Page 2 of The Love Bandits

“Thank you for the encouragement,” I say with a smile.

Nicole rolls her eyes. “You’re not a kindergarten teacher, Claire. You don’t have to give out star stickers.”

“I know where she’s going with it,” Claire says with a nod.

“So you’ve been bored by it before,” Nicole replies, but there’s a hint of amusement to her mouth.

“You know you want know what happens next,” I say.

She waves her hand, which is as much of a go-ahead as I’m likely to get.

“I went looking for Marjorie Eccles. It wasn’t hard. My mom had hidden the purse and the wallet. She was probably planning to destroy them—”

“Or keep them as a souvenir like a serial killer,” Nicole says.

“Maybe,” I concede with a shrug. “Anyway, I went to the address on her license and returned the rest of her things. Pretended I’d found her purse thrown out on the sidewalk.”

“Like if a mugger had tossed it after taking the good stuff,” Nicole says with a nod of approval.

“Well, yeah,” I say, “which is basically what happened. Anyway, I took it to her building, and she came down to get it. She told me I was a good citizen and the sweetest little girl she’d ever seen. And then she gave me fifty bucks.”

“Did you give it to your mother?” Nicole asks.

I give her a flat look, remembering the shame and sense of wanting I’d felt as I took that bill. Because I’dwantedto deserve it but had been very aware that the only reason she’d lost her bag in the first place was because my mother had stolen it.

“So you’re not entirely stupid.”

“Hopefully not. Anyway, it turns out Marjorie was on the board of a charity geared toward ending homelessness.”

“One kicked hat at a time,” Nicole says with a glimmer in her eyes.

“My mother was lying.”

Claire shrugs and nods at the same time, her expression sympathetic. She knows my mother’s a liar. She’s been to a dozen MLM parties for everything from shitty makeup to shitty tinctures, and my God, my mother acts like every bad product she decides to peddle is going to end world hunger. Her hustle is so dedicated it’s almost admirable.

Almost.

I suppose I’d have spoken to her more recently than a few months ago if either of us found much to admire about the other.

“Maybe,” Nicole says. “Probably. But you’re naïve if you think being on the board of that charity means she’s never kicked over any hats. Besides…you took advantage of her too.”I nod. “Good people get taken advantage of. They get fucked over by people who don’t mean well, like my mother, and even people who do, like me.”

“Your point?” she presses, rocking in her chair again.

“Women like Marjorie need our help. I also have a lot of karma points to build, and sending out glitter bombs and ‘fuck you very much cookies’ to people’s exes isn’t going to do it. We’ve been thinking too small with the Love Fixers.” Our jobs have been small and sporadic, nothing Robin Hood would write home about. I want to make a real difference—to soak up people’s pain and then rain it down on the people who deserve it.

“I’m proud of those cookies,” Claire interjects, tapping the table with her finger. “My sugar cookie recipe is to die for.”

I give her a sympathetic look. “Claire, do you really think someone who gets a cookie that says ‘fuck you very much’ from their ex is going to eat it?”

She visibly deflates. “Well, crap. It feels like I’ve wasted a lot of effort. I should just be frosting graham crackers.”

“But it’s the effort that goes into it that really sends the message home,” Nicole says, which is her version of a sisterly pat on the back. She picks up her beer and swigs it, then shifts her attention to me. “So, let’s have it. There’s something you want to do, and it’s dangerous, and for some reason, you think you need my blessing.”

“You’re my business partner.” Meaning she’s the one who’s bankrolled this thing, in as much as it’s needed to be bankrolled. Right now all we have a vague website, an LLC, and a brick and mortar office in this house. But I’m not my parents’ child for nothing—I can think big, even if I can’t achieve big. In my head, I can see it growing into a real business, one with employees and salaries and maybe even a bonafide snack room.

“Which means I trust you,” Nicole continues.

This penetrates more deeply than she probably meant for it to. It pinches like a pair of pretty shoes that refuse to fit, no matter how many times you try to jam your foot in. Iwantto be a person who’s trustworthy, but I was raised by parents who taught me to lie and manipulate. To climb social ladders and then destroy them so no one else could follow me up. And, I’ll be honest, sometimes I fall into that behavior without even realizing it’s happening.

---