1
Happy Friday (Sabrina)
I know the moment I open my eyes that it’s going to be a day.
It’s Friday the Thirteenth, the worst day ever invented in the history of time.
A date belonging to screeching black cats, tumbling salt shakers, and broken clocks.
Not a day where good things happen to hardworking girls who wake up on the wrong side of their beds—and the achy crick in my neck tells me today’s black magic already started on my pillow last night.
Awesome.
Somehow, I manage to crawl out of bed and get showered and dressed, without losing any limbs. But as I hop out of my bedroom in a brand-new outfit, still zipping my knee-high boot while trying to check my phone for the time, I realize what else feels off besides my poor neck.
I’m flipping late.
Apparently, the alarms on my phone love this infamous day just as much as I do.
“Ohhh, Brina, big date tonight? You look amazing! But you’re late.” Paige holds out my purse and a paper coffee cup with an easygoing smile.
“Where would I be without you?” I mutter, unsure whether I’m rolling my eyes at her for going all Captain Obvious or the fact that I would be worse off without a friend like her.
I jerk the boot zipper the rest of the way up, then snatch the cup and purse from her. I’m wearing a sweater dress with a jacket thrown over it and high heeled boots, an ensemble pulled together more for Chicago fall warmth than fashion. And I’ve thrown my walnut-brown hair into a ponytail this morning because it’s the quickest fix.
“No dates written in stone yet. You know how flaky Tinder dudes are,” I say, checking my phone again, willing time to slow down.
“Don’t worry. You’ll make it,” Paige says with a sunny confidence I wish I had. “Personally, I think you should rock the Miss Superstitious vibe. You’ve already got the name and we’ve been through this before—”
“Right, and it always ends with the same question. Do I look like a teenager or a witch?” I watch her lashes flutter as she bats her eyes so innocently.
God. I’m starting to wish I was magic because if I don’t make my bus...hello, doom.
As I’m lunging for the door, I realize it’s way too early for my night owl of a roommate to be out of bed. “Why are you awake, anyway?”
“I’m going to Lincoln Park to meet a potential client.” She runs a hand through her blond hair like it’s totally natural for anyone to be so beautiful this early in the morning.
So maybe I wish I could steal her confidence along with her style mojo, too.
“It’s Friday the Thirteenth,” I remind her. “Be careful.”
She sips her coffee with a loud snort. “Oh, you and your hocus pocus. Some of the best things ever happen on Fridays ending in thirteen.”
“Like what?” I call over my shoulder, but I don’t have time to wait for her answer. I power stomp down the stairs without a second look, hoping she’s right.
But seriously?
Good things?
Today?
No. Nope. Never.
Racing down the block, I glance at my bus stop...
...just as the bus drives away.
“Sonofa—” I cut myself off mid-curse when an old lady out for a stroll casts me a dirty glance.
Rather than daydream about how heavenly it must be to waltz around this early without panicking over a job, I push my lips against my coffee cup and slurp so loud I hope it scares someone.
Third time this month I’m late. Happy happy, joy joy.
Luckily, no one at the office ever said anything the last two times. Mostly because I work my ass off and I always make up the time in the evenings.
I rage-gulp my coffee and then toss the cup in the trash, waiting on the next bus to come, keeping my eyes peeled for more bad luck.
So far, no velvety black cats on a personal mission to ruin my day.
Small consolation.
When I finally catch the next bus and stumble into the building’s elevator, the metal doors start closing in slow motion right in front of my face.
I’m already forty minutes late. Again.
No freaking way am I letting these doors shut before I’m in. Stretching one foot in front of the shiny doors, I jiggle it, hoping to set off the sensor so they reopen.
Instead, they close.
Right over the spike of my high-heeled boot.
Oh.
Oh, God.
I gasp, terrified by the loud crunch! that erupts through the silence.
Bones?
Heart pounding, I wiggle my toes, bracing for the worst.
But my foot doesn’t hurt at all.
It only caught my heel, tripping the sensor—though the second the door pings open, my mangled heel hits the floor. I throw myself in as fast as a girl on one heel can and scoop up the broken part with a sigh.
These things happen.
It’s Friday the freaking Thirteenth.
If shearing off a heel and a late bus are the worst things today? I’ll be fiiine.
Except, from the instant the elevator stops on my floor, I know something’s off. It’s weirdly quiet inside Purry Furniture & More’s downtown headquarters, and I’m half expecting to see the cutesy black cats on the posters come leaping out after me with their claws drawn.
I also spot Vanessa, my boss, as soon as the steel doors pull apart. She stands at the front desk and smiles.
Not a nice one, exactly. More like a wooden smile that says, oh, hey, I’m trying to pretend I have it all together, but I’m actually juggling atomic bombs, and I’m about to drop one in your lap.
What now? Is it my timing?
I step out, brandishing my heel.
“Vanessa, so sorry I’m late. My alarms were off and I had a little mishap with a hungry elevator, so...” Before I can even get my whole sob story out, she stops me with a raised hand, her fingers splayed apart.
“No big, Sabrina. Can you come into my office for a sec? I need to talk to you.”
Odd.
So is her ominously formal use of my name. Why didn’t she just call me Brina like always? Like everyone always has, since the dawn of time.
As I follow her, limping on my broken heel, I swallow a cold, bitter rock in my throat.
Friday the Thirteenth.
My boss wants to “talk.”
How screwed am I?
She wheels herself behind her massive glass desk with another awkward semi-smile and tents her fingers in front of her.
“Well. Sabrina, there’s no easy way to say this and you’re too good for me to sugarcoat it, so here goes. You’ve been a fabulously talented, hardworking member of our Purry creative team. We absolutely love your designs; however...I’m afraid we’re facing budget cuts.”
“Oh.” That sounds like a downer. But I’m a valuable member of this team. I get things done! “I...I thought you told me the designs I did were phenomenal? Half of them are hanging around the office.”
“And they are, yes. But the hard truth is, Mr. Tillis, the owner, believes it’s time to take a look at hiring talent to save costs in the same places where our furniture is manufactured. Jack found a way to get similar graphic designs from Bangladesh at about one dollar a piece. They’re not quite as polished as yours, of course, but...”
I’m not listening anymore.
Jack? Did she just say Jack? Jack-ass?