Page 34

When I emerged from my funk a year later my philosophy was engrained in my brain. I stepped out of everyone’s shadow to control my destiny so I never relied on anyone else.

Sophie tosses a pack of accordian Post-its across our office. It arches like a paper slinky in faux celebration. “Congrats on Georgia!”

I look back to Sophie. “And get this, asshole thought that wasn’t enough. I have four messages from the Tall Clubs International Foundation.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s literally a foundation for supporting tall kids. I mean, that’s great and all, but they asked if I was still interested in the receptionist position because they heard I’d be looking for work soon.”

Her mouth drops open. “That little fucker. I imagine his dick is super tiny and he needs to lord his power over strong women on the climb.” She pauses and gives me a look. I’m bouncing up on the balls of my feet and twisting my thumbs. “What? You’re too excited by something.” She grins.

“It’s so stupid. But I hacked into his Burbs soda project and added a graphic of a middle finger into the logo and a tiny eggplant with an arrow pointing to his name underneath.”

“Get the fuck out! Did you email it to him?”

“I sent it to all the printers in the Boston office.”

“Was it the IT dude I fucked a couple years ago at the Christmas party?” I nod. “Bette, that’s brilliant. Password please, we’ll need it for future sabotage.”

“IhateBette14.”

My tone turns from the high of fucking over that annoying man to a reality check. “Soph, there’s a thing I have to tell you.” She shifts in her chair, then moves from behind the monitor. When she sees my face, she stands and heads to our worn fluffy cherry blossom covered couch. We’ve had it for four years, it’s our good luck cherry.

“This is a couch conversation.” She’s fourteen years older than me, but I never sense that. She’s a mother but not maternal or patronizing at all. She sweeps her feet underneath her legs on the couch. I’m going to get the fucking brass ring job in New York. My dearest wish is for Boston to go fuck himself straight to hell. Perhaps Satan’s in the market for a creative director. I hope I get to fire him.

“We’re moving to New York.” I’m not giving her a choice. Since my best friend passed, she’s it for me and I’m not doing this job or life without her.

“Fuck. They’re closing the office, aren’t they?”

I nod.

She says, “I don’t want more responsibility. Can I stay at this level and move to New York?”

“I guess, but why not?” I shrug, not sure where she’s going with this.

“Would it cut into my ‘me’ time?”

I shove her a little. “Me time?”

“Pussy parties.”

I roll my eyes. “We have six months until the offices are consolidated. Come with me.”

I hold her hand and squeeze. She’s the only person in the world I completely trust and that’s a sobering statement. Mom can’t be trusted because she’s still unraveling her life since my dad died.

“And you’re so sure you’re going to get this job?”

“Duh,” I say.

Her lips curl up. “Hell, yeah. I’ve already fucked all the men in Chicago. I could use a change of dickery.” I laugh.

She leans forward. “Let’s bury teeny peen and his very quiet sidekick.” She’s referring to Dax, the words to asshole Hayden Corelli’s pictures.

“Eva and Rinaldi set this intense competition, basically.”

“Of course they did.”

“We have to create a 360 campaign for a pitch in April. And we don’t know the product yet.”