Page 12 of Legs

“Okay,” she said, adopting her I’m serious voice, “I get that. But can we discuss this whole job thing a sec?”

“Maybe…” I pressed my back against my apartment’s brick exterior. It was either that or slide to the sidewalk. I readied myself for a dose of Gwen Truth.

Gwen was an expert at reading people. She worked at an adoption agency and spent her days interviewing candidates, making sure babies landed in the right homes. She also called me on my bullshit. When I’d convinced myself becoming a tattoo artist was my calling—I’d always been able to draw, and no diploma was needed—she’d dragged me into a parlor, ranting that I couldn’t tattoo others without knowing how it felt.

We no longer spoke of the incident.

She cleared her throat. “Fact is, you hate being a loan officer. You hate it more than when you had to perform reiki on the creep with the perma hard-on, and probably more than that Thai massage gig. I don’t even know how you touched those hairy guys. Granted, going out with this epic sendoff isn’t ideal, but it will force you to find something better. You need to make a change.”

A change I’d wished for last night. Maybe this was another form of Russian roulette, with my job instead of drinking to unleash Reckless Rachel. My boss may get my email. He may not. If he did, I’d be forced to realize my wish, which was more like a New Year’s resolution. It would compel me to face my future head on, ready or not. But having a paycheck while researching careers would be preferable.

The bruise on my tailbone pulsed. I winced as the throbbing along my temples renewed. “I planned on quitting eventually, just not flashing my boss in the process, and not without a plan. Every time I’ve been fired or I’ve quit, I haven’t had anything lined up. I think that’s why I’ve rushed into jobs. The pressure, maybe? The need to make rent forced me into bad situations.”

“I know, love. I’m sorry you mooned your boss.”

Words I never thought I’d hear.

I almost asked her about the power outage that had followed our wishes, if she’d felt a change in the air, too. It could have been the drinks or my desire to believe something bigger would help change my life, but I could have sworn a wisp of magic had danced up my arms. Better not to admit that out loud. Especially since that type of thinking was probably responsible for my drunken lapse in judgment.

Gwen suggested I inhale Advil and water before we hung up. An excellent idea. When this hangover wore off, I’d feel better. I’d play job roulette and hope for the best. If that butt shot disappeared in cyberspace, I’d put the incident behind me. I’d move on from this catastrophic night. Considering I had no memory of the sex-fest with Bad Boy, and I’d never see him again, forgetting it would be a cinch.

But my phone pinged when I opened my apartment door. A message from my boss greeted me: I wouldn’t use me as a reference.

Four

Rachel

Monday morning arrived to the tune of UB40’s “Red Red Wine,” the soundtrack to my downfall. Ignoring the subliminal message trilling from my alarm, I spent the morning reorganizing. My wardrobe consisted of blocks of order—nine-piece ensembles that could carry me from day to night to day again with the switch of an accessory. After I arranged each outfit by season, I polished the glasses on my open shelves and set them in perfect lines. Then I made my bed, tucking my lilac sheets snug enough to please a sergeant.

My goal: If I kept my visible life in order, the underlying mess may go unnoticed.

With those tasks completed, I scrolled the internet for possible jobs: Professional butter sculptor? Dog behaviorist? Pornography historian? Maybe I’d start a national walk-a-thon, all proceeds donated to Unemployed Girls with Bad Judgment.

Every few minutes, I’d dirty-look my wine fridge. Nope. Never drinking again. But the bottles prompted me to search winemaking careers. The notion of selecting grapes, overseeing the crushing and fermentation process, of bringing joy to people through each glass, was tempting. Wine also reminded me of my father, nights uncorking bottles the most vivid memories I had. The more I learned about wine, the closer I felt to him. Sometimes I’d pour a glass of a delicious new discovery by his gravestone.

My throat burned, a familiar sadness engulfing me. He’d missed another birthday. Another year of family dinners and baseball games. Some things never got easier.

Including the prospect of returning to school.

Two to three years of full-time studies, followed by an apprenticeship, when most of my endeavors had lasted but a few months, didn’t make sense. Piling school loans on top of my rent and bills wasn’t feasible, either. Not when I was determined to support myself. Frustrated with my fruitless searching, I plunked my forehead on my desk.

My cell rang.

The sight of my mother’s name dampened my mood further. If I answered her, I’d have to admit I’d gotten fired again. Or had I quit? I didn’t even know the truth of it. But delaying the inevitable seemed like more headache than it was worth. And I’d ignored her call last night…

Steeling my nerves, I pressed Talk. “Hey, Ma.”

“I might be late for lunch today. If you get to Andros first, get us a table outside.”

Crap. Lunch. I squeezed my eyes shut. So overwrought, I’d forgotten my mother wanted to treat me to a belated birthday outing. “Not sure I can make it.”

Or deal with her crazy.

“Nonsense. We planned this weeks ago. I’ll see you later.”

She hung up. I stared at nothing and cursed my life.

An hour later, I waited at Andros, dressed in my gray skirt, heels, and white blouse, as though I’d come from the job I no longer had. My mother breezed in, oblivious to my deception.