Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 58470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 292(@200wpm)___ 234(@250wpm)___ 195(@300wpm)
“Are you laughing?” she accused.
“No. Of course not. Tell him he owes you a new purse.”
“He’s a fireman, babe. He’s ambitious and wants to be chief one day, but no way can he replace a five-hundred-dollar purse on a whim unless Jeremy pitches in.”
“That’s kind of a lot for a purse,” I said carefully. I was appalled by how expensive it was, but also knew she worked hard and hustled for her salary. I didn’t want to shame her for liking fancy things. I loved Kendall, and she had the best heart. I wanted to tread lightly.
“It is. Especially if you buy it instead of having one gifted to you for your bomb-ass job performance after you hyped the club opening so hard that even the VIP lounge is booked for the next four months every night,” she said.
I admit that I felt a little relieved she hadn’t paid that for a purse the size of my hand. I also felt the pinch of envy that ER nurses never got free crap for doing a good job at work, but I couldn’t imagine the charge nurse passing out designer sunglasses or big bottles of Patron. I didn’t exactly have extra room in my tiny studio apartment for more material goods. I didn’t have a lot of belongings to begin with, and I was fine with that. It was a ridiculous idea anyway, to imagine getting some Gucci swag for pulling a double shift in ER. Maybe we could score a bonus scarf or something if we didn’t get a meal break because the floor was so slammed with patients. I rolled my eyes at the thought. I was already proud of the work I did, and I had enough to live on. I didn’t have the need for a high-profile and lucrative career like my bestie had. And I would never be tacky enough to indulge in petty jealousy toward my favorite person in the world.
“I hope you score an even better bag tonight. I hope the swag is off the hook!” I said.
“Off the hook? That’s about seven years ago. You need to go out more, learn how the kids talk these days,” she teased.
“Knock em dead tonight,” I said. “You’re fabulous. Send me a pic of these booties.”
“The booties are, as you might say, off the hook,” she laughed and hung up. Soon my screen was filled with a photo collage of the glossy red quilted booties from three different angles. They were pretty and expensive looking, and all I could think was that no way in hell could I walk in them for ten full minutes.
And that’s why you’re a nurse and wear Skechers, I told myself as I put down my phone, stuffed the letter and its envelope underneath some food delivery ads on the counter and made myself do yoga. All I could do was a few stretches, some downward facing dog, and then closed out my session by folding into child’s pose as if I could make myself smaller and hide, as if playing dead might help at this stage. After a quick shower, I crawled into bed early and tried to sleep. Still, for hours I lay wide-awake, eyes burning from exhaustion and too afraid to relax and let myself rest. Maybe I’d go into work early and catch a nap in the residents’ break room, I thought to myself as I finally got up and straightened the contents of my dresser drawers.
Even though my therapist had told me that keeping a tote bag by my door stocked with cash, clothes, and a first aid kit was enabling my anxiety, I packed a go bag. It didn’t take long. Partly because I kept a zipper pouch in my underwear drawer with cash, tampons, ibuprofen, antibiotic ointment and steri-strips, a spare set of bandage scissors, and gauze at the ready. And in went my leggings, baggy t-shirts, and a plain gray hoodie. Nothing distinctive, nothing with identification on it. I added the nice J Crew trench I’d scored at Goodwill, a pair of dark jeans and a nicer V-neck tee. Sometimes to blend in, I might need to dress better—a business casual or lady out shopping look. I’d scored some classy looking ballet flats at a thrift store and stuffed those in as well. Was I packing a costume, essentially? Yeah, and that freaked out me a little bit.
There was no way to control this situation, so I was packing a bag intended to allow me to be ready for all contingencies. Including a set of out of state license plates I could put on my car and a box of plain brown hair dye to cover my annoyingly noticeable, natural dark red. I had a fake ID, a small stack of prepaid Visa cards, a couple of burner phones, a big handheld floodlight, and some pepper spray that I ordered out of Mexico, which I was pretty sure was illegal in thirty states.