The Trust

Chapter 1: A Sign

September 2018

"If you ain't in Vegas, then where the hell you aaaat??!!"

The Facebook post is next to a photo of a brunette in a bikini, floppy hat and sunglasses, hoisting a frozen margarita in the air, posing as if her life depended on it. Her smile is wide and toothy, a smile that says every little thing in her world is just fucking fantastic.

At my dead-end job receptionist's job where I'll work my ass off for pennies fighting a migraine and then going home to be hassled by my useless husband, you smug, spoiled bitch. That's where I'm aaaat."

I type it into the comment section and look at it for a minute, imagining what would happen if I hit 'post' — the satisfaction of saying what I think for just once in my life. I erase it and continue hate-reading her post.

Plans for the afternoon: lounge by the pool, taking advantage of the VIP butler service (yes, please!), shopping, a little gambling (I set my budget at just $1,200 for the slots!) then out for an 8-course meal at Au Jus! If you ever get the chance, you MUST treat yourself to the Chef's Choice Tasting Menu there. I know $500 American is pricey for one meal, but  YOLO!! Special thank you to Derek who is home with the kids and made this dream trip possible. Love you all xxxx! #blessed

In social media, you really are the star of your own little show aren't you? Also, she used a lot of exclamation points, which annoyed me. A worry-free life full of non-stop exclamations of joy and plenty she was compelled to share with her loyal viewing audience. 

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"What?" My boss Tom looks up from his computer. "What'd you say, Darcey?"

I said the quiet part out loud. Shit.

"Nothing, Brian," I say, quickly closing the tab.

"Got those listings inputted into the system yet?"

"I'll get right to them after my lunch," I call out, emphasizing the last two words. I'm technically on my lunch hour, although work is so busy I'm lucky if I get a 20-minute break to scarf down a sandwich. Being a receptionist for real estate firm isn't backbreaking work, but things can get busy. The hot housing market means more listings and therefore more work for me — but not more pay. I don't benefit from the additional commissions the realtors get when the market goes crazy like this, and everyone collectively decides they need to buy a new house at the same time. I just get buried under the mountain of work that makes it all happen.

"Just make sure you get them all done before you leave today," he yells without looking up from his computer screen. "Aye aye, captain," I mutter under my breath, going to the kitchen. I grab my thin  lunch sack out of the fridge and take it to my desk, still burning with jealousy over Cindy Chambers' Excellent Las Vegas Adventures. I barely know the woman, met her at a real estate conference years ago back when Facebook was relatively new, and seemed fun. Now I hate-watch her piss away her seemingly endless supply of money on luxury items and multiple vacations. It was enough to make me want to puke. But not enough to make me unfriend her, apparently. I always was a sucker for punishment.

I open the plastic container containing my sad sandwich, a thin sliver of ham and scraping of mustard on whole wheat. I notice for the first time the blotch of green fuzz in the corner of the bread. I wanted Clive to have Sunday's leftovers and used up all the nice bread and deli turkey for Maude's, along with the last apple and tub of cherry yogurt. "There's enough here for your lunch too, Mom," she'd said as I handed her the bag while she raced out the door that morning. "No, hon. I'll have some of the whole wheat bread and the last of the ham."

It was hard enough to get her to eat breakfast let alone lunch, a fact that drives me crazy. She loves shaved turkey from the deli, Swiss cheese and homemade bread from the bakery, so I make sure to always have them on hand. I was the same in my senior year of high school, I never ate breakfast and picked at lunch. I remember my mother chasing me out the door with homemade soup in a thermos and one of those protein shakes I could chug fast before I got on the bus, yelling "eat something, for the love of God!" Don't we all eventually turn into our mothers?