The Convenient Wife

I’m pissed.

Two can play this game.

The winner will come down to who plays it better.

2

Starla

I can’t believe this, I can’t believe this is actually happening.

Pressing the phone harder against my ear, I’m ready to just hang up and drive to my best friend’s house instead.

Come on, Em, come on, pick up already.

“Hello?” Her voice is so faint I almost miss it, ready to give up.

“I got it! I freaking got it, Em!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. . . Why are you being so loud, and what did you get? It’s not an STD, is it?” I can hear the sleepiness in my best friend’s voice as she yawns while she’s talking. “What time is it anyway?”

“It’s nine in the morning, you lazy ass.” Shaking my head to myself, I rub my forehead. “And no, shit head, I didn’t get an STD, I got the internship!”

Emily yawns louder, her voice crackling as she lets out all the air in her lungs. “That’s great, Star.” She sounds exhausted, like she was up all night and has a raging hangover.

“Were you out last night drinking without me? You never sleep this late.”

“Well, Tom—”

“Ahh, Tom, should have known, that explains it then.”

Tapping my fingers on the table, I pick at the corner of the acceptance letter. I must have the read the letter over a dozen times, making sure I hadn’t read it wrong.

I kept scanning for the part where they say they’re sorry, but I’m not what they’re looking for. And for the first time ever, it feels like things are finally starting to fall into place for me. I’m so excited I just need to tell someone, and that someone of course is my best friend Emily.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—so anyway, you really got it? You got that internship you applied for?”

“I got it!”

“That’s awesome, it’s perfect for you. You spent how many years practicing for this job?”

“If you count that summer I spent testing different alcohol content, and how they affect the female mind, it’s been four years.”

“Did you tell your mom yet?”

“No, you’re the first person I called. I’ll have to tell her later though, because I’m supposed to be at Sheckler Distillery in an hour.”

“How long before you get here then to raid my closet?” Emily asks.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Uh, let’s see, you don’t own any dresses, only jeans and yoga pants. You don’t have any heels, only sneakers and flats. You only own sports bras, t-shirts, and tank-tops. So tell me, what did you plan on wearing to this?”

Fuck, she’s right.

I hadn’t thought about this first meeting or the impression I wanted to make. If I want this to turn from an internship into a full time gig, I can’t show up in yoga pants and a tank-top. That wouldn’t be professional or make me stand out as the right choice for the job.

“Be there in ten.”

“I’ll have coffee on for you.”

Hanging up with Emily, I grab my clutch and keys and drive the short distance to her house.

Emily and I have been friends since we were seven years old. We met in first grade after I transferred when my mother lost her job, and we had to move from our house into an apartment.

Things were rough, and they haven’t gotten much better over the years. Until this morning when I got the mail and saw the acceptance letter. I hate checking the mail, I did everything I could to avoid it.

There’s never anything good in there. Mostly just bills or collector notices. Once in a while, I get some decent coupons, but nothing really worth gloating over, not like this.

Pulling up to Emily’s, I can already see her standing in the doorway, holding two cups of coffee. She walks to meet me in the parking lot, steam rolling off the hot coffee as she passes it to me when I open my door.

Her hair is a disaster, pulled up into a messy bun that resembles a bird’s nest. There are smears of black eyeliner under her eyes, creating a lovely raccoon effect. Her robe strokes the ground as the hem swings back and forth, pulling broken leaves and acorn debris into the fabric. The girl looks like she had one hell of a night, either that, or she has the flu and hasn’t left her bed in days.

“You’re a life saver,” I say, taking the coffee and climbing out.

“I know.” Her smile is smug, and I can see her friendship ego as it soars through the sky. “You’d be better off wearing a potato-sack and going barefoot than wearing anything you own.”

“Hey! Have you looked in the mirror yet? Because you’re one to talk.”

“Yeah, but I have an excuse.”

Giving her a little shove, we both laugh. I follow her inside, clutching my cup of coffee like a lifeline. “So Miss Style, what do you suggest I wear?”