Hand-outs? No thanks.
YOU WERE WILLING TO TAKE ONE FROM THE BANK.
I would have to pay them back, so it’s not a hand-out.
YOU SHOULD LEARN TO ACCEPT HELP WHEN IT’S OFFERED BY THOSE WHO LOVE YOU.
You should learn to … shut up.
HARK! WHAT’S THAT ON THE GROUND?
She halted and turned her attention to the sidewalk in front of her.
A scratch-off ticket.
She reached down, picked it up, and inspected it.
Win up to two hundred and fifty thousand? Way to be subtle.
YOU LOVE SCRATCH-OFFS. PULL OUT ONE OF YOUR HOBO PENNIES AND GIVE IT A GO.
No. I know I’ll win, and then what?
YOU HAD NO ISSUE WITH THIS IN COLLEGE.
I was young and dumb. Now I want to do things for myself.
EXCEPT BUILD YOUR CREDIT. YOU’RE FINE USING MINE NAME IN LIEU OF THAT.
Look, I’m trying, okay. I’m not perfect yet, but I’m trying.
YOUR NEED FOR INDEPENDENCE FROM ME IS BAFFLING.
Your need for dependence from me is baffling.
THOU SHALT IMPROVE THINE COMEBACKS.
Thou shalt improve thine … boomerangs.
THOU SHALT NOT SLIGHT MINE MOST AWESOME ACHIEVEMENT IN WEAPONRY, CHILD. OOO … YOU JUST HAVE TO PUSH IT, DON’T YOU?
She had an idea and scanned the street until she found someone who might fit the bill. It was a young couple walking down the sidewalk on the other side of the road, holding hands, the woman extremely pregnant. Jessica pulled off her sunglasses and jogged across the street toward them. “Excuse me.”
The man glanced up first and moved slightly to stand between Jessica and the woman he held hands with. “Yes?” Then his head jerked back and Jessica knew she was officially recognized.
“Is that your wife?”
He stepped to the side and nodded, and the woman came forward hesitantly. “Jessica Christ?”
“Eh … sure, that’s what some people call me. Here.” She extended the scratch-off toward the woman, who didn’t immediately move, pinching her brows together as she puzzled over the gesture. “It’s for you.” Jess wiggled the ticket and finally the woman took it.
When the husband and wife exchanged uncertain glances, Jessica realized she had nothing left to say. “Uh, bye. Good luck with the kid.” And she hurried off.
As awkward as the encounter was, she figured giving an expecting couple two hundred and fifty grand would buy her some goodwill with the media once the word got out, and that did wonders to temper her depression as she rounded the corner onto her street.
NICE TRY.
Huh?
THAT SCRATCH OFF IS A LOSER NOW.
Come again?
FOR YOU IT WOULD BE A WINNER, BUT FOR THOSE TWO? NUH-UH.
What the hell? Why wouldn’t you let them win, too? They’re expecting a baby!
NOT HIS BABY. BUT YOU’RE WELCOME TO KEEP QUESTIONING THE LORD’S JUDGMENT LEFT AND RIGHT. IT’S NOT LIKE THE LORD HATH ANYTHING BETTER TO DO.
So you’re telling me I just startled a young couple to hand them a dud scratch-off ticket?
YES.
That’s something a complete lunatic would do.
YES.
Couldn’t you have warned me?
OH SORRY. I WAS DISTRACTED FOR A MERE TEN SECONDS WHILE MAKING A SUICIDE BOMBER’S VEST EXPLODE PREMATURELY WITH DEEPLY COMICAL AND IRONIC TIMING.
Ugh. Does everyone’s father pull major guilt trips like you do?
MOSTLY.
She reached the condo entrance and buzzed herself in, indulging in the air conditioning like it was the first time she’d ever felt it. It may be September, but it was Texas September, not Pinterest September. There was no need for hot tea and snuggly blankets in a hammock by an outdoor fireplace, no pre-pumpkin-spice-season excitement blown in on a chilly breeze. Instead, the heat radiated down from the sky and up from the city’s concrete like a convection oven, serving as yet another reminder of her bakery failure.
As she reached the landing, she saw Jeremy standing by the Coke machine, focusing intently on the selection. “Oh, hi, Jessica,” he said when he noticed her. Then his expression darkened, his wide eyes narrowing, his smile wilting. “You look like you’ve had a day.”
“None taken,” she said, before realizing he hadn’t offered no offense.
He leaned his back against the machine, crossed his arms, and studied her passively. “You want to talk about it?”
She opened her mouth to say no, but instead, something else came pouring out. “I was rejected by the credit union for the loan I needed to start a bakery, and now I’m not sure what to do, and God keeps trying to give me the money, but I don’t believe for a second there aren’t serious strings attached to his offers, so there’s no way I’m taking it, but part of me wants to since I’m already probably going to die in a gruesome display at the end of all this, anyway, so I might as well enjoy some time working at a bakery until then, right?”
Jeremy pouted his lips thoughtfully, two deep dimples appearing along his jaw. Then he bobbed his head gently. “Yeah, that’s a trip. I’m sorry you have to deal with that, Jessica.”
It was the “I’m sorry,” that put her over the edge, and the flimsy levees she’d built with sandbags of anger gave was as the tears broke free.
“Come here,” he said, stepping toward her with his arms spread.
She lumbered forward, shoulders slumped, and let her neighbor hug her. Even as her tears continued to soak into the sleeve of his ratty, black, death metal T-shirt, she understood how pathetic this moment was for her.
He patted her awkwardly on the back until she could peel herself away from him again, and as she sniffled and wiped her nose on her own sleeve, Jeremy said, “You probably don’t want to hear this yet, but it’s for the best.”
“I know, I know,” she said, waving him off. “I need to figure out how to do this on my own without relying on God’s reputation.”
“Huh? Oh, no. Not that. I mean it’s for the best because now you’re not a part of the big banking system. They put everyone in a registry, and most people don’t realize it’s all run by a secret coalition of neo-Nazi aborigines.”
“Did I … I think I misheard you.”
Jeremy smiled kindly, compassionately. “I know, it’s weird to hear the first time, but it starts to make sense once you think about it.”
She sniffled. If nothing else, the confusion had derailed her downward spiral. “I don’t know that it will.”
“No, it will.” He slugged her playfully on the shoulder.
She stared at him, leaning cautiously away. “Okay …” Deciding there was no way she would be able to walk away from this conversation and focus on anything else unless she had more information, she risked further investigation. “Where did you hear about that?”
“The only credible news left for the masses. FactWars.”
“FactWars?”
He held up a hand and took a step back. “Wait. You’re telling me you haven’t heard of it? Oh Jessica. You really should check it out. They love you.”
She had a feeling that wasn’t a good thing. “Okay.”
He placed a hand on her back and guided her down the hall toward their front doors. “Promise me you’ll check it out before you decide to apply for another loan? At least the website.”
“Sure.” While she had no intention of doing so, it was an easy promise to make. There was no point in applying for another loan if the one place where she had a connection rejected her. Until she could build good credit, that option was clearly off the table.
“Great. Well, I hope your day gets better. Sorry it’s been so rough. You deserve a little happiness.”
Despite the insane things he’d just said, his words hit her hard, and she hurried inside before he could see her cry again.
But as soon as she shut the door behind her and faced her quiet, aesthetically sterile apartment, her urge to cry was replaced by the urge to sleep
. So she kicked off her shoes, tossed her bag on the couch, and headed straight to her large, expensive bed. Well, not her bed. The bed of whoever owned this condo, which was a continuing mystery she was trying to solve, one strange artifact at a time. So far, she’d found a Texas A&M koozie in a kitchen drawer and a copy of Women’s Bodies, Women’s Wisdom in the bedside table. The later was shaky evidence, since there was a distinct possibility that Wendy planted it there in a subtle attempt to have Jessica educate herself where her dubious sex education had failed.
She’d just managed to get her phone attached to its charger and let her head hit the pillow when a buzzing on the bedside table drew her attention. She grabbed her phone and checked the caller ID. Wendy. While it was endlessly tempting to let it go to voicemail, Jessica was too scared of the consequences of such an action, so she answered it.
“Let me guess,” she said, “you have fantastic news that you just can’t wait to share with me.”
Wendy shouted, “Are you high? Because that would at least explain your judgment, not that it would make my job any easier at this point.”
Jessica turned over onto her side in bed, gazing out between the slats of her blinds at the adjacent bar and grill. “No, I’m not high. I wish I were, if that means anything.”
“Oh, are we talking wishes right now? Great. Then I wish you would use a filter before tweeting your problems to the world. But wishes don’t mean squat for publicists, so.”
Jessica tried not to take Wendy’s chastisement personally—the woman basically worked three full-time jobs between her PR firm, Jessica’s pro bono shitstorm, and dating two lawyers. Stress was a natural companion to that. “What’d I do now?”
“Your little Twitter rampage is spreading like wildfire. I assume you haven’t checked, or else you would know why I’m calling, but your complaints about money are not what people want to hear.”
Jessica groaned and pulled the covers up over her head. “But everyone complains about money. I thought you wanted me to be more relatable.”
“Relatable but clearly superior. Is that so hard to manage? You’ve been retweeted tens of thousands of times just over the last half hour. And guess who’s having a field day with this?”
She couldn’t even begin to guess. The people who wouldn’t mind exploiting her words were legion. “Who?”
“Eugene fucking Thornton. He’s coined a new term, which is irritatingly catchy and made me immediately cancel my weekend plans to brainstorm a way to defuse it. Want to know what he’s calling you?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“The Moochsiah. The god blessed Moochsiah! Jessica,” she said pleadingly, her voice cracking, “it’s so good. I’m worried this might stick.”
Damn, she was right. That was good. Maybe she could fix this if she just thought about it hard enough.
But then again, why would she be able to fix it if the woman whose livelihood revolved around fixing the missteps of others was on the verge of a complete meltdown? There was nothing that would indicate she had better problem-solving skills than Wendy in this arena. Or, really, in any arena.
Man, I should probably become good at something.
“You told me to tweet more,” was all she could come up with in her own defense.
“Yeah, but not like this, Jess.” Wendy’s voice thinned to hardly more than a whisper. “Not like this.”
“Take a deep breath. I’ll try to think of something.” But she already knew that was a road to nowhere.
And Wendy clearly knew it too as her heavy sigh crackled the speaker. “I should have known. Twitter is a no-win game. I’m sorry, Jessica. I’ll find someone to handle social media for you. I should have done it ages ago, but I figured, ‘Hey, she’s young. She probably understands the culture of it.’ Seems I was wrong.”
Jesus. Jessica thought she was having a rough day, but by the sound of it, hers had nothing on Wendy’s. “Don’t take it so hard. You couldn’t have possibly known how inept I am. It’s not your fault.”
“But I—“
“It’s not your fault. And even if it were,”—should she? Wendy sounded like she could use it—“I forgive you.”
There was silence on the other end, and Jessica wondered if the line had gone dead.
“Wendy? You still there?”
“Huh? Oh, yes. I just felt something strange—”
“That was me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like this: I forgive you.”
Silence again. Then Wendy spoke in low tones. “I suppose I should thank you for that, but I’m too terrified about what pandemonium will erupt if the public at large finds out you have that ability. Please tell me you hand out forgiveness with the utmost discretion.”
“Of course. Only a couple people know I can do that.”
“People you can trust?” Wendy said.
She inventoried her memories. There was Chris, of course. Quentin, too.
Oh no. There was also Greg and Sandra. “Of course only people I can trust,” she lied. Now was not the time.
“Good.” Wendy’s usual confidence came creeping back. “Okay. I think there’s a way to spin this where I can make Eugene look like the bag of shit he is and also get you the money you need.”
“And what’s that?”
“Crowdfunding. It’s a beautiful thing.”
“No,” she said immediately. “No way. I’m not taking money from a bunch of strangers.”
“You’re thinking about it all wrong. Crowdfunding is hip and makes people feel like they’re a part of something bigger than themselves. Granted, it’s still essentially begging, but it’s socially acceptable begging. For whatever reason. If Eugene keeps up the Moochsiah thing after you’ve launched your page, he’ll look like an idiot for calling crowdfunding, which is hot right now, “mooching,” and I’m positive you’ll hit your goal in a matter of hours. It’s brilliant, Wendy! Brilliant!”
Yeah, the publicist was definitely having a breakdown. But rather than comment on her use of her own name, Jessica stood firm on the important issue. “Still no. If you want to shut down Eugene Thornton, be my guest, but no crowdfunding, okay? Owing one bank is stressful enough. I don’t want to feel like I owe thousands of people who may or may not be total asswipes.”
“Ohhh … fine. I’ll tuck away my twenty years of experience and do it your way. Which, for the record, is not a way because you haven’t suggested anything.”
“Good?”
“Stay off social media for a while, please, until I can figure out a plan.”
That was something Jessica had no problem agreeing to. “Deal.”
She hung up and rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.
Moochsiah. Damn, that really was catchy.
If she didn’t want it to stick, and she couldn’t get a bank loan, and refused to crowdfund or accept what her father offered, what was left?
I guess I just have to do it all myself. No help from others, period.
It wouldn’t be easy, but there were no other options. Ultimately, funding her dream was her cross to bear.
Chapter Seven
The dry scrub brush on the edge of the Hill Country crunched under Jessica’s tennis shoes as she followed Miranda farther and farther away from the car. It had been a harsh summer, and the native life hadn’t yet begun to recover, even as the fall threatened to arrive, sending a new batch of seasonal allergies ahead as scouts.
Miranda led the way along a small foot trail down a hill into a shallow valley.
“You know I love a good adventure, Miranda, but you still haven’t explained why we just drove forty-five minutes and hopped a gate that clearly said No Trespassing, and hiked through as obvious a rattlesnake habitat as I’ve ever seen.”
“You’ll see,” was all Miranda said, and all she’d been saying, since she’d first arrived at Jessica’s condo that morning with a to-go cup of coffee in each hand, ordering Jessica to change into jeans and closed-toed shoes becau
se it was time for a weekend adventure.
That last bit was welcome news, though. After a week of dealing with the fallout from her Twitter rant plus the rejection of her loan application—something she had yet to talk with her closest friends about—coupled with an ongoing battle with her phone’s push notifications, or more specifically, with thinking she’d turned them all off only to have more pop up, she was ready for a diversion.
“Some juries might consider this kidnapping, just saying.”
“I’m a scrawny educated white girl, so, no, they wouldn’t.” Miranda planted her feet as she reached the bottom of the valley. “And maybe that’s why I didn’t bring Quentin along. Doesn’t matter. We’re here.”
Jessica braced her fists on her hips and scanned the surroundings, scrub brush, more scrub brush, and all. “I think I’m missing something, because this is just the middle of nowhere. Wait, is this the official middle of nowhere?”
“First of all, no, that’s not a thing. This is my mother’s cousin’s ranch, and I happen to know they’re at their vacation home in Myrtle Beach right now. Second of all, how did you not notice the watermelons?”
“The …” Jess looked around and sure enough, she had missed the watermelons, each resting on a stack of cinderblocks in a wide half-circle around where she and Miranda now stood. There was also a small pile of watermelons resting at the end of the semicircle, next to a small mesquite tree. “No, I did not. But now I see them, yet I’m not any less confused.”
“I follow you on Twitter, Jess. I saw what you tweeted right after you left our place yesterday. I wish you’d just told us what happened. But … I get it.”
Jessica opened her mouth to apologize, knowing Miranda was right, that she should have just told her and Quentin. Maybe then she wouldn’t have felt the need to tweet it to the world and ignite a firestorm online and dangerously high blood-pressure in Wendy. Before she could figure out what to say, Miranda jumped in. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not mad, but I assume you are.”
Jessica nodded noncommittally, kicking at a crumbling, exposed layer of caliche. “Only at Eugene Thornton.”
“Bullshit. No one’s internet rage is that focused. Just admit you’re pissed off. You know I’m not going to tell anyone. Well, not on purpose, anyway.”
It is Risen Page 8
