Bad Boy Rich

“I hate this…”

Phoebe throws a pile of clothes into the suitcase in her normally overdramatic way—before pretending to faint on my bed. The bed posts creak from the sudden weight of her body while I choose to ignore her plea to make me stay home; carefully organizing my precious belongings into a separate carry-on bag.

“You only hate it because you’ve got no one to vent to on Friday night while drunk on cheap champagne you bought at Billy’s.”

Phoebe sits up, then lays back against my pillow with her ginger hair a tangled mess. Whenever she got frustrated or angry, she would unknowingly bite her hair while silently trying to regroup her thoughts.

“That’s not true.” She shakes her head, spitting out a mouthful of hair. “You make a good vomit buddy. You’ve got my hair pulled back so tight that it’s such a neat spew into the toilet bowl.”

I throw a pair of socks at her face before plopping down beside her. “I hate this too.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing else you can do? Could you take another job or something?”

I wish it was that simple. I had worked two jobs for the past year to support our family. A full-time role at Mason’s Law Firm as personal assistant to Mildred Mason—one of Alaska’s top female lawyers. I took the job straight out of college and pretty much got thrown into the deep end. To be honest—I wouldn’t have it any other way. It distracted me from the real problems I was facing with Mom and gave me the direction I needed.

“The pizza shop can’t afford to keep me on for weekends anymore. Why pay a twenty-five-year-old wages when you can pay a sixteen-year-old?” I complain. “And Mildred is retiring.”

“So, get another job. There’s plenty of personal assistant jobs here.”

I laugh at her suggestion. “Uh, hello? You do know we live in a small town? It takes me ninety minutes each day to travel to work. There are no other jobs.”

“Surely, there’s something.” Phoebe leans over to my nightstand and grabs the local newspaper. “Okay, look. There’s plenty.”

“Fine, go ahead, tell me what I can do.”

“How are you with gutting fish?”

“The same you are with gutting fish.”

She takes a giant swallow. “Gross. Okay, so fish guts ain’t your thing. Here you go…” Her eyes scan the paper, quietly reading before speaking. “Looking for a physically fit young woman to help with caring for ailing father.”

“Pass.”

“Why? The money looks good.”

“Because it’s caring for Old Man Wilson and we all know his wandering hands are no accident. I think his daughter has some sort of advertisement discount for the amount of times that job has been posted.”

“Who would have thought an eighty-year-old man would be so frisky?” Phoebe questions with a cheeky grin. “He had an eye for your red miniskirt. By the way, can I have it?”

“Not any of the women that applied for the role, clearly.” I move to the closet, opening a secret compartment and removing the miniskirt, throwing it at Phoebe. “All yours. The last time I wore this was in high school. Smoking weed under the bleachers with Bobby Houseman.”

“Those were the days.” Phoebe continues to troll the newspaper, turning the page with frustration and causing the paper to crumple between her fingers. Her frown turns into a smile, and I wait eagerly for her pathetic attempt to sell me a role that involved selling my soul to the devil.

“You like to dance, right?”

“Sure, with my clothes on. So, if you’re trying to get me to take them off and casually stand by a silver pole, keep turning that page.”

“You know me too well.”

“Like the back of my hand.”

“I don’t want you to go, Milly.” Her voice is raspy, pleading for something I can no longer control.

“I have no choice. I can’t support paying for Mom’s care and keep the house. Besides, it’ll be nice to start fresh somewhere.”

She turns to face me, throwing the newspaper onto the floor. The bed creaks again; annoying yet comforting because it was my bed. The same bed I had slept in since I was a kid.

“You’re lying. You hate fresh starts. You’re a homebody and moving to a different state—especially California—terrifies you.”