Page 37 of Be Your Anything
She glares at me and then tries to swat me across the table, which I dodge with a laugh. Then she launches into the grim life of a young twenty-something searching for employment, tales full of depressing statistics on hiring, the bleak job prospects for a designer, and the woes ofnotusing your last name to get in the door.
This right here is one of the things I amsoglad I got to miss out on. Every single one of my close friends and a bunch of my acquaintances have bemoaned the perils of the post-college job market, and that’s even though most of them have parents or friends or connections who have been able to get them started fairly quickly. Realistically, many could even choose not to work at all.
Job interviews and resumes and wearing a suit and tie? Not for me. No thanks. Definitely dodged a bullet there.
I was lucky enough to get ranked fairly early with the World Surf League. The sponsorships would be enough to keep me living a life of luxury even if I didn’talsowork with Otto and Wyatt on Elite X and have a significant trust left to me by my grandparents.
I don’t understand what Paige is going through, but I do sit and listen as she tells me every emotion and struggle and fear posing as hurdle after hurdle as she tries to sort out what’s next for her in life.
“Speaking of shitty work and job searches,” she says, giving me a mischievous little grin that instantly sets me on edge. “How are things with Remmy?”
Yet another example of why having a female best friend is the absolute worst. They listen. Apparently too closely.
“Things are fine.”
Things are not fine, and the look on Paige’s face tells me she knows I’m lying through my teeth right now. All I can do is hope she finds some way to bunny trail this conversation over to something else.
Unfortunately, luck is not on my side today.
“Sure they are. How’sherjob search going?”
I know Paige is being facetious. Nadine might be her only true mortal enemy, but I know Remmy was pretty high up on Paige’s shit list for most of high school—something I never really understood and yetanotherthing she hasn’t ever been willing to share with me from within the walls of academia and its girls’ bathrooms.
My jaw ticks slightly at Paige’s attitude.
Remmy graduated in December—a semester late because she had to retake a few classes during her freshman year—and has been looking for a job without any luck.
With being in a similar predicament herself, I wouldassumePaige could be a little more gracious and understanding about how Remmy is dealing, but apparently, that’s too much to ask.
“Last time we talked, she said she was considering widening her search outside of the South Bay.”
One eyebrow rises, but Paige lifts the straw of her drink to her lips and doesn’t say anything.
“She told me she’d keep me posted on what she decides.”
“Ah.” Paige finally chimes in, plunking her drink down on the table with a thud. “Whatshedecides.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Paige, whatshedecides. It’s her life. What, you think I need to lay down the iron fist and demand she move back so she can hang out barefoot in the kitchen and birth my babies?”
“Oh come on, you twat. Clearly, that is not atallwhat I meant and you know it.”
I do know it.
Paige has always been my life’s leading feminist, the most vocal of my friends on the perils of living within the confines of the patriarchy. She’d never imply something as archaic as the idea that Remmy should just come home and report to me.
But I’m frustrated with Paige’s glib approach to talking about Remmy. Whether they get along or not, that’s my girlfriend. We’ve been together long enough that Paige should either sort out whatever it is that’s crawled up her ass about Remmy and move on, or she should be more careful about what she says about her.
“Then say what you mean.”
“Fine.” She crosses her arms, and I brace myself. “Has she ever considered that you’ve been dangling in the breeze waiting on her to get her act together and that maybe you two should decidetogetherwhat’s best to do next?”
Fucking Paige.
It all sounds so rational and logical when she says it—easy, even—but that’s just not how it works. It’s not that simple.
Not for us.
“I mean, first she wants an open relationship because she can’t keep her pussy in her pants,” she adds, and I clench my fists, trying to keep my mouth shut, “then she tells you she needs you to visit less because she needs to study more, and yet she still graduates late.”
