The Sexpert

It’s my dream neighborhood. And today I’m moving in.

Not even the cute serial killer who stole my phone charger can put a damper on my good mood today.

I park my truck in the garage, pretending I don’t see the stink eye the garage attendant is giving me. He does that every day. Every. Day. Like it’s the first time he’s seen my shitty truck. Like I haven’t been pulling in at eight AM every workday for the past two years. Like he’s holding out hope that one morning I will show up in a Mercedes like everyone else and when I don’t, he’s disappointed all over again.

For a moment when I get out I have a second of hesitation about leaving all my boxes here in the bed while I’m inside. But then I decide—hell, if anyone wants my ten-year-old pink comforter and boxes of thrift-store clothes, they can have them. It would give me a reason to go buy new stuff.

I haven’t been able to justify that expense. My savings account is off limits. And I refuse to break into it. Refuse. Because the truth is, I don’t make enough money to afford a studio apartment in the TDH Towne Centre. The only reason they rented me this one was because I paid three months’ rent in advance as well as my security deposit and last month’s rent too.

I pull on my work shirt. I’m wearing a white t-shirt for the ride in because it’s so damn hot today. But I like to look professional for work and a light blue button-down shirt with a wrinkle-free collar is how I do that. And my glasses. And my hair tie. I find people take you seriously if you look a little nerdy and I am a little nerdy. I’m a Star Wars freak, for one. And regardless of my lack of texting skills, I’m pretty smart.

Smart enough to come up with that whole Sexpert idea on YouTube. Which makes me snort.

Because I have to admit, it was starting to feel like a time suck. But since Zoey is a web designer with access to a private server she already pays for (not to mention her mad video editing skills), I figure why not?

It’s sorta fun. And no one can see my face. It’s boob-shot all the way, bitches. If you’re gonna be a video sexpert, you gotta show the goods. And I’ve got goods, let me tell you. They are spectacular.

So as I walk to the elevator I decide to let the whole phone charger setback become good luck. Because if cute serial killer had stolen it last week, I really would have to buy a new one with my gas money and then I’d be out gas money. But because that happened today, and today is the day I’m moving in to my new place in the TDH, I don’t need gas money. I can walk to work tomorrow.

I smile as I flash my badge and push the call button for the elevator.

It’s a very lucky day.

When the doors open I walk inside with a crowd of other people and push the button for the fiftieth floor.

I get a little sense of pride every time I do that. Maybe even feel a little smug. Because fifty-one is the top floor and I’m only one down. I don’t even mind that it takes forever to get up there. Because when I step out of the elevators after almost everyone else is gone, I see nothing but mountains for hundreds of miles out every floor-to-ceiling window. Pikes Peak, and Mount Evans, and sometimes, on a very clear day, I can see the Spanish Peaks down south and Longs Peak up north too.

“Hey, Charlotte!” I say, passing the reception desk in the lobby. “Hi, Lynne!” I call out to the other receptionist.

They’re both on the phone, but they simultaneously cover the handsets and say, “Hey, Eden!” in their brightest and cheeriest voices.

I flash my badge again, enter the west side of the offices, and say, “Good morning, Sylvia!” as I pass the printer. And then do that again as I walk by each person on my way to my cubicle.

They all say “Hi,” back. I’m just one of those girls who likes to be friendly. I’ve found that if you’re friendly you make people happy. Happy people who say hello to you every day are far less likely to confront you when you mess up. I hate confrontation and I regularly make mistakes, so it’s a necessary precaution.

Plus, I like them. And being friendly is free. So why not?

“Eden!” my boss, Gretchen, calls from her corner glass-enclosed office on this end of the building. “Get in here! We’re having a crisis!”

“Coming,” I call, still using my friendly voice. I don’t actually like being friendly to Gretchen. She’s stiff, and pouty, and a little mean if I’m being honest. But she is the boss, and I’m a girl who respects the hierarchy.