Chapter 8
eight
This morning’s been an endless worry loop, so after lunch I call down the stairs, “Wanna go for a walk, Lo?”
“It’s ninety-nine degrees outside; I’d rather pull my spleen out through my asshole with salad tongs,” she calls up.
I can hear the low hum of the TV keeping her company.
“A simple no would’ve sufficed.”
“No, in no way conveys how much I despise this hellish heat. You should come down here where it’s bearable. There’s a Twilight marathon on.”
“Which one are you watching?” I ask.
“Eclipse. But don’t worry, Bella’s already screwed over my precious Jacob. You’re safe to come down; it’s all about Edward now.” She sounds bitter. She’s always been Team Jacob, and I’ve always been Team Edward.
The descent into the basement cools with every step. By the time I reach the bottom, I sigh in relief.
“Remind me again why I didn’t take the basement and give you the bedroom upstairs?”
“The perks of your spotless credit, overachiever. Your name’s on the lease; you get the primary suite. Them’s the breaks,” she explains as she pops a piece of kettle corn in her mouth.
Pinching the front of my T-shirt, I stretch and release like an accordion to promote airflow. Living in an old home without A/C means living in a perpetual state of stickiness all summer.
She pats the sofa cushion next to her. “Come. Sit. You’re right on time; Edward’s turning on his sparkly emo charm like a motherfucker.”
I take a seat. And a handful of kettle corn.
The second the scene wraps up, Lola mutes the TV and swivels to pry my thoughts. “What’s wrong? You’ve been extra quiet. That means you’re overthinking.”
I swivel too, but only partially so I don’t have to look her in the eye. “Why does it have to mean I’m overthinking? I could just be thinking.”
She shakes her head. “You avoid or you overthink. There’s no in between with you.”
“That’s not true.” It’s so true.
Her eye roll says, Liar, but her mouth asks again, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure how I feel about this interview tomorrow.”
“I know compliments make you uncomfortable, so you need to promise to let me talk for a minute, and don’t you dare interrupt me.” It’s her mom voice.
I pause. And then nod.
“You’re worried, so you’re doubting yourself. Stop that shit. You’re overqualified for the job. It’s time for more, move up or move on. If this job ends—which I kind of hope it does, because fuck them—you find something better. You find a company that appreciates you and isn’t toxic.”
“Finding a job that pays like this one will be impossible. The job market is competitive, and I don’t have a college degr—”
Her index finger is lightning fast, pressing hard against my lips to cut me off because she’s tired of hearing this broken record. “We’re manifesting your destiny; negativity is not allowed while we’re mentally saging and prepping you to slay this interview.”
I lean back, but she follows, pressing my lips to the side. “What about being realistic; is that allowed? What about the rent? And my car payment? Also, I love eating,” I manage, though it’s garbled.
Her shoulders drop and with them her finger. “Why are you so pessimistic about optimism?”
I’m lying on my back, and she’s hovering over me. “Umm, because I’m a pessimist.”
Settling back into the cushion, she reaches into the popcorn bag next to her. “Fair point. But stop, it’s annoying. And unhelpful. We already know you could do Mark’s job in your sleep. The man is a—"
Lola stops mid-sentence when we hear the front door slam, and Benji comes bounding down the stairs like a labradoodle, all legs and floppy hair. “Aunt Soph, you’re Insta famous,” he pants.
“Hands on knees and breathe,” Lola coaches.
He does as instructed, but not as long as he should.
“I told Laurel about Thicker Than Water, and she told Natalie, and she told Amanda, and she told Kasey. And now Kasey is low-key obsessed. She’s stalking their Insta nonstop.
Their followers have gone from five thousand last night to over one hundred thousand as of fifteen minutes ago when I left her house. It’s probably more now.”
“Wow, that’s awesome,” I tell him.
He shakes his head. “That’s not the best part.” He stands to his full height and stretches his hands toward the ceiling, willing more air into his lungs. “Your Thicker Than Water post is blowing up.”
“How?” I ask, dumbly.
“Algorithms. Visibility. Sharing. It’s the perfect storm.”
“Huh,” is all I can say.
Benji snorts out a rare laugh. “Only you wouldn’t be fazed by this. This is how things get started. This could get big, Aunt Soph.” He pulls his phone from his pocket, taps on the screen a few times, and then turns the screen to face me and points to the number of followers on my page.
“Forty-eight thousand? That can’t be right,” I mutter, suspiciously.
Benji taps some more and brings up my Thicker Than Water post. “Over seven hundred thousand likes.”
“What does that even mean? What does any of this mean? In plain English, please,” Lola pleads like she’s geriatric and has never seen a social media account.
“Fluke,” I say at the same time Benji says, “Luck. Right place, right time.”
“And talent,” Benji adds quickly. “Your photos are phenomenal, Aunt Soph.”
Lola tosses the popcorn bag aside as she jumps to her feet and kernels spill out onto the rug.
“Wait, is this what happens when people start getting paid to post on social media? Like, could you become an impresser? Are you already an impresser?”
“Influencer,” Benji corrects.
She looks hopeful. “Yeah, that.”
Benji shrugs. “I mean, sure, it’s possible. That’s how this stuff happens.”
“There must be a glitch or something.” They’ll get it corrected, my follower count will drop back down to forty-five, and all will be right in the world.
Lola taps my breastbone. Hard. “Shut your pessimistic mouth. This is destiny manifesting. We’ve fucking summoned it.
Screw the interview tomorrow and dream bigger.
” Then she claps her hands and speed walks to the far end of the unfinished space where her crafting table is set up.
“That’s it, we’re making vision boards.”
Benji and I look at each other, and he shakes his head and mouths, “I’m not doing that again.”
When we hear her say, “Where’s my glitter glue?” I nod, agreeing with him, and we tiptoe upstairs while Lola digs through her supplies.
Grabbing my cell off the kitchen counter where it’s charging, I head for my bedroom.
Behind the closed door, I open Instagram, thankful for the distraction from the interview nerves, and plop down on my bed.
I haven’t checked it since last night, and instead of looking at my page, I immediately open my messages.
There are so many—so fucking many—but the only one I care about is Good Guy.
He said he was always there if I needed him, and an unbiased audience is necessary.
He sent a message an hour ago.
Good Guy
How’re you feeling? Was there a second encore?
“Please be around,” I whisper as I type.
No second encore. I’m going to pretend it’s because the first was utter perfection and not because I fell asleep wearing a generously applied (and oh-so-messy) face mask in a pile of pillows and Oreo crumbs.
His response comes in under a minute.
Good Guy
Perfection followed by a therapeutic, self-care, delicious shit show? That sounds like a well-earned night off.
I laugh out loud. Good Guy is what I need.
I like your description better. Let’s go with that. How’s your day been?
A photo comes through. The foreground is a pair of toned calves smattered with dark hair (he’s undeniably not six), ankles crossed, feet bare.
An obvious sock line delineated by deep tan above and fairer skin below.
He’s sitting in overly long, lush grass near a huge tree and a small fountain.
People, alone or in small groups, are scattered everywhere. It looks like a busy park.
The majestic tree is the focus of the shot, but I can’t stop staring at him as a little thrill runs through me. I wonder whether I’ve instantaneously developed a foot fetish.
The tree is spectacular. But those tan lines are wicked, I can’t stop staring.
Good Guy
I walk a lot. Socks and shoes are a requirement. Wicked tan lines are the reward.
Indeed.
I add the heart eyes and hit enter before I second-guess myself.
Good Guy
I showed you mine. Show me yours?
He adds a quick follow-up.
Good Guy
Damn, that sounded creepy as hell. I’m sorry. I meant your SURROUNDINGS.
Are feet required in the shot?
Good Guy
Required? No. But if you also have wicked tan lines, I wouldn’t mind a show of camaraderie.
I stretch out and cross my ankles, thankful I shaved my legs this morning.
Switching to the camera on my phone, I adjust the settings, focus on my dresser across from the foot of my bed and line up my legs from mid-thigh down to mimic his photo.
Click, edit without thinking because I’m in my black and white era, and send.
Good Guy
Well, damn, no tan lines.
My chipped toenail polish is from an at-home pedicure I did with my nephew months ago. It’s a disaster. Consider us even. Are you busy? Can I talk/vent/worry for a minute? I’m not sure which I need more.
Good Guy
I stopped at the park to eat a sandwich and soak up some peace before work. I don’t have to be there for another 15 minutes. Fire away.
You sure?
Good Guy
Absolutely. And always. That’s what friends are for.
Friends. I love the sound of that.
I have a job interview tomorrow, and I’m scared.
The admission to someone I only met a few days ago should make me cringe, but it’s easier typing it to him than it would be saying it to my sister’s face.
Good Guy
Which is a perfectly normal reaction. I don’t think anyone enjoys interviews. What exactly are you scared of?
If that’s a multiple-choice question, my answer is ‘all of the above.’
Good Guy
Share only what you’re comfortable sharing, but what prompted you to apply?
The company I’ve worked at for eight years was bought out last week and is merging with a larger company. The news was a surprise to all of us. There were a lot of layoffs, and I have to interview to keep my position.
Good Guy
Oof, I’m sorry. That sucks. What’s your biggest worry?
He’s a good listener.
See comment above re: ‘all of the above.’ I’m worried about messing up during the interview.
You probably won’t find this hard to believe, but I’m not great with people.
And when the spotlight is on me and I become the focus, like I will be during this interview, anxiety takes the wheel.
And drives me into a ditch. At high speed.
In a stolen Ferrari. Running stolen drugs.
Surrounded by ten highway patrol cars. With guns drawn. You get the picture…
Good Guy
You coaxed me into an insta-friendship with very little effort, which is unprecedented for me. You’re much better with people than you give yourself credit for. I’m not downplaying your anxiety. I know how real it is. Do you know the people interviewing you, or are they strangers?
I only know one of four. He is/was my manager Mark. Mark isn’t my biggest fan.
Good Guy
Why not?
Because I have a vagina. Among other things.
Good Guy
So many things I want to say, but due to the lack of time, I’ll keep it short and go with, FUCK HIM. I’m guessing the ‘other things’ are the fact that you’re a rock star at your job and he’s not.
Not to toot my own horn, but I’m good at my job.
Good Guy
He’s sexist, that threatens him. And that’s on him for being a piece of shit.
You really think he’s threatened?
Good Guy
Women like you terrify small men. I know we just met, but I can tell, without a shadow of a doubt, you’re smart, and clever, and quick-witted, and nervy, and unique, and self-assured.
I feel like I may have pulled the wool over your eyes, but I want to believe that.
Good Guy
Sometimes you don’t have to believe it to be it. It’s just who you are, Sophie.
I’m much more ordinary than you seem to believe, but I appreciate the vote of confidence more than you’ll ever know.
Good Guy
You’re not ordinary. I’ve seen your photos—ordinary people don’t see the world through the eyes you do.
Compliments are hard, so I skip the acknowledgment and circle back since we need to wrap this up.
I haven’t interviewed in years. Any tips?
Good Guy
Confidence tempered by humility is my favorite combination, but check your humility at the door. Everyone else will. This is a competition. Head high. Go fight for yourself. BE SOPHIE.
I feel like this might require a playlist. Isn’t that how pro athletes get pumped before a big game?
A link to a video of “Little Girl Gone” by Chinchilla appears.
I laugh and quote the song.
“Hold my earrings…”
Good Guy
Go get ‘em, killer!
You live up to your title, Good Guy. Thanks. Truly.
Good Guy
You feel better?
Honestly, I still feel like throwing up. But also, someone is going to get this job, and why shouldn’t that someone be me.
It should be a question, but I end the sentence with a period because that’s how I feel. Good Guy is good for my self-esteem.
Good Guy
SHOULD BE and WILL BE. What time is the interview?
7:00 AM via Zoom
Good Guy
Are you a morning person?
Fortunately, yes. Always have been.
Good Guy
Good. Because otherwise that time slot sounded like a dick move. Good luck and let me know how it goes. I’ll be thinking about you.
Will do.
I glance at the clock on my phone and quickly add an apology.
I’m so sorry! I kept you longer than 15 minutes.
Good Guy
No worries, friends in need are worth being late to work for.
I hesitate before I type a reply because Lola, Benji, and Mabel are the only people who’ve ever said something like that to me. And instead of messing up a perfect moment with a reply that I’ll overthink to death at midnight when I should be sleeping, I keep it simple but sincere.
Thank you.
And then I scroll back up, save the photo of his legs to my camera roll, and make it my new lock screen wallpaper. Because friends can appreciate that their friends have very attractive legs, right?