Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75424 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75424 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
As soon as I’m dressed, I place a call to the Ice Possums’ administrative offices. No one is there to answer the phones on Saturday morning, but I leave a calm, collected message for Jace, the camp director who hired me for the art therapy gig. I apologize for a rough first day with the team and anything he might have seen online featuring me on a rooftop bar. I promise nothing like that will ever happen again, add that I hope to incorporate my own loss of control into my lesson plan, and encourage him to call me if he’d like to discuss this further before my session with the team on Monday afternoon.
Next, I brew a pot of coffee and sit down with leftover savory pancakes and cream cheese to assess the cyber damage.
I’m braced for the worst but am shocked to find it’s…actually not that bad. One of the few benefits of being a tiny human with sheep hair, I’m probably one of the least physically intimidating people on earth.
Even when I’m jabbing my finger at Vince and shouting, I still look sort of cute. And absolutely harmless.
The puking part is, admittedly, super gross, but most of the clips cut out right after. And now that I’ve seen for myself how Vince’s fiancée was smirking at me while I was giving him a piece of my mind, I don’t feel so bad about baptizing her in my drunk girl shame.
She was clearly enjoying my meltdown and her perceived sense of superiority.
“What a wretched little beastie,” Harlow says, watching the video over my shoulder.
“Which one?” I ask, taking another sip of my coffee.
“Both,” she replies, settling into the chair beside me in her black silk robe, looking elegant even first thing in the morning. “So how freaked out are you this morning? On a scale of one to ten? One is completely chill, ten is considering plastic surgery to change your face and moving to Mexico.”
I ponder that for a moment. “About a four, I think. Maybe a five if I end up losing my job with the team.”
“You won’t. Derrick will go to bat for you. You know he will, even if he’s pissed off.”
I shut my laptop with a sigh. “Yeah. Maybe. But I did tell him to butt out of my life last night, so…”
“I heard that. And that you’re going to be your true, authentic self. Sounds pretty awesome.”
I glance over to see a soft, vulnerable smile on her face, the one that only comes out when we’re alone and my guarded best friend feels safe lowering her defenses.
“Thanks,” I say, returning the grin. “Now I just have to figure out who that is.”
“You know,” she says with way more confidence than I feel. “You’ve got this, girl. No doubt in my mind. And it’s high time Derrick got his own life and stayed the hell out of yours.”
“He has a life,” I say, instinctively coming to his defense, the way I always do, even though I’m still angry about the way he barged over here last night. “He’s busy all the time with the team and he drives down to New Jersey every Thursday to take Dad to his physical therapy appointment because he won’t go if he doesn’t.”
My dad had a stroke eighteen months ago, most likely brought on by the heavy drinking he did when Derrick and I were kids. He’s been sober for almost ten years, but the damage was already done.
He did a decent job of going to physical therapy at first, but once he recovered enough to get around the house and handle basic day-to-day activities, he started skipping his sessions. So, he’s still on disability, still unable to return to work at the marina repairing boats and being on the water he loves, and still deeply depressed—and pissed—about all the above.
As much as I hoped things might be different, Dad isn’t one of those people who had a brush with death and came out the other side a kinder, gentler person. If anything, he’s even crankier now than he used to be.
Harlow grunts and takes another sip of her coffee. “Okay. Whatever you say. I’m just glad you finally put your foot down.” She reaches over, stealing a piece of my pancake off my plate and popping it into her mouth before she asks in an uncharacteristically anxious voice, “So this thing with Ian… Are we really going to let him be our love guru? In the cold light of morning, does that still seem like a good idea?”
I nibble my bottom lip, debating whether to tell Harlow that I think I might have a crush on Ian. And that I might have flirted with him a little via text last night…
In the end, I decide letting anyone, even my best friend, in on my feelings will only add to my stress. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enlist her help. My master plan is only half formed, but a makeover—an authentic makeover, with no Lycra involved—is absolutely in order and who better to help with that than the most fashionable woman I know?