Page 2 of Dirty Legacy

Two of my prime years, the best years of my life, the earliest of my early twenties, dumped down the drain for that loser.

Even Rick could see it, while I’ve been blind this whole time.

As I mutter angry curses to myself and plan elaborate revenge murder schemes, ideally live on Lavender’s stream, I get a text. I check my phone, halfway thinking it’s Brad the Douche, but instead my mom’s name pops up.

Dawn: hi hi can u bring home soap?

Me: Uh, sure, what kind of soap exactly?

Dawn: hahahaha great question!

Me: So what kind?

Dawn: laundry!! Stain remover!!!! For that cute romper you have? The one I stole hahahaha.

How is this my life? Another chore from my mother, who texts like a teenager but is in her late fifties, and of course she also ruined a piece of clothing I like. It’s fine, I was going to the store anyway, since Dawn Bellandi is mentally and emotionally incapable of taking care of herself, but it does annoy me that she assumes I’ll do whatever she asks.

I’m frustrated about it for ten seconds before moving on because that’s our relationship.

She fucks things up and I clean the mess.

Always been that way, always will be.

The day drags past. I have about ten thousand spreadsheets that need updating (shut the hell up, BRAD) and can’t seem to concentrate for more than a few seconds. I keep looking at Lavender’s socials, which is extremely bad, and flipping through pictures of me and Brad, which is probably worse. The office starts to empty out.

“Still here?” Nadia posts up at the entrance to my cube, her bag slung over her shoulder. She’s a few years older than me, started here at WashCo before I did, and is maybe the coolest person I’ve ever met. Her blonde hair has pink highlights and she dresses like she’s going to Paris fashion week every day, even to a dump like this. Today it’s combat boots with slacks and a vintage top that’s borderline inappropriate, but she pulls it off with a slubby cardigan.

“Unfortunately.” I spin around and lean back, clicking a pen manically. “You’re done already?”

“Yeah, you know, because I actually work during office hours. Come on, get out of here and have a drink with me.”

“I really can’t. I’m slammed.”

“You’re a data entry monkey. You move numbers from one chart to another.”

“Thank you for that.”

“It’s true. WashCo will be fine if you cut out and finish up tomorrow. You need some time off.”

She’s right. Nobody would notice or care if I left and wrapped all this up tomorrow.

But I can’t do it. I told my manager Robby I’d get this data off to the Big Boss and I still haven’t finished it all.

“Tomorrow. I promise.”

Nadia lets out a breath and shakes her head. “How are you going to meet your next man if you’re stuck in your cube all the time?”

“Tinder? Craigslist. Facebook Marketplace. I have options.”

“You’re sick but I love it. You sure you won’t change your mind?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Love you, girl. You’re gonna be okay, I promise.” Nadia gives me a tight smile before stomping off, her boots clomping on the carpet.

I watch her go. What’s the matter with me? This data stuff isn’t even that important. There’s no way the Big Boss even looks at whatever I send him. I’m about the least important person in this place, while the Big Boss built WashCo with his bare hands, if the story is true. I’m not sure how much I believe about the lore around here, but everyone swears Big Boss turned what was once a tiny little towing operation into one of the most lucrative in New York City, all before he turned thirty. Now he’s an ancient thirty-five, thirteen years my senior, and he’s done more before forty than I’ll do in my entire life.

I could blame Brad, or my mother, or Lavender Lane, but the truth is I’m stuck in my rut, trapped wriggling around like a worm in my narrow patch of dirt, and I’ll never get free.