Page 13 of Stay Wild Darlin’

Two months. That’s how long I had before I was completely out of money. Two months to make something work.

I groaned and dropped my phone onto the table, plopping in the chair. That was tomorrow’s problem.

Tonight’s problem was much simpler.

“What color am I painting my nails?” I muttered, scanning the small collection of polish bottles lined up on the windowsill. Something dark? Something bright? Something that didn’t scream I lost my job and have no clue what the hell I’m doing with my life?

I grabbed a deep red and shook the bottle. A distraction. That’s all I needed tonight.

I could pick up my phone, call my mom and dad, and admit defeat. I could tell them they were right—that I was the fuckup they always suspected I’d be. That I should have never left Dallas. That my dream of making it on my own was just that—a foolish dream.

It would be so easy.

I could beg to come home, crawl back into my childhood bedroom, and swallow their quiet I told you so over tense family dinners. Let my mom micromanage, my dad barely look at me, and my siblings smirk like they’d called it.

I dragged the brush over my nail, painting it a sultry red.

But I wouldn’t.

If I was going to fail, I’d do it on my own terms.

I blew on my nails like that could fix my entire goddamn life. There had to be another option. I didn’t want to go back to bartending, and teaching jobs were basically impossible to find now that the school year had started. Subbing was an option, but that meant no insurance or stability.

Fuck.

I chewed my cheek and stared at the ceiling, wishing I had a friend to bounce ideas off. But I’d never let people get that close. Trusting others always ended the same way, with disappointment, so I learned to rely on myself.

And, apparently, a bunch of faceless strangers online.

I’d been in the same social media group since I was a teenager. The rules were simple: ask a question, and people answered like a friend would. No strings, no real connection, just noise to fill the quiet. I mostly lurked, but when loneliness or panic got loud enough, I’d post.

I sighed, unlocked my phone, opened the group, and typed:

What should you do when you’ve hit rock bottom? Stay in Seattle and try to find a teaching job, or move back to my home state—where I vowed to never move back to—to nanny for a young baby with a cool mom and a guaranteed salary double what I’d make teaching?

I didn’t second-guess it. I pressed share and set my phone down, watching the screen dim as I picked up my nail polish again.

The responses would start rolling in soon enough—some helpful, some completely unhinged, and a few telling me to sell feet pics or marry rich. The internet was nothing if not predictable.

I grabbed the remote and flicked through the streaming apps until I landed on something mindless—one of those mindless reality shows about kids working on a yacht and pretending it was the hardest job on the planet. I settled in, balancing my phone on my knee as I carefully painted the last few nails on my right hand, fully invested in whatever dumb drama was unfolding on screen.

By the time the episode ended, I stretched out my arms, admiring the deep red polish. Not bad. I unlocked my phone, hoping not to smudge my new manicure when I saw over one hundred responses to my post.

“Omg,” I muttered, eyes widening. This was . . . a lot.

I scrolled carefully, my nails still drying, and started scanning through the replies:

@BarnAuntie49: Sell feet pics. Trust me.

@BuckleBunnyInDenial: Take the nanny job, duh. Money > dignity.

@SomebodyTellHisMama55: Girl, double the salary AND a baby? That’s playing life on easy mode.

@IKnowWhatISawAtTheBar: Seattle is rainy, move somewhere warm. Priorities.

I sighed, shaking my head at some of the more wild responses, but the overwhelming majority were saying the same thing—take the job.

I stared at the screen, gnawing on my lip. It wasn’t like I had actual options here. Seattle was kicking my ass. I’d been job hunting for months with nothing to show for it except a dwindling bank account and a newfound appreciation for reality TV train wrecks.