what makes him itch.”
Margie picks up Cashmere, crooning to her and scratching behind her ears before heading to the bathroom. She proceeds to run her cat’s rear over Jack’s toilet seat for good measure.
“You’re a good friend.”
“I know.”
“You think Avery would help us bury a body?”
Margie snorts. “If either one of us killed someone, he’d narc us out so hard.”
“I don’t know. He roughed up that guy who dumped a beer on your head senior year. He’s notallgoody-goody.”
“Avery is my bestie, but I’m not blind to who he is,” she says as we climb back into my apartment. “He’s predicable, dependable, and so straitlaced it’s a miracle he can breathe. Like he’s wearing a moral girdle.”
My cell alarm goes off—too late for Margie to leave now. “I can’t risk you running into him. Cashmere needs an alibi. Hang out for a bit? You can help me brainstorm how to save money for my mortgage.” I gesture toward my open laptop, where I’ve outlined my monthly expenditures.
She picks up my computer and lounges on my sofa, gently petting Cashmere as I fix my face for work. “Monthly flowers to Mom are in your ‘can’t cut’ column?”
I tip my chin up a fraction. It’s not a little bit of money, but I’m grateful to Mom. She sacrificed so much for me when Dad took off. “She misses me. I think she likes knowing I’m thinking of her.” Margie sets the laptop down with a shrug, silent judgment in her raised eyebrows. I return my gaze to my mirror, blending my foundation a little too vigorously.
“Since when do you play violin?” Margie finally drawls, nodding toward the instrument case on my kitchen counter.
I grin into my tabletop makeup mirror. “I don’t. It’s for Jack. I just put on my noise cancellers and run the stick thingy over the strings a bunch while I’m watchingJeopardy!with closed captioning. I found it on a curb.”
“Oh, okay. That’s sane.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a script. “Here. Are you done? We’re running lines as a thank-you to me.”
I help Margie rehearse until Jack returns home. When she’s confident she can leave without running into him, she collects Cashmere and departs, a smirk playing about her lips.
I leave for work just after her. And it isn’t long before I realize that watching Margie rub her cat’s ass on a toilet seat is probably going to end up being the highlight of my day.
Besides the usual work fuckery, my big global campaign conference call runs on past its end time as The Professor proposes ludicrous hypothetical after hypothetical.
“One central coordinator from each region sounds goodin theory. However, what would happen should one be, say, hit by a bus? And in a perfect world, your schedule for translation and localization would be feasible. But it hinges on Marci. What if Marci goes on maternity leave?”
“I’m not pregnant.” Marci looks alarmed as she leans toward her camera.
“Notnow, but—”
“I’m sorry, Anthony, we’re going to need to wrap—” I say into my headset mic.
“And last, I’m sure you’re aware, Penelope, but the software you propose everyone use across the globe still needs to go through strenuous security vetting.”
I freeze, fumbling with the papers on my desk. “I proposed that software because we’ve already launched pilots with it in every country.”
“Perhaps you should add that to the agenda for next week. I think if we pull at that thread now, the whole sweater might come undone,” Anthony says.
I end the call and close out the online mortgage prequalification calculator on my browser. I’ve pinpointed the exact raise amount I need, and if I can get even a modest one, I can buy my apartment. It’ll wipe out most of my savings, which scares the shit out of me, but it’s doable. With Anthony on this team, that dream is slipping further and further away.
I trudge home, stopping only to buy myself an emotional-support crêpe filled with chocolate and topped with whipped cream. It’s gone before I reach my front door, and so is the napkin I must’ve dropped en route. Once I’m inside, I quickly realize just how tricky opening my mailbox one-handed will be. Looking around for a newspaper or some other makeshift napkin, I finally wipe my messy fingers down Jack’s mailbox, leaving chocolate streaked down the front. I hope he thinks it’s dog poop.
