Page 104 of Fake As Puck
At least, I can.
“Text me when you land?” he says when we reach the departure drop-off.
“Of course.”
“Good.”
He gets my bag from the trunk, and we stand there for a moment in the chaos of cars and travelers, and I realize we’re both trying to figure out how to say goodbye.
Do we hug? Kiss? Shake hands?
We settle on a hug that lasts maybe three seconds longer than friendly but not long enough to be significant.
“Thanks for this week. It was the best,” I say against his shoulder.
“Thank you.”
“See you in a month.”
“Yeah. See you.”
I walk into the terminal without looking back, because looking back feels too much like something a person would do if this mattered more than it should.
The flight is smooth and uneventful, which gives me time to catch up on emails and respond to client inquiries I’ve been putting off. There’s a message from another fashion brand asking if I’m available for ongoing content creation, and I spend most of the flight crafting the perfect response.
Professional but not desperate. Interested but not available for cheap.
By the time we land at LAX, I’ve negotiated a three-month contract that will cover my rent and then some.
I text West while I’m waiting for my Uber:Landed safe. Thanks again for everything.
He responds immediately with a red heart emoji.
Just a heart emoji. Simple. Sweet. Not loaded with meaning or expectation.
Perfect.
Back in my apartment, everything looks exactly the same as when I left, which is both comforting and weird. Like I expected my week in Seattle to have changed something fundamental about my space, but it’s still just the same small studio with the same secondhand furniture and the same stack of unpaid bills on my desk.
The only difference is that now I can actually pay some of those bills.
I unpack quickly and settle at my desk with my laptop to formalize the details of my new freelance contract.
It’s good work. Interesting work. The kind of writing I actually want to be doing, for a company whose values align with mine. And the pay is steady enough that I won’t have to stress about rent for the next few months.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel financially stable.
Independent.
Like I don’t need anyone else to take care of me.
Around nine PM, I’m reviewing the contract details when I realize I should probably tell West about the job. Not because he needs to know about my career, but because it affects our arrangement.
I pick up my phone and call him.
“Hey,” he answers on the second ring. “How’s LA treating you?”
“Good. Really good, actually. I landed a big freelance contract today.”
