“No, you can’t. It’s my account, I need to authorize the pickup. You said you’re parked in someone’s driveway. What’s the address?”
I thought about aborting the mission at this point, telling her the car miraculously started all of a sudden. But this guy was still glaring at me from behind his trash can, and I couldn’t just linger here forever. There was no other choice than to tell her where I was.
“I’m outside 1846 Blue Bonnet Court.”
There was silence on the line. I held my breath, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t recognize the street name. But that was me being willfully naive.
“In Encinitas?”
My silence was all the answer she needed.
“You’re, like, three blocks away from my house. Why didn’t you just say that?”
“I didn’t wanna bother you,” I said, which was a partial truth. Mostly, I just didn’t want her to see me in this state. Or hear the myriad “I told you sos” that were inevitably coming my way.
“Have you eaten dinner?”
“Not yet.” My stomach reflexively rumbled. “I’ve been working since three.”
“I’ve got some leftovers I can bring you. Let me call the tow truck and I’ll be right there.”
She hung up. I felt a wave of relief, which was swallowed quickly by a larger wave of regret. Natasha had always warned me to have a plan B. To have an alternate stream of income lined up, in case I ever decided to stop being a GrubGetter. I’d dismissed her because up until recently, being a GrubGetter was working out just fine. Plus, it wasn’t like I had a burning desire to do anything else, and more to the point, I was too terrified to try anything new. New endeavors introduced the possibility of failure, which I’d already experienced enough of in this lifetime, thank you very much.
But now, the decision had been made for me. I couldn’t deliver food if my car wouldn’t start. Which reminded me, I had to turn down that Burger Bar order I’d claimed.
I pulled up the GrubGetter app and tapped the “Cancel” button. The screen flashed with a message.
Are you sure? Canceling orders this close to pickup time can result in low GrubGetter performance ratings.
Reluctantly, I tapped “Yes,” then tossed my phone into the open hot bag on the passenger seat. Closing my eyes, I tried my hardest not to cry. It didn’t work, though, and within seconds, I was full-force sobbing into the steering wheel. Given the facts, it was impossible to hold back the tears.
My rent was due in three days, I was light-years late on my student loans, I had no clue how I was going to pay for whatever repairs my car would need, and my sister was about to save my ass, yet again.
This wasn’t how I’d envisioned myself living at age twenty-five. It was way past time for me to get my shit together.
I just wished I knew where to start.
Chapter 2
A sharp rat-tat-tat on the driver’s side window cut in on my crying jag. Natasha stood on the pavement holding a Tupperware container full of something green and cheesy-looking. I swiped the tears from my swollen eyes and opened the door.
“Thanks for coming,” I said.
“Don’t be silly, I wasn’t about to leave you out here all alone. The tow truck should be here in thirty.” She jiggled the container in her hands. “I brought something for you to eat while we wait.”
Natasha surveyed the interior of my car with an air of disgust. Frankly, I couldn’t blame her. While she was a special kind of snob when it came to keeping spaces tidy, I was also a special kind of slob. The floors were littered with burrito wrappers and empty Big Gulp containers. Random papers and forgotten pieces of junk mail crowded the back seat, along with a ripped hoodie and a solitary flip-flop. There were coins and crumbs and errant M&M’S wedged in the center console, and I’m pretty sure I hadn’t dusted the dashboard in the nearly ten years I’d owned this thing. Thankfully, Natasha couldn’t see the state of my trunk.
“Let’s sit in my car,” she said, rather diplomatically.
We settled into the buttery leather seats of her Audi Q8, with its gleaming oak dashboard and immaculate floor mats. She tapped one of the three touch screens beside the steering wheel and the panoramic sunroof retracted above our heads.
“Such a gorgeous night.” Natasha breathed deeply. “You can almost smell the ocean from here.”
All I could smell was her sweet, waxy air freshener and the remnants of fried chicken grease. Even though I never came into direct contact with food, the scent always seeped out through the delivery bags and clung to my clothes. No matter how many times I’d thrown this shirt in the wash, it inevitably came out smelling like a strange combination of French fries and teriyaki sauce. Between the horrible stink and the faded ketchup stains, my GrubGetter polo was beat. I’d been thinking about ordering a new one, but it didn’t make any sense to do that now. Seeing as I was temporarily out of a job and everything.
Although, since I couldn’t afford to fix my broken car, it was entirely possible that I’d be permanently out of a job.
The thought set me off crying again, which made Natasha sigh. “You’ve got to get it together, Bree.”
“Thanks,” I said, my voice thick with tears. “That’s such helpful advice, it really makes me feel better.”
“Stop. You know I’m only saying this because I love you.”
My sister was a firm believer in “tough love.” It’s not that she didn’t sympathize. She just thought there were far more productive ways to handle your problems than wallowing in tears and despair. She was right, of course, but I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture right now.
“I’ve told you before,” she continued, “you need to have a plan B.”
“Yes, I know, I’m a massive failure. Why don’t you go talk to Eddie Trammel about all the ways I’ve screwed up my life?”
“You’re not a failure and you haven’t screwed up your life.” She pulled a tissue from her purse and thrust it toward me. “You aren’t making the best choices, but you can change that. And who’s Eddie Trammel?”
“My old physics professor.” I snatched the tissue from her hand and nodded to the house beside us. “I just delivered his chicken. He didn’t recognize me.”
“Hmm.” Natasha studied his front lawn, the sprinklers still blaring, the bright green blades of grass completely saturated. “That guy was a jerk to you, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
To be fair, he was a jerk to everyone. He was one of those academics who was hyperfocused on his research and resentful that he had to teach an undergraduate class, especially one as rudimentary as Physics 1A. I’m not sure if he’d ever insulted anyone quite so thoroughly as he’d insulted me, though.