Good Girl(9)

And not thinking about Rhys. Not thinking about the way he made me feel when he kissed me last weekend. Not thinking about the reaction I had to him. A reaction I've never felt before, not like that. Not thinking about the fact that he's my boss' boss' boss. Not thinking about the way he just stared at me this afternoon when I practically threw myself at him.

Which will be impossible. I'm positive the words 'and whatever else you want' will still be replaying themselves in my mind when I'm eighty years old.

Payton texts while I'm checking out. She doesn't know about my Goodwill hobby, so I avoid her question about where I'm at and tell her I'm on my way home. I've managed to spend over two hours in this store so I won't have time to stop at another one before closing anyway. She tells me to meet her at the pool when I get home. Says the hot tub is filled with hot men.

I tell her I have laundry to do, which is not a lie. I've got sheets to wash before I can start cutting them up.





"You're not getting fired, relax."

This tidbit of wisdom comes from Payton. I've been home for a couple of hours, washing and drying sheets. Payton returned from the pool to find me ironing them and just about lost her shit. She attempted to institute a roommate rule banning the ironing of sheets on a Friday night. Or on any day that ends in -day. I explained that I needed to iron the sheets as the story of my terrible, awful, very bad day tumbled out of me.

"I'm so getting fired. I work in human resources and I propositioned the general manager." My cheeks still get hot when I say it out loud. Or think about it.

"You likely made his day." Payton has showered and changed into yoga pants and a tank. Her blonde hair is still wet as she sits on a barstool at our kitchen island and watches me work. I've taken over our dining table with my cutting mat and sewing supplies, neatly lined up beside me as I work. I don't look up as I slide the rotary cutter across a layer of fabric, making a perfect cut on what is soon to become a pair of pajama shorts.

"Made his day? I don't think sexually harassing him made his day." I remove the pattern from the material and stick the pins into my pincushion, ensuring none of them go rogue and end up on the floor.

"Simmer down. You did not sexually harass him. Also, I still don't understand what is happening here," she says, waving a hand at the table. "You're turning old sheets into pajamas?"

"Yes. You want a pair?"

"Err, not really." Her eyebrows come together and her expression is all doubt.

"You will when I'm done," I assure her.

"If you say so. Now let's get back to Rhys."

"There's nothing to get back to. I've told you everything and I'm getting fired on Monday. I should be packing, not making pajamas."

"First of all, you're not getting fired. Second of all, you're not moving even if you get fired."

"You just said I wasn't getting fired!" I screech.

"You're not. But I know you like to think about the worst-case scenario, so let's do that."

That's true. I do enjoy thinking about all possible options. "Okay," I agree, sinking into a kitchen chair. I fiddle with the pincushion to keep my hands busy and wait for Payton to start.

"Okay, so let's say you walk in on Monday and you get fired." She gets up as she talks and walks to our pantry, returning with a box of Cheez-Its.

"Yeah." I nod. I've already visualized at least four different ways it could happen.

"So you'll walk back to your car, drive home and cry. I'll pick up pizza after work and we'll cry some more. Then on Tuesday you'll get a new job." She pops a Cheez-It into her mouth and shrugs one shoulder as if this solves everything.

"Payton." I groan and roll my eyes. "It doesn't work like that."

"It works exactly like that. We're in Las Vegas. There are jobs everywhere," she says, flipping open the lid of her laptop. "There are three hundred and thirty-four job listings on this job site using the keyword 'human resources.' Let's assume that two hundred of them are relevant, and assume you're qualified for fifty of them. That's fifty jobs you could apply for tonight!"

Well. I shrug. "It doesn't mean I'd get any of them."

"No, it doesn't," Payton agrees, snapping her laptop shut. "But you could waitress. You're a hot twenty-two-year-old with a great body, you'd kill it in tips. You'd probably make double what they're paying you at the Windsor."

"You think so?"

"I just talked to some girl at the pool. She said she quit her job teaching because she makes twice as much as a cocktail waitress at the Wynn."

"Shut up."

"It's true."

"Are you sure she wasn't a hooker?"

"She wasn't a hooker. But that's always a backup option for you." Payton says this with complete sincerity and it makes me burst into giggles. "Are you okay now? I can't go to bed until I know you're not going to stay up all night making sheet pajamas."

"I'm still mortified, Payton." I groan and drop my head into my hands, my hair falling in a curtain around my spread fingers. "I just stood there babbling about how good the kissing thing was and then I offered—I don't even know what I offered. I think I offered him carte blanche, because what does the word 'whatever' even include? It sort of implies anything and everything, doesn't it? I might have offered spanking and anal for all I know."