Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
“The trip is already paid for,” Sofie says. “You don’t have to spend a dime.”
“I’m not taking charity from you.”
“You wouldn’t be. My client Donnella Robins gifted me the trip. She and her husband were going to go, but they had to cancel at the last minute.”
Donnella Robins? She owns a chain of fancy boutiques—the sort that sell plain T-shirts for a hundred bucks. The resort must be nice if this is her trip.
“Why doesn’t she ask for a refund or a raincheck?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Sofie replies. “We were in a session talking about her aspirations to become a cat trainer when her husband called her. Said some emergency came up, and he couldn’t go. She looked like she was about to lose her shit, then offered the trip to me. Even said she’d spring for the airline tickets.”
“Wow. That’s pretty generous.”
“Well, she did hint at wanting some free sessions after I get back—I sense she’s about to go through a messy divorce. But whatever. I’m totally doing this, and so are you! Don’t say no. Don’t say no.”
“I’m not saying yes, but when would we go?” I ask.
“Tomorrow morning!” Sofie sounds like she’s going to explode with excitement. Of course, Sofie has always been a big ball of energy in a tiny package—five one, hundred and ten pounds, flat chested, and short dark hair. She’s a little spitfire. Unlike me, who’s one hundred and forty pounds and big boobed with skin like cream cheese (or a very sad ghost). I’m no spitfire, but I do get constantly spit on by life.
That’s fine. I was built to withstand life’s storms, like a very sturdy barn.
“Tomorrow?” I say. “Sof, I can’t. I’ve got a million things to do—shit-scented clothes to wash, apartment hunting, and I don’t even have a swimsuit.” In fact, I don’t have much of anything in the way of a non-work wardrobe. Right now, I’m wearing my only pair of jeans and a T-shirt I found on clearance. I spent most of my money on pure necessities like black slacks and blouses for work.
“If you hurry, you can make it to the mall before they close.” Sofie pauses. “You are coming with me. I won’t take no for an answer, and that includes using work as an excuse. You can call in sick.”
Should I tell her I actually have the next two weeks off? If I do, she won’t forgive me for not coming with her. On the other hand, I really do need to relax. On the other-other hand, I can’t take off on a vacation. I need to find an apartment. Then I need to hit some garage sales for furniture—just a few pieces to tide me over until I get back my deposit and final month’s rent from the last place. Plus, I’m still waiting for the renter’s insurance from all the stuff I lost in the fire.
“Sofie, hon, I really want to go, but I won’t be able to relax knowing I have no home to come back to. I need to find a place.”
“You can stay with me when we get back. That way you can take your time finding the right apartment instead of rushing to grab the first thing that checks off all your lame boxes.”
She lives in a three-bedroom house in the burbs. It has a pool, garden, and huge basement, too. “I like my boxes, and I don’t want your charity.”
She groans. “You know what I hate about you?”
“Besides the facts I’m a hard worker, responsible, and refuse to sponge off you because despite those first two facts, you’re wildly successful and I’m not?”
“That you’re so worried about what other people think.”
“Not true.”
“Yes, it is,” she argues. “You refuse to stay with me because you’re afraid people will find out and label you a couch surfer.”
“Couch surfers are the scourge of society,” I proclaim, because it’s true.
“Yet, if my house burned down, and I needed a place to live, you’d offer me a home in a heartbeat, wouldn’t you?” she asks.
“Yes, but that wouldn’t make you a couch-surfing loser because everyone knows you’d just turn around and buy an even bigger, more awesome house at a better price.” That’s the other thing about Sofie; the woman is a walking, talking lucky charm.
When anything bad happens to her, it always turns out to be this amaaazing turn of events that fulfills her wildest dreams. Like the time she got a job marketing one of those daily self-affirmation apps, Pimp My Soul. She said, and I quote, “I’d rather be boiled alive and snack on sweaty, unwashed scrotums all day than work for these dumbass, greedy hipsters.” Apparently, the app developers sat around smoking their profits and making fun of subscribers who shared “private” thoughts in the app. Yeah, not so private. The guys even had a corkboard where they posted the lamest user of the month.