Intercepted (Page 12)
“Yes, Bluebell Sparkle, and you’re going to love her, Dad. So stop whining and let’s get the rest of my bags. And, Gavin.” I get his attention, my voice changing to a conspiratorial whisper. “If you stop encouraging my Dad, you can see my room. And if you’re really good, maybe I’ll even let you sit on my twin bed.”
“What’d I tell you? This damn girl’s gonna put me in an early grave,” Dad says to nobody and everybody.
Then the three of us get busy grabbing the rest of my bags. After we drop them in our entryway, Gavin says he has to leave, even after my Dad’s multiple attempts to keep him around for longer. I’m okay with him going, but I think I see my dad wipe a few tears as Gavin’s taillights disappear through our neighborhood.
He might’ve been a good guy today, but I’ve been around this life for too long to be tricked.
No more athletes, and definitely no quarterbacks.
Nine
So, I might’ve exaggerated the amount I had in savings. It wasn’t enough for an apartment and a gently used car.
I mean, technically, it was. But the design work I do isn’t a consistent, reliable income yet, and the thought of draining so much of it on a car when Denver has invested so much into their public transportation seemed like a waste.
And rent.
Don’t get me started on rent.
My mom warned me that ever since Denver legalized marijuana, the cost of living here skyrocketed. But like a typical daughter, I brushed her off and ignored her warnings.
She was not wrong.
When I first started looking—as in the day after I moved in; living with my parents was not an option—I was hoping for a little apartment in a super trendy area downtown. But when I realized I wasn’t willing—or able—to spend $2,500 a month on a studio, my search had to move. I ended up in Denver’s historic Five Points neighborhood. Just on the outskirts of downtown, it’s in the middle of revitalization. So while one block was covered with million-dollar condos . . . some were not. My one bedroom, one bathroom, five hundred square foot apartment fell somewhere in the middle. A little classy, a little hood, a lot Marlee. I fell in love with it immediately.
Since I’m lacking transportation, the fact that my apartment’s right around the corner from the light rail was a huge selling point. More importantly, it’s only two blocks away from a hipsters’ paradise complete with an organic coffee shop, a restaurant filled to the brim with ping-pong tables, men with beards and skinny jeans, and my new favorite place ever: HERS.
HERS is the most badass twist on an old gentleman’s club. Instead of a shoe shine, there’s a paint touch-up for manicures. Instead of sports playing on TVs, it’s a different city of housewives. Beer on tap? Nope. But there is a never ending selection of Skinny Girl.
A free photo booth is outside of the bathrooms to take pictures with the friends you made inside. Next to it is a wall where you can tape your pictures and scribble a note on one of the many Post-its declaring your new, lifelong, just-for-the-night bestie.
The moment I walked in, I knew I wanted to be a part of it. I found the owner that night and offered to help build her website, do designs for ads—anything she needed, I was her girl. I left HERS that night equal parts buzzed on Skinny Girl and high on life because not only was I the new part-time bartender, I was also head of the newly (as in that night) formed marketing department.
#KickingAss&TakingNames
I love my tiny-apartment-renting, public-transportation-taking, multiple-job-having new life, and even though my walls are bare and my coffee table is an unpacked box, I couldn’t wait any longer for Naomi to come see.
I called her last night and bribed her with the promise of my company.
Kidding.
I promised her booze and homemade cookies. So, she came . . . obviously.
“But what happened, Marlee? Everything was fine last week and now you’re living here.” The way she looks around my little apartment, her lip curled up like she smells feet, is hilarious. “Stop laughing! I’m serious. Wednesday we go to a meeting together, then that night you tell me you moved back home, which I thought was a joke until I ended up sitting next to a redheaded Courtney Junior at the game. What the hell is going on?”
I doubt she was supposed to tell me about Chris’s new flavor of the week going to the game, but once it’s out, it can’t be shoved back in.
“He already has her going to the games? What an asshole! What’s next? Is she going to be driving Honey-Blossom?”
“Oh sweetie.” She squeezes my leg. A stranger would think she was being sincere, but I know better, and her sweet voice isn’t fooling me. “Nobody, and I mean nobody, wants Honey-Blossom.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. What was I thinking? Why would anybody want to help the environment and save money?” I set my wine-glass on the table—I mean box—so I can have the full use of my hands to get my point across. It’s a weird thing to get worked up over, but insulting my car is the equivalent of insulting the children I may have one day in the very distant future. “Enjoy driving around in your giant earth killer, but don’t come complaining to me when gas shoots back up to five dollars a gallon and I’m just chillin’ with my fifty-eight miles per gallon.”
“Hey now. I drive a hybrid too.”
“An Escalade hybrid,” I correct her. “What’s the fucking point of that?”
“You’re the strangest person I know,” she says without a hint of a smile.
“You love me.” I blow her a kiss from the opposite end of my Ikea couch.
“Whatever you say. Anyways . . .” She sets her glass next to mine in the most awkward transition ever. “You’re still coming to the fashion show, right?”
I mean . . . is she for real?
“Can you pass me the remote?” I ask.
“Sure . . .” She gives me my remote, and I start flipping through the channels until I find the station I’m looking for. “The Weather Channel?”
“Yeah, I’m just checking to see if it’s going to be a cold day in hell on Monday.” The words come out so seriously, it takes a minute for Naomi to register what I said, but I know when she does because my bright yellow throw pillow hits me in the head.
“Can you be serious for one minute, please?” she asks, and I can tell by her tone she means it.
“Fine.” I’ll do this, but not happily.
“You have to go,” she says plainly. Like those four words change everything.
“Ummm. . . . no. I don’t. Half of those women didn’t want me there when I was dating Chris. Now, I’m not even a girlfriend, and I’m not letting them stick a groupie label on my head.”
“Screw them all. You worked harder than all of those bitches combined. All Courtney did was use the same caterer we’ve always used. Amber literally called the florist and told them to do what they wanted. You’re the only one who did any actual work.”
“You speak the truth, continue.” I wave her on.
“You designed the site to buy tickets. You went out and brought in all of the new designers. You made and sent out invitations. You’re the reason ticket sales are up thirty percent. So it will be a cold day in hell if you think I’ll let you stay at home while Courtney steals all of your credit!”
Naomi’s the most even tempered person I’ve ever known, so to see her all worked up on my behalf has me feeling weirdly honored.