“I can promise you,” I tell the very snide operator on the phone. “I didn’t spend two hundred and seven bucks at Gary’s Extravagant and Extraordinary Sex Toy Adult Shop.”
“I understand your frustration ma’am,” she replies in a dry tone. “And, like I said earlier, we’re looking into it, but it might take seven to ten days to process a refund.”
“I don’t have seven to ten days,” I huff out in frustration, tossing the statement onto the table. “This is such bullshit. I mean, what does extravagant and extraordinary even mean? Does it sell extra long vibrators with fur on them or something? Because that’s just creepy and very unpractical.”
The line grows awkwardly quiet.
Okay, okay. I might have gone a little too far with the whole furry, extra-long vibrator remark, but when I get too frazzled, I sometimes speak without thinking first. My mom calls it the curse of being an Ashford woman.
“Your dad’s mom once told me about her sex life and all the positions your grandpa and her used to do,” she said to me during a very uncomfortable conversation when I was thirteen. “She only did it because she was stressed out at work and was pissed off at your grandpa for breaking the bed frame. Anyway, she later apologized and explained that every Ashford woman has a habit of saying whatever pops into their head, especially when they’re stressed out.”
I didn’t believe in her curse theory at the time, but now I’m totally on board with it.
“That’s why we offer our multiple security programs,” the operator finally breaks the silence. “Perhaps you’ll want to consider signing up for one of them.”
“Why? So you can protect the negative three hundred and twenty-one dollars I have in my account right now?” I press my fingers to the brim of my nose. “Look, is there any way we can speed up the dispute process?”
She answers with a big, fat no, only using words that make it sound as if she’s giving me a sweet deal on something. By the time I hang up, I have no idea what to do next. Even if I get my money back and catch up on rent, I haven’t been called in for any interviews yet, and I’ve applied for almost every job within my salary range. I’m broke. Jobless. My car’s broken, and after talking to a mechanic, I found out it’s probably going to cost almost five hundred dollars to fix it.
I could always downgrade to a lower costing apartment, but let’s face it, I already live in a shithole—there’s not much farther down I can go.
Even though I hate being a charity case, I decide to call up my dad and ask him for help. He tells me he can probably scrounge up enough to fix my car, but they’re in the process of remodeling their bookstore right now and don’t have a lot of extra cash lying around.
“You could always come home for a little bit,” he suggests with a hint of hope in his tone.
My parents never were fans of my choice to leave Fairville and move to Denver. Me, I couldn’t wait to get out of the small town I grew up in. I dreamed about it from the time I was twelve and my dad took me on a trip with him to the city. Everything was so big and seemed to be constantly changing. It was a breath of fresh air compared to Fairville, which always seemed to remain stuck in the same place.
I used to call it Hellville because, growing up where everyone knew everyone, that’s what it felt like sometimes. Everyone knew everything about me. They witnessed every awkward phase I went through, knew all the nicknames that made me cringe, like Lexi t-rexi, a name given to me in sixth grade when my body grew faster than my arms. Eventually, my arms grew in proportion to my body, but by then, a new nickname had caught on. They were never cool names, either—like Lexi Sexy—and no matter what I did, I could never escape the teasing … until I moved to Denver.
Denver was my restart, my be-anything-you-want-to-be. I just wish that, after eight years of trying, I knew what I wanted to be.
I sink down into the sofa and rest my head back, staring up at the water stain on the ceiling. “Thanks for the offer, Dad, but I still have some jobs I can apply for.”
“Oh, okay.” The disappointment in his tone makes me feel guilty for not visiting more. “You’re still coming out for Christmas, though, right? You haven’t visited in over five years. And as much as your mom and I love coming out there, we’d like you to come home once in a while.”
I massage my temples, feeling a headache coming on. “As long as my car’s fixed, I’ll come out. I promise.”
“Your car will be fixed. In fact, I’ll wire you the money tomorrow. I hate the idea of you having to walk everywhere.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I start to choke up. “It means a lot to me.”
“Don’t cry, Lex. Everything’ll be okay,” he tries to assure me. “It’ll all work out in the end.”
He spends the next five minutes giving me one of his famous pep talks about keeping my chin up and being a go-getter. By the time I get off the phone, I’m a bundle of emotions. I miss my parents, even if they are a little insane sometimes and have absolutely no filter. I miss my job, too—I miss putting a party together and watching everyone enjoy it. I’m terrified I’ll never get another job, that I’ll get kicked out of my place and have to return to Fairville.
Deciding I need to start coming up with some alternative plans, I call my friend Sophie to see if she wants to hang out and watch a movie, subtly hinting we should do it at her place because it’s way nicer than hanging out in my living room/kitchen/bedroom.
When I get there, I fully plan to ask her if I can take her up on the offer she made a few months ago to move into her spare bedroom because she needs the extra cash. I turned her down at the time because it was too far away from work, but now that’s not a problem.
Look, a silver lining. Score!
“Sure,” Sophie replies after I call her and ask if she wants to get a pizza and maybe watch Bad Teacher. “I just can’t stay up too late. I have a meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Who has meetings on a Sunday?” I slip on my jacket, grab my keys, and head for the door.
“People who want to move up the ladder instead of down,” she says condescendingly.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I need to get my shit together.” I don’t take her tone personally. “I’m headed over now. See you in, like, thirty.”
I’ve known Sophie for almost three years. We met in a bar after both of the people we came with had ditched us for guys. I’ll admit I was a little bit tipsy, which meant I came off more outgoing than I am.
“Seriously, haven’t they heard of chicks over dicks?” she asked me as we bounced around on the dance floor to the music.
Both of us sucked at dancing and probably looked like a couple of whacked out bobbleheads, but I was too drunk to care.
I nodded and then made a toast. “To hell with them. From now on, you and I’ll be besties, and they can go have their hot, sweaty sex.” I made a face as if I detested hot, sweaty sex.
She moved to clink her glass with mine, but then paused. “Well, I kind of want to have hot, sweaty sex, too, sometimes.”
“Yeah, me, too.” I paused, lifting my glass again. “To hot, sweaty sex.”
“Hell, yeah!” some guy beside me said, fist pumping the air.
I knocked back my drink and glanced around the bar. When I spotted a very in shape guy with gorgeous blue eyes chilling at the bar with his a-little-on-the-gangly-side friend, an idea struck me.
“I have an idea,” I said to Sophia. “We could be each other’s wingman.”
When confusion masked her bleary eyes, I explained how I wanted her to be my wingman so I could go hit on Pretty Blue Eyes at the bar. She could talk to his friend, and in exchange, next weekend, I would do the same for her.
“Fine, but you owe me.” She tripped in her heels as she spun around and marched for the bar.
By the time we made it to Pretty Blue Eyes, though, he had a curvy blonde in his lap. Sophie, who had just downed her six shot, took it offensively, like he had somehow been cheating on me, and threw her drink in his face. He jumped to his feet, nearly dumping the blonde on the floor.