Kiss Her Once for Me (8)
“I can’t make you the assistant manager because I feel sorry for you,” Greg interrupts. “This is a business.”
The conversation is going about as well as I could’ve predicted, really. “If maybe I could just get an advance on my next paycheck, then.”
“I don’t think anyone has given pay advances since nineteen eighty-seven.”
“I’m going to get evicted,” I mutter, on the verge of tears now. I imagine drawing myself, standing before my boss, sniveling. Portrait of a Sad Woman Shaded in Blue. One panel in a sequence of a thousand similar panels in the slightly fictionalized webcomic about my life. Title: The Perpetual Suck.
I wish I could conjure a different version of myself—a version of Ellie Oliver who didn’t snivel and beg for people to treat her with even a modicum of respect.
“Don’t cry.” Greg’s face goes momentarily sympathetic, and he reaches over to massage my arm. I honestly can’t remember the last time anyone touched me so intimately.
Except I suddenly can and remembering is so much worse. Because remembering the way she held me opens the hole in my heart wide enough to consume me from the inside out.
Last Christmas, I—
“Ellie,” Greg starts, his voice laced with compassion. For a second, I think maybe my impending tears have softened his hardened heart, that maybe Greg will keep me from completely falling apart. “You’re a resourceful girl,” he tells me, squeezing my flesh through my cardigan. “I’m sure you’ll figure out a side hustle.”
And there it is. That’s the extent of Greg’s advice. Then he’s pushing his way through the swinging door into the kitchen again, and I’m still standing there, only now I’m outright sobbing. I turn and see the pitying faces of Ari Ocampo and Andrew Kim-Prescott. And I promptly dart toward the bathroom.
Last Christmas, it felt like the pieces of my life were finally clicking into place.
This year, I’m watching them shatter.
Chapter Three
Crying in a bathroom is nothing new for me. I’ve cried in a lot of bathrooms. Hell, I’ve cried in this bathroom more than once. It’s just—I don’t usually let anyone see me cry. Usually, I wait until I’m safely ensconced in a stall, hunched over on a toilet seat, before I let the anxious tears fall.
I drop my head into my hands.
This isn’t terrible, I attempt to reason through the all-consuming dread in my stomach. This is exactly what I thought would happen. This is all very Greg of Greg. He hadn’t been willing to work with my schedule when I got offered a second job in a restaurant kitchen, and since they could only offer twenty hours a week, I hadn’t been able to take advantage of that particular “side hustle.” I shouldn’t be surprised he’s passing me over for this promotion while still expecting me to produce cute latte art for Roastlandia’s Instagram.
I take a deep breath and try to think about this logically instead of emotionally. I’m sure there is a way to pay my rent and my mother’s expenses and my exorbitant student loan debt. I just haven’t thought of it yet.
Without a car, my options are fairly limited in the gig economy. I tried walking dogs for Rover a while back but quit when a woman’s Tibetan mastiff dragged me through Laurelhurst Park. Greg threatened to fire me when he saw the gravel burn on my face. I tried cleaning houses through Handy but quit when a creepy old man tried to coerce me into giving him a bath. I delivered groceries through Instacart for people in walking distance of the Fred Meyer, and when that fell apart, I got a job at Fred Meyer unloading pallets from trucks at night. Except it turned out my mental health couldn’t endure the lack of sleep, and during a particularly rough bout of depression, I got fired from that job, too.
Perhaps I should admit total failure and move back to Ohio, but it’s not like there’s anyone back in Ohio waiting for me anymore.
My phone buzzes in my butt pocket, and I try to pull it out without dropping it into the toilet. Thankfully, it’s not my mother demanding more money. It’s a text from Meredith, who only sends me two things: TikTok videos of animals and screenshots of online dating profiles. Today, I’m facing the latter.
I stare down at what I can only assume is a swimsuit model, artfully standing on her paddleboard alongside her border collie. She looks like the lesbian character on a CW show.
My best friend lives in Chicago, where she moved six months ago to get a job working for a legal aid organization while she studies for the bar exam, but she pays extra for Tinder Passport to say she’s a bisexual woman living in Southeast Portland. It’s how she stays abreast of my dating options. Like catfishing, but altruistically.
Despite the current toilet-sobbing situation, I immediately text Meredith back: I’m not outdoorsy enough to date the women in Portland.
I don’t mention that a third of the women on the dating apps here are married ladies with a “hall pass” or couples looking for a bisexual to be their third, neither of which particularly appeal to my demi-ass self.
Within ten seconds, I’m staring at a different profile picture on my phone. This one is of a man deadlifting in front of a gym mirror.
You know I hate public displays of physical exercise, I text in response. Plus, I can see the entire shape and size of his penis through his gym shorts.
Meredith’s immediate response: I thought that was the basis of his appeal. No surprises. You hate surprises.