Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56071 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Kate puts down the kettle, a little aggressively, I notice.
“Hold up. Hold up,” she says, her hands making a T for time-out. “Are you telling me that when we were together in Paris, celebrating my restaurant opening, you were coming back here homeless?”
“Technically, yes, but…” I trail off.
“I feel sick,” she says.
“I know, I know. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know,” I say, soothingly.
She looks at me like I’m stupid. “I know it wasn’t my fault, dummy. I feel sick because friends are supposed to share things with each other, like, you know, being homeless!”
“I could have moved into my childhood bedroom if worst came to worst,” I say, quickly trying to do damage control. “My mom even left my Backstreet Boy posters on the wall. But that felt like moving backwards, and I didn’t want to burden Mom. I was never without a bed. Of my own. I slept in a motel for a week before I got some cash to crash with Molly. Remember Molly? She was a year ahead of us. She had a room available, well, more like a walk-in closet with a mattress, but it was private. And then in a month or so, I’d saved enough for this place, which really just fell into my lap because a friend needed to break her lease. So as you can see, technically I wasn’t homeless, and while it may seem like it was all very dramatic, it really wasn’t.” I dip my tea bag into my mug a few times, hoping my charade of nonchalance will move us away from the topic of my finances and apartment.
“So how’d you do it?” she asks, scrutinizing me.
“I told you, a friend had to get out of the lease,” I say. “Oh, you’ll like this story. You see she had an opportunity to move to Los Angeles for…”
“The money, Weaver,” she interrupts. “How’d you get the money? Taking over a lease still requires mo-ney! Moola. Dough. So where are you working and how’d you get so much, so fast? Don’t play dumb blonde with me.”
I’m pretty sure a lie about clients in Dubai overheating their hairports with deciduous routers wouldn’t fly with Kate.
“Freelancing, mostly,” I say. Dunk, dunk went my tea bag. Totally casual, I am.
“At what?” Kate say, staring at me as if I’d just walked in hours after curfew.
“Mostly techie things on various apps for travel and leisure. You know, the gig economy. There’s lots of…uhm, gigs…out there these days.”
There are those squinty eyes again; the slight shake of her head while she looks at me. She doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.
“Lady, I’m exhausted,” she says. “You exhaust me. If I have any chance of going out tonight, I need a little nap. So we’ll pick up this conversation later. Okay Weaver?”
“Sure. I’m happy to,” I say, way too jovially.
As she walks past me and into the guest room, she looks over her shoulder and says, “And Weaver. You’re over-steeping you’re tea. I’ve known you too long not to know that’s your tell when you’re hiding something.”
She closes the door behind her, and I slump into my kitchen chair. I sip my tea. She was right. It’s completely bitter.
5
Weaver
It’s been so long since I’ve had a night out on the town, that I’ve been staring at my closet for fifteen minutes hoping something—anything—will jump out at me and say, “Wear me, Weaver.” Where are Cinderella’s little dressing birds when a girl really needs them?
I reach in and grab two dresses. Both short and tight. I figure I can’t go wrong with short and tight. I scrounge around on the floor looking for the single pair of heels I own, the ones I bought for Kate’s restaurant opening back in Paris.
I stand in front of the mirror, in my heels and panties, swapping one dress for the other to see which will look better. Silver or black? My gut says black, so I’ll blend in with all the other girls at the club, and then I tell my gut to take a hike because tonight is special, and I want to stand out. The silver dress has a lacey overlay with deep décolletage. It also has the advantage of long sleeves, so I can skip wearing a jacket. I’ll still freeze, but at least I won’t look like a total coatless twit. As I’m putting the black dress back in the closet, I hear a chime from my laptop. It’s a trill little note, and I recognize it immediately as the message notification from Sugar Girl.
I hang my silver dress on the doorknob and dive onto my bed, clicking accept on the message box from WildCaptain.
How’s the house guest? Does she love the carafe?
She’s pretty impressed, I type back. In fact, we’re going to stay in all night and take little sips of water from the carafe. It’s a total crowd pleaser.