But he wasn’t making a move to walk away. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking somewhat uncomfortable.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
He smiled and let out a bubble of nervous laughter.
“Um...” He cleared his throat. “This is kinda awkward.”
Nothing seemed awkward to me. What was going on? It almost felt like...
Was he about to ask me out?
Wow. I hadn’t been on a proper date in I-didn’t-know-how-long. Years. It’s not like Rob and I ever went out together. His idea of a rollicking good time was smoking weed on the couch and housing a family-sized bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos before passing out in the middle of an Adventure Time marathon. Trey looked far more energetic. And from the cut of his abs, he probably didn’t eat a whole lot of Cheetos, either.
“Yes?” I said, trying my best to play it cool.
He glanced down at my hands resting on the gate of the picket fence. “You’re kinda blocking my way.”
Humiliating.
Heat crept up my neck, spreading across my scalp to the tips of my earlobes. I sidestepped away from the path to the front door. “Sorry.”
“No worries.” There was that mischievous look again. As he unlatched the gate, he said, “I’ll see you around, Bree.”
My name sounded good on his lips.
But I was clearly out of my mind to think he might be interested in me, the wacky, unemployed delivery-girl-next-door. With his bronzed body and surfer physique, no doubt he dated Instagram models. This town was crawling with them, taking photos in bikinis as they frolicked on the beach. They tagged themselves drinking in the bars on Garnet or watching the waves at Crystal Pier.
To save myself from further embarrassment, I quickly headed home. Crossing the dying grass in front of the triplex, I stole one quick glance over my shoulder to see Trey, standing in his garden, watching me walk away. He raised his hand to give a little wave. Adorable.
Just as I was about to return the gesture, though, my foot caught on a surf leash someone had carelessly discarded on the lawn. I stumbled forward, arms flailing, and somehow managed to right myself without face-planting onto the desiccated lawn.
Trey yelled out, “You okay?”
“Fine!” I called, too mortified to make eye contact. Instead, I kept walking with my eyes fixed firmly on the path in front of me, lest I trip over another piece of PB detritus.
After ducking through the narrow alleyway alongside the building where all the legal tenants lived, I crossed the communal courtyard and climbed the flight of rickety wooden steps that led me to my home above the garage. As I pulled my keys from the front pocket of my jeans, my back pocket buzzed. Natasha was calling. She probably saw that my Lyft ride was over and wanted to make sure...what, exactly? That I hadn’t been murdered en route? I sent her to voice mail and texted: I’m fine. Just got home.
Stop declining my calls, she replied.
Natasha knew I hated talking on the phone, but that didn’t stop her from complaining every time I refused to answer. That was typical Natasha, though. Total control freak. One hundred percent type A.
In other words, the exact opposite of me.
Case in point: my apartment, which was a professional organizer’s worst nightmare. Every time Natasha stepped foot inside my cluttered little studio, she’d shudder, occasionally throwing in a dramatic dry heave for good measure. She could scoff all she wanted, but according to several psychological studies, disorganization was a sign of genius. Besides, I’d gotten used to the mess by this point. It didn’t bother me.
Well, it didn’t bother me that much.
To be honest, the clutter wore on me sometimes. It was a constant reminder of things I should’ve been doing or should have already done. Like the towering stack of unpaid student loan bills on my coffee table, or the sad-looking aloe plant withering away on the windowsill, or the brand-new yoga mat jammed in the corner, still in its dust-covered original packaging.
I would never have admitted this to Natasha, though. The one time I had, she’d shown up unannounced on my doorstep bright and early on a Sunday morning, armed with a Swiffer and a box of heavy-duty garbage bags. An impromptu decluttering session, she’d said. It ended fifteen minutes later in an epic, teary fight and we didn’t speak to each other for a week.
Now, as I walked through my front door and surveyed the mess, I wished there was a simple way to clean it all up. One that required little to no effort, and definitely no intervention from Natasha. Like a magic spell.
But magic spells were merely a fantasy, much like the idea of living in that cute blue bungalow or hooking up with the hot surfer who owned it. In the real world, I lived in this squalid dump, for which I was two hundred dollars short on the rent that was due in three days. And right now, I needed to find a way to earn some fast cash.
Tossing aside last night’s pajamas, I flopped down on my unmade bed, pulled out my phone and googled “how to make money quick in San Diego.” There was no shortage of options for last-minute one-off jobs: face painting, sign spinning, housekeeping (though, honestly, was I really qualified to keep anyone’s house?). Problem was, these jobs were located all around the county, far from PB and inaccessible by public transportation. Without a car, I’d have to Lyft, which would pretty much cancel out my profits.
So I changed my Google search to “how to make money quick from home” and scrolled through the seemingly endless series of listicles in the search results. The possibilities were interesting. I could charge those dockless electric scooters that were scattered all over the sidewalks or get paid to take online surveys. Apparently, I could self-publish an ebook and make thousands of dollars in passive income, but that would take an upfront investment of time, which I was currently short on. Selling stuff on eBay was a good idea, but unfortunately, I didn’t have much that anyone would want to buy. Except for maybe that six-foot bong Rob had left behind. I’d shoved it in the back of my closet, but I bet I could’ve pulled at least fifty bucks for it. Maybe sixty.
Lots of ideas, but not many that would get me to two hundred dollars in three days. Unless I wanted to become a webcam girl. Those ladies were well paid.
Emotionally exhausted from all that dead-end googling, I decided to take a break from the job hunt and engage in a quick, mindless scroll through Instagram. I never posted any photos of my own—it’s not like I ever did anything worth Instagramming—but there was nothing more deliciously distracting from the difficulties of real life than an endless stream of beautifully filtered photographs.
While I followed a few friends, I mostly paid attention to strangers and faceless brands: random celebrities, luxury cosmetics companies, artsy Etsy shops, animal shelters that shared daily pics of their fluffiest adoptable cats. I followed influencers, travelgrammers, fashion bloggers, lifestyle models, and hashtags like #goals, #glamour, and #instastyle. There was something deeply satisfying about looking at all those pretty pictures of pretty people, perfectly posed in pretty places.