Page 123 of The Boyfriend Goal

“Then we’ll help,” he says, “Right, Thalia?”

“Of course we will. And until then, you’ve got some requests for Your Next Five Reads.”

It’s business as usual, and maybe that’s what my life can be.

“I’m on it,” I say, and I keep myself occupied until it’s time for a mid-morning break. I pop into the bathroom, texting Wes the good news on the way. Once I swing open the door, I nearly jump. Raccoon’s perched on the edge of the sink, licking the faucet.

“Raccoon. You hate being normal, don’t you?” I head over and turn on the tap so he can drink from a light stream.

When he’s done, a reply from Wes lights up my screen.

Wesley: Can we celebrate by skipping number eight?

Josie: Never!

Wesley: Also, fuck yes!

Josie: Well, it hasn’t happened yet. It’s only an interview.

Wesley: It’s the first step.

That afternoon, my colleagues quiz me, and when I leave another email lands—I landed an interview at a library in Petaluma early next week too. It’s about an hour away, but I don’t even care. Everything feels possible.

That night, after I’ve finished all my prep for tomorrow’s Zoom interview with the foundation, I’m hanging out on Maeve’s couch before we meet up with Fable for a paint-and-sip class (which doesn’t count toward learning a new skill because we all mostly know how to paint and we definitely know how to sip). I’m plucking pistachios from their shells while Maeve layers tiny ocean-colored mosaic tiles onto an old tequila bottle. That’s for the lamps she’s been selling at farmers’ markets and night markets around the city.

“I was honestly worried I was going to need to call my mom, tuck my tail between my legs, and go home to Maine in January. Look for work from there,” I say, but then once those words come out, I want to flick a pistachio shell at myself. “Actually, I might still have to do that. Of course that’s what I’ll have to do.” A burst of panic curls inside me, rising higher. “What am I thinking? There’s no guarantee I’m getting this grant. Or even a job here. I should be realistic and assume I won’t and figure I’ll go home and live with my parents while I look for work, like any other person my age these days. Plan for any contingency.”

“You’re right. You might not get the job you want,” Maeve says with supreme focus while she glues in the final tile. Then she looks up. “But thinking positively harmed no one.”

Her attitude doesn’t entirely settle my new worries, but it does distract me. “Maeve, are you a closet optimist?”

“Maybe I am,” she says, dusting one palm against the other. “Especially because I think we tell ourselves not to put our dreams out into the universe, like we’re afraid they won’t happen if we dare to whisper them. But that has nothing to do with whether they come true or not. Look at me—I sell lamps from old liquor bottles at the night market, and I told you eight months ago I wanted to do that.”

I flash back to when I visited her in March, while I was on spring break. Maeve loves painting, but she also loves making art. We visited the market she wanted to get a spot at for the lamps, and she pointed to it, and said, “I want that to be mine so badly.”

Then she did the work and landed the spot recently.

“And look at you now.”

“Well, I’m still catering but I’m getting closer to my dreams. And honestly, I think it’s because I say them out loud. There’s this media company that creates videos to inspire change, and one of the things they did a couple years ago was build a massive custom megaphone. Like twenty-feet long, and they set it up in Union Square with a sign that said Shout Your Dream to the World, and they recorded videos of people doing it all day long. And it’s beautiful,” she says, then pops up on the couch, tracks down the video and shows it to me. In it, people of all shapes, sizes, ages, and colors shout through the megaphone to tell the city, and the world, what they long for. Love, a job that fulfills them, to live debt-free, to make art, to find the love of their life, to travel the world…everything feels possible after I watch it.

When it’s done, Maeve says, “You should put your dreams out there.”

That sounds well beyond my comfort zone. So I say yes.

The next day, I do the interview and it goes well. I’m prepared, engaged, and full of questions. So is Violet. That night, I gather Maeve, Fable, and Everly, and we head to the foot of the Golden Gate Bridge with a megaphone that Fable borrowed from the Renegades. It’s not a twenty-foot custom megaphone, but it’ll get the job done. Everly didn’t travel with the team this week—one of the guys in the PR department did—so she joins us.

Fable waggles the megaphone. “Who volunteers as tribute?”

My bold outgoing Maeve grabs it first, then turns toward the Pacific Ocean where the waves crash against the rocky shores then stretch all the way to the edge of the inky night horizon.

“The ocean can carry our dreams,” she says, then squares her shoulders, brings the megaphone to her mouth, and shouts, “I want to make art that matters.”

My heart swells, and I squeeze her arm in support.

She gives it to Fable, who takes a deep breath, then goes next, muttering this is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy. Then she says, “I want to launch my own jewelry line.”

The words echo across the sky and over the water, and I imagine the sea catching them in gratitude.

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