“Oh? Syd, Dad, and I have been trying to convince her that for years,” I laugh to try and hide my grumpiness.

This is the one strange sticking point in Mom’s love for being the center of attention. She has a website and a large Facebook following of High School and college friends but has yet to do more than that online.

“That was before the pandemic,” Mom defends herself, “when my career as an event planner was sizzling. Now I need a gimmick to get back in the game.” This is true. She’s hardly been working at all and it’s driving her crazy.

“Not a gimmick, Eva,” Pamela corrects her firmly, “remember, you have to use social media strategically.”

“Yes, you’re right. However, I’ve got an idea we both agree is hot,” Mom says, “I’m going back to my roots as a window designer like I was in fashion school for Theo’s shops.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fantastic at it,” I say because a) it’s true and b) you have to handle Mom with kid gloves, “But is that still a thing?” I ask, thinking it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a stunning window display. I’ve seen charming ones, but stunning? Not since the last time I was in Italy a few years ago.

“That’s where Eva’s being brilliant,” Pamela says, “it’s time to bring gorgeous over-the-top window displays back into fashion, not only in LA and New York. There are too many empty windows in cities across the US these days. It’s a real downer.”

I hate to admit that Pamela’s right. The last time I took the ferry to downtown Seattle, it was a bit depressing store window-wise. However, part of that is because downtowns have yet to rebound from the hit they took during the pandemic.

“I’ve already convinced Bill and his mom to let me do the bike shop’s windows for the Fourth of July to get my hands in the clay again,” Mom tells me.

“Good for you,” I say, and I mean it, as I pull up to the house.

“Here’s where you come in, Shelby,” Pamela says eagerly, “I’ll make your mom’s social media go through the stratosphere for free, for old time’s sake, if you can convince your old friend, the former millennial TV heartthrob Asher Dillion to be my new social media client.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to buy time to think, “I haven’t spoken to Asher in years,” I say, remembering to use Rune’s stage name, “I don’t have his number anymore.”

“Isn’t his cousin Gunnar arriving next week to live next door full-time?” Mom asks helpfully, “He’ll be happy to give it to you.” Crap. Most of the time Mom ignores any of the Borstad’s existence.

“Asher is just the type of still-very-hot-to-look at but career-in-the-toilet actor I’m perfect for,” Pamela goes on in her best sales pitch voice, “but of course, you’ll present the idea to him in a much more charming way Shelby. Franklin is distraught that his favorite protege is throwing his career away by stepping away from acting and traveling the globe to find himself. From what I hear, he’s spending far more time breaking hearts.”

**

Somehow, I managed to exit the phone conversation quickly. Listening to my mom gobble up Pamela’s perfunctory social media advice was like listening to nails on a chalkboard. The idea of calling Rune and convincing him to have Pamela handle his social media is even worse. That doesn’t mean I’d recommend he hire Pamela, though. Not a chance. I’m mad at him; I don’t despise him that much, even if he travels around breaking hearts.

At my feet, Butterscotch woofs insistently. She wants one of the ice cubes from the tea I'm making. I stop and toss one to her. She catches it adroitly mid-air and hurries back to her crate to eat it. She adores anything crunchy; her favorites are carrots, cucumber, and red cabbage.

Hearing Pamela’s distinctively gravelly voice again has brought all of my old work anxiety roaring back. I’m surprised my eye tick didn’t return, too. How did I survive working for her for so many years? I never felt like I could live up to her standards. I never had enough time to learn what I needed to learn, and I never quite got everything done in the time I had to do it.

I put the knife down and took a deep breath. I remind myself that for all her self-assuredness, Pamela’s a drama-addicted disaster. It wasn’t until I began working at the second storytelling agency that I realized this.

It was so empowering to work for well-organized, sane people. Pamela was constantly moving the goalposts. And she was never satisfied, no matter how much the client thought we knocked it out of the park for them.

I told my parents very clearly why I left Pamela Lyon’s agency four years ago. Why is Mom cozying up to her this way again? Our family has enough talent to help her with any social media outreach. She doesn’t need Pamela just because it’s yet another anniversary for *One More Midnight with You*.

Franklin Haus always includes Mom in special events and interviews to commemorate them, even if he pays little attention to her the rest of the time these days. It’s obvious they now move in different worlds.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

Now that I think of it, this was probably the same story with Rune and me when we met up at the Sundance Film Festival a decade ago. He just didn’t know how to tell me. I’m not mad about that. I get that. What I can’t get over is that *he’s* the one who insisted we meet in person. And now I learn he’s an itinerant globe-trotting heartbreaker to boot. Thank goodness I dodged that bullet.

**

“Hello, Butterscotch! Hello Shelby!” My friend, former colleague, and client Vivienne’s lovely face fills my desktop monitor screen, “How are my two favorite blondes?”

We’re having our regular Monday afternoon catch-up call. It combines my work on her graphic design needs with her wise counsel on my life in general. I’m eager for her feedback on my encounter with Pamela, whom we both used to work for.

Butterscotch yaps happily and tries to lick my large desktop monitor while I hold her firmly on my lap. Viv’s impeccably dressed, as always, rocking her signature cornrows. Today, she’s wearing a bright yellow sweater with a deep plunge that looks striking against her dark skin and shows off her ample curves.

Seeing my face reflected on the screen is sobering. I look drawn and tired. My lightly freckled face is extra pale in my dark purple hoodie. I usually make an effort for these calls because Viv is always beautifully turned out. Today, however, I’ve been too preoccupied with bad news. I’ve barely even brushed my hair. My dishwater blonde hair is in a messy bun on top of my head because I just couldn’t be bothered.

“I know it’s silly,” I tell Vivienne, doing my best to sound cheerful, “But Butterscotch’s excitement makes my day every time.” I only let Butterscotch greet people on calls with people I know who love dogs, like my fourteen-year-old nephew Nils.

“Oh, mine too!” Vivienne laughs, “If only all of my clients were this happy to see me!”

“Don’t they all love you?” I ask, “Who doesn’t want a better love life? I sure do.” During the pandemic, Vivienne left the storytelling agency we worked at together and launched herself as a sensuality coach full-time. I was one of the only people who knew it was her side hustle.

“Wanting versus being ready to do the work are two different things, Shelby,” Vivienne keeps laughing, and my cheeks grow hot.

“True,” I agree, “some of your homework is hard.”

“It is, but it’s worth it,” she says with a knowing smile, “Where are you getting triggered right now?” Viv has recently started helping me clarify what I want from my relationship with Jack. “Let’s focus on what we need to do on your website today,” I say, delaying with one of my favorite tactics: work.

“Shelby, I love that you’re an artist who always keeps your eye on the ball and never misses a deadline,” Vivienne winks at me, “but don’t think I’ll forget my question.”

“Of course, you won’t,” I smile wryly.

Earlier, I sent her sample icons, new original artwork for her new website, and social media feed. It’s a brand refresh to celebrate her success and help her achieve her next goals. Just two years after leaving her day job, Viv has a waiting list for clients. Now, she wants to focus on gaining media attention.

The two of us met when we both worked for Pamela. She was the marketing director, and I was a graphic designer straight out of community college. Viv was smart and quickly moved to a better agency after Pamela divorced, and things got even more chaotic. Two years later, she helped me land a job at her new agency.

“We’re a go with this set of illustrations,” Viv confirms, holding up one of the pages I sent her, tapping with an elegant hot pink nail complete with sparkly rhinestones, “They’re going to give my website exactly the sophisticated, sexy fun I was looking for.”

Of the three choices I offered her, she chose the whimsical, flirty, hand-drawn icons. I’m thrilled because they’re my favorites, too. “You’ve noticed, of course, that I dressed in honor of my new color palette today, right?”

“Yes, I did, and you’re stunning; wear this outfit when you create some of your video clips,” I tell her.

Vivienne’s new color palette is the bright jewel tones of raspberry pink, blue turquoise, and bright lemon yellow. They’re fresh and vibrant, just like she is.

Honestly, I envy how much she has it all figured out with her business and her love life. For as long as I’ve known her, she’s been in a happy romantic relationship with her partner Matthias, a university professor.

“Big leagues, here I come,” Vivienne says excitedly, “and your art will play a crucial part in that.”

“I’m so excited for you,” I tell her, “I feel like amazing things are about to unfold.”

“Is this officially one of your expert psychic feelings?”

“Yes,” I say confidently, realizing that it is.

“So, what’s going on with you, girl?” Vivienne asks after we got through our to-do list on her website’s behalf.

“Are you and Jack set for your fancy fundraiser this weekend? Did you pick out your costumes yet?”

“The video’s coming along well. Jack’s coming over tomorrow night, so we can review the final edits and hopefully pick out our costumes.”

“Fantastic!” Viv flashes me her gorgeous grin again, “I’d love to see them when you decide. So, what’s the rub? Why the depressed energy today?” she asks, using her index fingers to make a big circle. Viv sees auras.

“Vivienne,” I sigh, “I think I might be cursed."

“Let’s be careful with our language, Shelby; words have power,” she tells me.

“First,” I say, holding up the index finger on my right hand, “Trident’s making me do a social media audition tomorrow morning for my coloring book. Second,” I hold up my second finger, which means I’m making the peace sign, and I feel anything but that, “My mom’s chumming up with Pamela Lyons, who wants me to convince an ex-friend who’s an actor to be her client.”

“Oh boy, neither is fun,” she commiserates, “Weren’t you all set to publish in August?”

“I thought so. Now I’m worried I might be fired from my own project.” I don’t tell her about my tsunami dream. Admitting I feel cursed is bad enough, and she’s right. Words do have power.

“Is that what they actually said?” Viv pyramids her fingers and gazes at me over them with the serene composure I admire.

“No, not exactly. Dulari told me in our conversation today that the new VP of Marketing wants to, and I quote, *see evidence I’m on track to become a much stronger social media influencer* . “I know this is hard for you, Shelby,” Viv says kindly, “but maybe the universe is offering you an opportunity to notice why that’s so uncomfortable for you.”

“Maybe so,” I say grudgingly.

“So, tell me more about Pamela’s crazy request that you finagle an old friend to be her client in return for handling your mom’s social media for free.”

“Oh, right, she wants me to convince my friend Rune, who’s an actor, to be her client.”

“Who names their child Rune?” She laughs, “Is he one of your Vikings from up there in little Norway?”

“Yes and no,” I tell her, “It’s easier if you just Google him.”