Page 142 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

Kat

“Kat,”Anna Grace says very, very patiently. “You’re not gonna get fired.”

I jab at my chocolate shake with my straw, chin on my hand, and sigh.

“Okay, but what if I get fired?”

Anna Grace deliberately dips two french fries into her strawberry shake and then eats them without ever breaking eye contact. We’re in a booth at Debbie’s Diner, a Sprucevale institution that looks like it hasn’t updated one single thing since 1955. There’s formica countertops, vinyl in the booths, and over-the-top banana creme cakes in a rotating display case. I’ve never gotten one, and I probably never will, but I’m glad they exist.

“You’re so weird,” I say.

“First, B&L is absolutely one of those corporations that has a whole bullshit philosophy on, like, maintaining morale through layoffs and having pizza parties while lives are destroyed, so they’d fire on you Friday, because that’s the good morale firing day, not tomorrow,” she says.

“Thanks?”

“And two, you’re not getting fired,” she says again. “Gregory thinks you’re great, and so does everyone you work with who isn’t your sociopathic ex.”

“He’s probably not a—”

A french fry hits me in the face.

“Ow!”

“Sorry.”

I grab it from the table and eat it.

“They’re really good if you dip them in the shake,” Anna Grace says, mouth full of strawberry shake and french fries.

“No, they’re gross if you dip them in the shake,” I say.

“How do you know?”

“I try it every time we come here?”

“Maybe you’ll like it this time.”

I sigh dramatically and blow my bangs away from my glasses. I need to get them trimmed, but I’ve been too scattered this week to make an appointment.

I’ve also been too busy figuring out which surfaces in my apartment are good for sex and which aren’t. Couch: yes. Kitchen table: too wobbly. Bed: obviously. The stairs: surprisingly, yes, though I think I tweaked my back. I’d be happy to try it again, though.

“I’d have to move if I got fired,” I say, looking through the plate glass window at the parking lot. There’s a quick, weird twinge in my stomach when I say that, which is… okay. Interesting.

“I could throw another one,” Anna Grace offers.

“Ahh,” I say, opening my mouth. She makes a face, aims, and it bounces off my glasses.

“Ow,” I say, and she snorts.

“Worry about getting fired if you get fired, which you won’t,” she says. “You’re anxiety spiraling.”

She’s right, which doesn’t really make it better. Except it does, maybe, a little bit, having someone else point out what’s happening. Talking to Anna Grace is like watching the flight attendants during a turbulent flight: if she’s not worried, maybe I shouldn’t be either.

Except what does she know, really? Of course she thinks I’d never get fired, she’s my best friend who doesn’t even work with me, she has no actual—

“Oh hey, it’s Lainey,” Anna Grace says, and she’s already waving. “LAINEY!”

“Where’s your volume control?” I ask, as everyone in this entire diner looks over at us.