Page 5 of When to Call a Blitz

Trudging back to my shitty little civic, I place my camera bag in the back before tossing the bundled-up reflector beside it. Grabbing the handle to my driver’s side door I give it a tug, ready to sink into the seat that still smells like the coffee I spilled down myself three days ago and listen to my rage playlist, only for my body to ricochet back against the door.

“What the f—” I start before processing the object in my hand.

The door handle.

My car door handle snapped off.

And I’m holding it.

“Can this day get any fucking worse?” I mutter as I walk around to the passenger side.

Managing to get that door open without an issue, I climb into the passenger seat carefully, crawl over the consol, and finally settle myself in the drivers seat.

Only to realize the passenger door is still open.

When I’m finally settled in, I count to twenty, focusing on my breathing with each number in an attempt to relax.

My eyelid twitches, nearly sending me into another rage, and when I finally let go of the door handle I’ve been holding, discarding it onto the passenger seat, I remember that it means at some point I’m going to have to pay to get it replaced.

It’s when I’m finally turning the car on that my phone buzzes in my pocket with an incoming call, Mila’s name flashing across the screen of my radio.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“You sound like you’ve had the absolute best day ever,” Mila says in the chipper voice that makes me want to strangle her.

“I’ve had a moderately fantastic day, thank you for noticing,” I reply, but I can already feel my nasty mood drift away. A blue butterfly lands on my windshield, and I even start to smile.

If there’s one thing that can fix almost everything, it’s my friends.

“Are you coming to the gallery tonight?” she asks as the whoosh of water in the background reminds me I definitely didn’t put my cereal bowl in the dish washer this morning on my way out.

“Uh, I was actually thinking about staying home tonight.” Guilt wafts over me as I purse my lips, knowing what she’s going to say before she says it.

There’s a pause as the running water grows louder, and I know I’m on speaker phone. “I really think that you should come out with us. You’ve been staying home far too often lately and it’ll be good for you. Maybe we can wingman for each other?” she sounds hopeful.

I wrinkle my nose. “That sounds horrible, actually.”

“Come on Heidi, you love going out. What the hell has gotten into you in the last few months?”

My complete and utter lack of money, that’s what,I think. Because it’s true. I used to love going out with my friends. A great dinner out followed by drinks in the back room of Lulu’s with the jocks was my version of an absolutely perfect night.

But that was before I went on vacation with Isla and Briar, and before I told Briar I would be totally okay with just my photography business. It was before I spent half my savings on fixing my camera a small child kicked, and before I had to pay what felt like a million fucking dollars when I broke my finger trying to catch the damn thing as it fell.

“Mila, I don’t know. I don’t really have a night out in the budget right now.”

“You don’t need to worry about budgeting, you know we never pay there.” This is also true. There’s enough men at Lulu’s that we never really have to worry about paying for drinks. And if random strangers won’t do it, Leo or Owen generally pay our tab if they’re around.

But that doesn’t ever take away the nagging, terrifying anxiety ofwhat if no one is there this time, and I’m left with the bill?Sure, it’s never happened. But what if itdoes?

There’s only so much checking my bank account I can do all day, and after years of hearing about how I need to get a realjob with real benefits, I’m constantly paralyzed by the fear of my friends thinking the same thing of me.

Yet at the same time, I’m starting to think that everyone beating that into my head are right.

I do need a real job, and I do need real benefits.

My friends are some of the most successful people I know. Briar has a home cooking cookbook coming out soon and Isla has the gallery where she shows her brilliant paintings that so many people pay twice my whole year’s income for.

Maybe some people just simply aren’t cut out for making a living as a creative, and I really need to just come to terms with it.

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