The Fix (The Carolina Connections, #1)(2)
Armed with my caffeine, I made my way into the laundry room—okay, “room” may be a tad generous, technically it’s more of a laundry “closet”—to see if I had somehow managed to wash and dry appropriate clothes to dress Rocco for daycare and me for work in a somewhat presentable fashion. Luckily, the dress code at Brach Technologies, where I log my 40 hours a week, is pretty laid back. I can usually get away with pants and a blouse or even a nice t-shirt if I throw a sweater over it. Comfort is key if I’m going to sit in a cube all day being hypnotized by my monitor, so my work wardrobe receives almost zero effort from me—much to my best gal pal’s horror.
On the complete opposite end of the spectrum, my best friend, Fiona, puts together outfits in a manner I can only describe as “crafting.” Copious amounts of thought, skill, and passion are involved when Fiona gets dressed in the morning. Remember the character Cher in Clueless? Now you’re getting the picture.
Last Tuesday I rendered Fiona completely speechless (a miraculous feat in itself) when she’d picked me up from work and spied the pair of Skechers I was wearing. What?! They’re comfortable! And they were the dressy-ish kind anyway, so suck it!
The moment my Skecher-shod foot had hit the floorboard of her Prius, Fiona’s mouth dropped open, her head tilted back, and she crossed herself, all while doing some kind of deep breathing thing. I had already settled in the passenger seat so there was no escaping the drama. May as well get comfortable, so I pulled my brunette mess of hair into a sloppy ponytail with the hair tie I always keep on one wrist. Let her rant about that one too.
“Dear Saint Jimmy, she knows not what she does. I swear,” she muttered to the roof of the car.
“Um, I know who you’re talking to and I’m pretty sure he’s still alive and well and no doubt creating more toe crushers as we sit here.”
“Of course he’s not dead!” Fiona’s head snapped to me.
Oh, it looked like Exorcist Fiona was coming out to play.
“I just wanted to apologize in case he’s listening,” she whispered before clearing her scowl and finally gracing me with her cheery customary Fiona smile. “So, aside from the fact that you clearly got dressed in the dark this morning, how was work?”
Letting her dig slide like I always do, I tapped my index finger to the side of my mouth in feigned thought. “Let’s see, ten being a complete lobotomy and one being menstrual cramps, I’d give it a six. Annette brought doughnuts,” I explained.
“Mmmm,” Fiona mused while pulling carefully out of the parking lot, both of us silent for a moment, contemplating the sheer yumminess that is a perfect doughnut.
“Oh!” she brought her head around suddenly, startling the bejesus out of me. “You’ll never guess who I saw on my Starbucks run this morning! For once I know something before you do,” she taunted in a sing-song voice before prattling on and gesticulating like a varsity cheerleader with the semester’s hottest gossip. “And don’t let me forget to tell you about the party we’re invited to this weekend—a wellspring of man candy, I promise you. God, I need to get laid.” Her head tilted back before she straightened again, perhaps remembering she was supposed to be driving. “Anyway, about the coffee thing, I was running late because Gary kept reminding me about needing his half-caff extra, extra hot, as if that’s actually a thing, so I had to wait forever for the poor barista to get it right and I was just turning around when—” she stopped abruptly. “I forgot. Where am I taking you? Pete’s or the other place?”
My seven-year-old Corolla had kindly held onto the last fragments of its bald tires just long enough for me to save for the new ones, thus my chauffeured ride to the body shop. “Pete’s. He gave me a better deal on the tires and said he’d try to fix my door dent for free,” I replied. Is there anything more depressing than blowing $300 on tires?
She looked at me out of the corners of her Gucci-sunglass-covered eyes. “Yeah, and I’m sure it had nothing to do with Thelma and Louise bobbing around under his nose when he gave you the estimate.” Her chin raise saluted my “girls.” “Did he manage to bring his eyes anywhere above chin level at any point in the negotiation?”
I chose to ignore her little joke at the expense of my rack. If I’ve told her once I’ve told her a thousand times, you don’t get to have big boobs without having big other stuff to go along with it. Mother Nature has some sense of justice, after all. “So, continue with this big news,” I redirected her, pulling my drugstore sunglasses from my purse.
Fiona has what I like to call an “Oh look, something shiny!” level of distractibility. Her habit of losing track of thoughts and taking little verbal strolls during conversation can be a tad confusing. Listening to her tell a story is like picking your way through a vocal minefield. But since she’s my best friend, I choose to find it charming. As do most people, actually. That’s just Fiona—a charming little verbal-diarrhea-spewing pixie with a gorgeous heart-shaped face and wispy blond hair. She is also the most cheerful and positive person I know, and although she occasionally has a temper and definitely has a dirty mind, everyone loves Fiona. Most people would like to carry her around in their pocket like one of those celebrity purse dogs, but infinitely better. However, she’s mine and I will never give her back.
“Oh, right,” Fiona said. “So, Starbucks … anyway, the barista hands me Gary’s coffee but it’s the wrong one and I turn around to tell her mine is the venti black one, not the tiny grande with cream … although why Gary doesn’t like a little cream, I don’t know.”