Golden Hour

Chapter 8

Two weeks after meeting with the Head of HR, Neil, and the managing director at Browning & Marshall, they emailed me a non-disclosure agreement and freelance contract to sign. I cheered! This brought me one step closer to digging myself out of debt and expanding my business.

True to my word, I invited Emily for a fun night out to celebrate. We ordered a cab so that she could let her hair down too.

"What do you say to nachos and frozen margs?" she suggested. "We can try that new Mexican restaurant near the beach."

"Awesome, I'm craving spicy food."

After throwing my backpack on my bed, I checked my online bank balance. Thank goodness! The training center had paid me for the four classes I'd finished, which raised my bank balance from six to three thousand in the red. That meant I could 'afford' to pay my half of the bills. It also left me a bit of leeway to treat Emily for helping me find a new client.

"Just don't expect LA quality Mexican food in Bournemouth," I warned her.

"Look, I'd take German nachos right now."

"Jeez, you must be desperate."

"Damn straight."

The German people had made many contributions to mankind over the centuries: literature, art, science, technology, castles, beer, delicious food, compound words longer than my arm, and an ultra-precise bureaucracy that made the rest of the Western world gape in awe.

But decent nachos? Hellz nah.

When Emily and I had taken a trip to Germany seven years ago—the fateful trip when I'd met my ex—we'd learned that truth the hard way.

"Make sure you dress to impress," said Emily from her bedroom. "Come and grab something from my closet if you like."

"Why?"

"Uh...because you're a free woman?"

"I've been separated for a month," I said in a firm tone. "Never mind the fact I'm not divorced."

"For fuck's sake, what difference does that make?" she hissed.

"A big difference."

Hangers scraped across the clothes rail. "When was the last time you contacted, cried about, or pined for your ex?"

"Uhhh..."

"Have you talked to him?" she asked. "Have you met him, stalked him on social media, or texted him in the middle of the night? Ya know, like he did to you a couple of days ago?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not crazy?"

"The real reason." She paused. "Go on...I'm waiting."

The guilty truth gnawed at my heart. Because I haven't cared about him for a long time.

"You've already mourned the death of this relationship for at least a year." She sighed. "Your only mistake was mourning it before it ended."

"What are you talking about?"

"You can't bullshit me, Vee. I dried your tears." Emily leaned against my doorframe. "Every temporary breakup. Every Ben and Jerry's induced coma. Every sci-fi movie marathon."

"Em..."

"I was there every time."

"You're right." I sank into the mattress with a heavy sigh. "It wasn't healthy, and I kept going anyway. To prove my family wrong. To find romantic love even if it meant sacrificing my identity. To prove I could succeed without anyone's help. And I failed everyone, including myself."

Emily sat on the bed next to me and gave me a friendly squeeze. "You can do it alone," she insisted, "but you don't have to go it alone."

"I think I'm finally starting to understand the difference."

My best friend dug through my closet and chose a modest lace detail cami and a lightweight dressy fleece. She spread them out on the bedspread together with one of her flared skirts. 

Giving me an odd expression that only fake-angry Emily could muster, she pointed at the outfit. "Don't wallow because of society's rules. If you're not unhappy, don't pretend."

Silence fell with the solemnity of a judge's gavel.

"I'm not sure I'm ready to date," I whispered to myself.

Correction: I'm not sure I want to bother with all the dating bullshit. I'm free. I don't want to sign up to some dating app and go on a series of fake interviews—which is exactly what dating is—to invest my limited time and energy in a new partner who will annoy me.

"Who said anything about dating?" Emily scoffed. "Don't do it for a guy. Do it for yourself. Like Batman's butler says, 'If you pretend to have fun, you might have some by accident.'"

"Quoting one of my favorite trilogies?" I curled my lip. "Low blow, Em. Low blow."

"Go on and give it a twirl." She tilted her head. "If you don't feel sexy in it or simply don't like it, put on whatever you prefer. Even sweatpants and a floppy T-shirt. I'll love ya anyway."

"Can't believe I'm dressing up when we're gonna eat the messiest food in Christendom."

She grinned. "That's half the fun."

"Dressy or casual, I'm going au naturale this time," I muttered. "It's more me."

"Not sure Flaming Tamales will let you in naked," she retorted. 

"I mean without makeup, ya donut!"

She chuckled. "Suit yourself, hon."

Grabbing the ensemble, I slunk out of my traditional blazer and skirt as though it were an old snakeskin. Piece by piece I morphed into a cute librarian. That seemed to be the closest thing akin to sexy I could manage without looking completely foolish.

Even though the skirt reached my knees instead of ending mid-thigh, it still looked kinda sweet with some dressy flats. Stupid short legs! Stupid chronic back pain.

Oh, well. Never mind. Let's do this.

I giggled and did a few Irish dance steps, admiring how it flared out in a near-perfect circle as I twirled.

"See? Told ya," said Emily in a flippant tone before muttering under her breath. "Nerd."

"I'm taking that as a compliment," I retorted.

"As you should."

Emily replaced her conservative business suit with a V-neck black dress that miraculously created curves where none existed. It was a bit ambitious considering it was a mere twelve degrees outside, but I admired her determination to declare spring early.

Draping a thin sweater over her shoulders, Emily grasped my hand and led me to the cab.

___

Word count: 995
Total word count: 7,419

Woot! By the next update, we'll be up to the 8K milestone. :)