“How can you possibly be scrolling through Facebook right now, knowing we’re bound to be homeless in a few weeks?”
“Alcohol,” Dakota says, bringing a pink plastic cup up to her mouth and draining its contents.
“This is all my fault.”
“How is this your fault?” Dakota asks, pausing at a funny meme of a sickly-looking SpongeBob serving food.
“I don’t put good vibes out into the world. This is God smiting me.” I hold my fist up to the air. “I’ll be better, you hear me? I won’t eat all the cake anymore. I’ll give Dakota two-thirds of every sheet cake I make and take a measly one-third. That’s love. ‘Share with thy neighbor’ . . . something like that.” Pleading, I continue, “And . . . and I’ll really apply myself. Use this brain you bestowed upon me to truly max out my potential. I won’t go out with guys like Harry anymore. Guys who want one thing and one thing only: the sin of the bedroom.” I rub my temples, hoping and praying that any kind of zippity zap from above strikes me with an idea on how to get us out of this mess. “And I plan on really sending out my résumé. I’m not sure I want to do the personal-assistant thing. It’s not as glamorous as I thought it was going to be—one person can only pick up dry cleaning so many times before losing their mind. But I’ll find something. This weekend I’ll, uh . . . I’ll take a career assessment test. Yes, perfect. I’ll take a test. Multiple, actually. I’ll take five . . . no, ten. Ten seems like a good number. You like the number ten . . . Ten Commandments and all.” I smirk at the big guy. “I’ll take ten career assessment tests, and then I’ll apply to jobs that best fit my talents. I’ll make something of this life.”
“When did Anita have a kid?” Dakota asks, completely oblivious to my pleading.
“Do you think I should add anything?” I whisper from the side of my mouth.
“Huh? Oh, uh . . .” She taps her chin. “Maybe something about His hair.”
“I don’t know what God’s hair looks like. Do you?”
“Uh . . . white and flowy?”
I look up toward the cracked ceiling. “And your hair is . . . magnificent. Do you use Herbal Essences?”
“I don’t think He needs to shower,” Dakota says, clicking on a picture of Anita’s baby to get a better look. “And He sure as shit isn’t using Herbal Essences.”
“Why the hell not?” I ask, sitting up and staring down at my friend.
“Because He’s God. Why use Herbal Essences when He created Paul Mitchell?”
Valid.
“What do you think He smells like?”
“Lightning bolts and cotton,” Dakota answers dreamily.
“He’s not Zeus.”
“He could—” Dakota sits up. Her back stiffening, her mouth falling open, her eyes widening.
Detecting that something huge is about to happen, I clasp my hands together. “Did He . . . hear us?”
Dakota shakes her head. “No, but check this out.” She turns her laptop toward me, and my eyes lock on a shared article from her crazy aunt Wendy—a perpetual oversharer of weird shit on social media. Ever wonder why you’ve found yourself caught up watching a video of an old-timey cowboy teaching you how to make huevos rancheros on a rusted metal garbage can top? It’s because of people like Aunt Wendy.
Trying to get my drunk brain to focus, I read the post out loud. “Help wanted. Looking for two friends to manage small town coffee shop in Corsekelly, Scotland for six months. No experience necessary, all expenses paid, including free accommodations. Applicants need a cheery disposition and a thirst for the Scottish Highlands.” I look at my best friend, eyebrows cocked. “You can’t be serious.”
“I have a thirst for the Highlands.”
“Do you even know where the Highlands are?”
“In Scotland.”
“Where in Scotland?”
“In . . . the Highlands.”
Rolling my eyes, I push the computer back onto her lap. “You’re drunk.”
“Bonnie, don’t you remember the results of your genetic testing? It said you were one-sixteenth Scottish. Don’t you want to visit the lands of your dearly beloved ancestors?”
I point my finger fiercely at her. “Don’t you dare throw my ancestry on the line like that. You know I love a genetically completed family tree.”
“Come on, this is the perfect opportunity.”