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Camila

“Wait—isJosh the guy you broke up with because he wouldn’t titty fuck you?”

“Ugh, God no! That was Damien.”My best friend rolls her eyes and scoffs. She says his name like she's trying to hold back her disgust but a slight smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “No. Josh is the one that had halitosis.”

“What?” I squeal, trying to hold in my laugh.

“Bad breath.”

“Yeah, Taylor. I know what halitosis is, I just didn’t know you broke up with someone because of it.” She gives a small shrug with her shoulder, unable to keep the smile off her face and I can’t help but shake my head and laugh. “How did we get so far off topic here?”

“You’re the one that brought up the non-titty fucker! And for your information, I didn't break up with him because he wouldn't do it, I broke up with him because of his reason.”

Just yesterday I was having my first out-of-body experience, and absolutely not in a good way. Now I’m here. In Taylor’s old Honda, driving eight and half hours to Vegas having what some people would deem an inappropriateconversation. Others might call us crazy, but honestly, this is just our normal.

“Mmm…and what was the reason, again?”

“Mila, he literally said‘Why would I want to do that when you have three perfectly good holes?’verbatim.”

I try to make a shocked face, but I can’t control the laugh that rips through me.

Driving down the freeway passing mile after mile of desert, I begin to zone out. The dry, vast nothingness out the window is a far cry from Miami. We grew up living next door to each other and have been inseparable since sixth grade. Her parents traveled a lot for work, and being an only child she spent a lot of time at our house, so much so that my younger brother even refers to her as his other sibling.

We’ve been with each other through everything. From middle school dances to packing up her car and moving across the country to attend college in San Francisco together. My parents were a little hesitant about that decision, but up until yesterday that had been the most wild thing I had done in my life.

“What are you thinking?” Her head tilts and she briefly looks at me with a raised brow.

“I was just thinking… what if I suck up my pride and go craw?—”

“NO!” She cuts me off, aggressively shaking her head at me. “Absolutely not. Camila, listen to me. You were miserable at that job, they treated you like shit and they don’t deserve you.” I keep my eyes focused outside while I twist the gold pendant across the length of my necklace chain. “Look,” she lowers her voice. “I know that you have this deep-seated desire to make your parents proud but I’m telling you, they wouldn’t be happy to know that their daughter has been working at a job she hates for the last five years.”

I always say, ‘Things in life that are absolute; death, taxes, and Taylor telling it like it is.’

She’s not wrong. I worked my ass off while in school to get my business degree so that I could do something my parents would be proud of. But secretly I wanted something for myself, so I minored in art as well. A career in the arts was risky, it wasn’t a solid safe bet like accounting or financial advising. So for the last five years, I’ve worked for an investment banking company—albeit at the bottom of the totem pole, and at times for some real assholes. But when I told my parents I got this job even though I would have to work my way up, they were proud of me.

So every day, even though I continued to hate my job, I went in. I forced a smile and said “Sorry, sir,” “Thank you, sir,” and “Of course, sir” a thousand times a day. I spent day after day battling the anxiety that came with just the thought of going to work. Sitting at my desk with my legs bouncing uncontrollably beneath me. A permanent stomach ache. And I’m fairly certain I could also blame my boss and the stressful work environment for my beautiful, thick hair starting to thin out.

However, yesterday when I was standing in front of my boss, in his tacky office that had a mild mustard aroma, something inside of me broke—more like snapped.

Mr. Hall ison his third tyrant of the day and can’t be bothered to close his office door. No. He wants to make an example out of me and I won’t be surprised if it is something he’ll get off on later. Remembering the way my face heats in embarrassment as he talks to me like a literal child in front ofall my co-workers. I am 50 percent embarrassed that he is screaming at me again knowing everyone outside his office is listening, but I am also 50 percent grateful he at least left the door open so I won’t suffocate in the mustard smell.

I watch his nonexistent lips move. His large arms that he tries to pass off as muscle wave around and the crease deepens between his thinning eyebrows, but there is a ringing in my ear.

What the fuck am I doing?

“Do you think you can manage that, Ms. Sanchez, or should we hire someone off the street to get it done instead?” His voice sounds as if I am underwater.

I blink and shake my head. Am I experiencing vertigo?

“Ms. Sanchez,” he shouts.

That is always his go-to—to threaten me, to push me harder. And because of the type of person I am, I almost always comply. But for whatever reason, that tactic isn’t going to work today.

As if I am hovering above us in his office I watch myself say, “I think…I think finding someone else to get it done instead would be best.”

He stares at me blankly for what feels like thirty minutes but in reality is probably only fifteen seconds. He is likely waiting for me to snap out of the alternate universe I have fallen into. He blinks once, and both of our eyes trail down to his desk where his fat knuckles knock on a stack of papers. “Very well,” and then with a flick of his wrist, I accept his dismissal.

I beeline straight to my office and I take the two steps to round my desk and sit down in my chair. The cushioned fabric seat gives warmth to my cold body. The space is rather empty for someone who’s been in the same four walls for five years, but I slide the two photo frames I do have into myoversized bag and before I know it I am typing up my resignation letter. I hand it off with sweaty palms to Mr. Hall’s assistant and the corners of her lips turn down as I wave to her before stepping into the elevator.