My head feels like it is going to spin right off my neck when I start to think about taxes, health care, business insurance, and the tangle of other complications that come with this step for my company.
I do what I always do when I start to get stressed about money though. I remember the trust fund my uncle Adam left for me. When I turn twenty-six tomorrow, it’s all mine. A hundred grand. It will be enough to cover the loans I had to take out to rent this office space, the debt I’ve already taken on from trying to finish my design classes, and all of my other bills. It will give me a fresh start, and the thought makes me giddy. It’s all going to work out, Emmaline.
Scarlett is looking down at her phone as she crosses the room and accidentally trips over a box of onsies.
She teeters to the side, stretches her arms out like a tightrope walker, and does a elegant little spin to catch her balance, all without even dropping her phone. She bows theatrically toward me with a big, cocky smirk. Scarlett has been a dancer her whole life, and she’s the clumsiest graceful person I’ve ever seen. Sometimes I think the only reason she’s so good at avoiding faceplanting all the time is she has so much practice at nearly doing it.
“Smooth,” I say, grinning.
“Woah,” she says, nudging a box with her toe. “When did you finish heat transfering the vinyl onto all these?”
“Last night,” I say.
She plants a fist on her hip, eyeing me. Scarlett has the red hair to match her name. I’m always jealous of how she can make something as simple as the grungy t-shirt and jeans she’s wearing look sexy. She’s not even wearing shoes and she still looks like she just walked off a fashion shoot. “Last night? As in after you told me you were headed home because you had already spent all day working?”
“You could say that.”
“We really need to find you a boyfriend. I think you could use a good, hard, fuck.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. Scarlett has always been crude, but gosh. I’m still a little shocked by how sexually open she is. We’ve never really dived into the details, but I’ve gathered that she’s into some kind of kinky sexual stuff. My own experience with sex, outside the missionary position, is limited to when George Farmand’s finger brushed my asshole during sex one time. And I slapped his hand away like it was a snake.
Yeah, I’m a real wild one.
Another boyfriend though? I don’t think I could handle that right now. As much as I crave a relationship, I know it always leads to sex, and sex is… difficult for me. I’ve never been with a guy that could get me off. I don’t know why and it’s frustrating as hell, but it’s always the same. A few nice dates lead to unfulfilling sex. After the fruitless attempts, the disconnect between us grows and it just ends. Every time.
Just thinking about it depresses me. It’s like there’s something in me that’s supposed to work and it’s broken. For the longest time I just thought I needed to find the right guy, but I’m starting to think there’s no such thing.
“No thanks,” I say quietly.
She tilts her head thoughtfully. “I know what we can do. My friend works for this super rich guy and they throw the most insane Valentine’s Day party every year for the employees. She said she could get me in, but I’m sure I could bring you too. Come on. It’ll be like a celebration for your trust fund money!”
“I don’t know… It sounds a lot like we’d be crashing the party.”
“And?” asks Scarlett, genuinely looking like she’s waiting for me to explain the problem with that.
I bite my lip. It does sound nice. I have been consumed with my business and one look in the mirror at my frazzled hair and the circles under my eyes can attest to how little time I’ve spent taking care of myself. “Okay. I’ll go.”
Scarlett claps her hands together and smiles wide. “You’re going to love it. I went last year. Just wait ‘til you see the host, Mr. Steel. He’s fucking gorgeous.”
“Mr. Steel?” I ask, feeling a tingle run across my skin.
Scarlett quirks an eyebrow at me. “You’ll see. Anyway, if it’s okay with you, I’m going to head out for the night.”
“Sure,” I say. “Can you be in a little early tomorrow? I was hoping to get at least half of these orders delivered.”
Her eyes scan the room littered with boxes and boxes of clothes. She looks at me skeptically, but nods. “Bright and early. You got it, boss.”
I laugh. “Would you please stop calling me that?”
“Nope,” she says, waving over her shoulder as she gracefully hops over a box only to jam her toe into a table leg nearly toppling onto her face. As usual, she manages to spin out of a near fall and get her balance. She gives me a thumbs up over her shoulder as she leaves.
I find a chair that’s not already occupied by clothes and plop down, checking my phone. I know what I’ll see but I look anyway. A text from my mom.
Mom (5:21 P.M.): me and ronnie were looking at cruises. bahamas would be nice. havnt heard from u. dont be selfish, emm. its a lot of money ur uncle would have wanted u to share.
I start to tap a reply out.
“Sorry, Mom. Right now isn’t good. I have debt and business expenses, but in a few weeks, maybe a month--”
I press and hold the delete button, setting the phone down roughly on the table beside me. Tears threaten to come, but I push them down. I won’t cry over her. Not anymore. She makes me feel like such a shitty daughter, but Uncle Adam left her just as much money as he left me when he passed away. The only difference is that she didn’t have to wait for hers. She blew it before the year was even over. Expensive dinners, clothes, jewelry, travel, and infomercial purchases. And not a dime of it went toward helping me with my college debt or living expenses.
Now that I’m finally about to have my trust money, she’s suddenly texting and calling me all the time. A month ago I could’ve counted on one hand the number of times she reached out to me in the last few years. It makes my stomach sick, partly because I still feel like I should be able to do something for her, and partly because I know she’s using me. My own mom is trying to use me.
The only real surprise in all of this has been that my dad and brother haven’t reached out to me. After dad split with mom, he cut contact completely. My brother, Mark, followed him. The divorce was messy and my mom and dad were both pointing fingers at each other, forcing my brother and I to choose sides. I didn’t want to have to choose, but it was my dad who cheated, so I ultimately sided with my mom, while my brother blamed my mom for causing my dad to want to cheat. We weren’t exactly the Brady Bunch.
Either way, I expected my dad to come out of hiding to try to get a piece of my trust fund, but maybe he’s focusing his effort on Mark, who will be getting his money in two years. Who knows. I would say I don’t care, but it would be a lie. As imperfect and vile as my parents can be, I still love them in a way. It doesn’t mean I’m going to let them take advantage of me, but I still hope someday they will come around and start acting like real parents, as unlikely as that is.
48
Logan