“Yeah, my money’s on Alice—no offense.”
“You haven’t even met her! And I’m your best friend!”
“Yes, and I love you, but you’re about as threatening as a chipmunk.”
“Rude,” I said, but I didn’t say she was wrong. Because she wasn’t. Of all the fights Alice and I had had over the course of our contentious relationship, Alice had won the majority of them. “Though she probably could murder me and never get caught. She did go to Duke for forensic chemistry.”
“Wow, so badass. And your brother’s a swanky tech bro—what happened to you?”
“Unequivocal failure,” I replied bluntly. “And apparently the only one who’s willing to prepare Dad’s funeral as he planned out in his will.”
“That is so metal.”
“It’s exhausting.” I recounted to Rose what I needed to do, and she listened sagely as I ranted about the wildflowers, and Elvis, and murders of crows, and the party supplies. I told her about the Waffle House conversation this morning, and how I was saddled with doing all of it by myself. “I mean, they have stuff to do, too, but—so do I!”
“Maybe it’s too hard for them.”
“It’s hard for me, too.”
Rose gave a hard sigh. “Yeah, I know, but you’re the big sister, right? You’ve always been really good at pushing through whatever feelings you have and getting things done. I mean, remember when that guy—Quinn—stood you up on a date and you had to finish edits for Midnight Matinee in like twelve hours?”
“Quinn sucked.”
On a long laundry list of guys that I fell for that sucked.
“You pushed through and aced those edits. And the time our toilet literally exploded and you fixed it with the power of YouTube and sheer determination while on deadline. And the time I got that horrendous stomach bug and you ended up making ends meet by writing all those terrible self-help articles and paying all the bills for three months. You just do things. You finish them. You pull through.”
“Tell that to Ann’s book I didn’t finish.”
“One thing in a very shitty year.”
“Wish I could tell Ann’s agent that. I’m just waiting for Molly to call me again once Ann finds out to tell me all the things I already know—how I’m a failure, how Ann should never have put her trust me, how the one job I had was the one I failed at and I know I failed and—”
“And as I said, you’ve had a very shitty year. You’re good, Florence! You’re reliable. Most of the time. Maybe your family doesn’t realize you want help with your dad’s funeral.”
At the mention of help, I bristled. “Who said help? I don’t need help. And anyway, what are you doing in the offices on a Saturday?” I wanted to change the subject, to get away from the things that I might’ve once been good at but wasn’t anymore. Which, as it turned out, happened to be everything. “And are you—are you in a stall?”
“Absolutely. You know how my boss hates me talking on the phone in the office,” she added in a hushed tone. “And everything is super nuts today over here. Jessica Stone’s freaking out over her clothing line launch, so my boss called us all here to work, on our Saturday, because apparently she’s auditioning for a role in the remake of The Devil Wears Prada.”
“Yikes.”
“But that’s not the ohmygod part. You would not believe what happened yesterday.”
I rolled over on the bed, and the springs creaked. I stared up at the speckled ceiling. “You . . . got a promotion?”
“Benji Andor got hit by a car.”