She's Faking It

by Kristin Rockaway

  “What’s the problem?” he asked, hopping down from the cab.

  “It won’t start,” I said, to which Natasha quickly followed up with, “The check engine light came on several weeks ago, but the car has not been serviced yet.”

  He grunted and popped the hood, one thick filthy hand stroking his braided beard as he surveyed the engine. Another grunt, then he asked for the keys and tried to start it, only to hear the same sad click and whine as before.

  “It’s not the battery.” He leaned his head out of the open door. “When was the last time you changed your timing belt?”

  “Uh... I don’t know.”

  Natasha shook her head and mouthed, Maintenance log! in my direction but I pretended not to see.

  The driver got out and slammed the hood shut. “Well, this thing is hosed.”

  “Hosed?” My heart thrummed in my chest. “What does that mean? It can’t be fixed?”

  He shrugged, clearly indifferent to my crisis-in-progress. “Can’t say for sure. Your mechanic can take a closer look and let you know. Where do you want me to tow it?”

  I pulled out my phone to look up the address of the mechanic near my apartment down in Pacific Beach. But Natasha answered before I could google it up. “Just take it to Encinitas Auto Repair,” she said. “It’s on Second and F.”

  “You got it,” he said, then retreated to his truck to fiddle with some chains.

  Natasha avoided my gaze. Instead, she focused on calling a guy named Jerry, who presumably worked at this repair shop, and told him to expect “a really old Civic that’s in rough shape,” making sure to specify, “It’s not mine, it’s my sister’s.”

  I knew she was going to pay for the repairs. It made me feel icky, taking yet another handout from my big sister. But ultimately, she was right. What other choice did I have?

  The two of us stayed quiet while the driver finished hooking up my car. After he’d towed it away down the cul-de-sac and out of sight, Natasha turned to me. “Do you want to come over? Izzy’s got piano lessons in fifteen minutes, you can hear how good she is now.”

  Even though I did miss my niece, there was nothing I wanted to do more than go home, tear off these smelly clothes, and cry in solitude. “I’ll take a rain check. Thanks again for coming to get me.”

  “Of course.” She started poking at her phone screen. A moment later, she said, “Your Lyft will be here in four minutes. His name is Neil. He drives a black Sentra.” A quick kiss on my cheek and she was hustling back to her SUV.

  As I watched Natasha drive away, I wished—not for the first time—that I could be more like her: competent, organized, confident enough in my choices to believe I could choose to be happy. Sometimes I felt like she had twenty years on me, instead of only six. So maybe instead of complaining, I should’ve started taking her advice.

  Chapter 3

  Thanks to rush hour traffic, it took almost forty-five minutes to get down to my neighborhood, Pacific Beach, where Neil deposited me at the curb in front of an adorable blue bungalow on Beryl Street. A white picket fence surrounded a small but tidy front garden blooming with ferns and pygmy palms. The front door was stained mahogany, and there were mustard-colored shutters on each of the two wide windows flanking the entrance. It was so beautiful, it deserved to be featured on one of those Instagram accounts highlighting charming cottages and exterior design.

  I didn’t live there.

  I lived next door, behind a boxy triplex, in a makeshift studio apartment on top of a garage. Technically, I didn’t have my own apartment number, which made me think the whole situation was illegal. But it was insanely cheap, and I wasn’t exactly in the financial position to go looking for another apartment, anyway. So, I didn’t ask too many questions or make too many demands. I just quietly accepted the fact that I couldn’t plug my hairdryer and toaster in at the same time without risking an electrical fire.

  Pacific Beach—or PB, as the locals called it—was this peculiar mix of picture-perfect houses and unsanctioned hovels. Natasha said the whole town was a shit show, but I liked the vibrancy and variety. Families lived next door to college kids, beach cruisers parked beside baby strollers, lawns were littered with surfboards and beer pong tables, and half the neighbors were only temporary since every other home was a vacation rental.

  Like this adorable blue bungalow, for example. Once I’d caught on to the fact that a new car was parked in the driveway each week, I stalked the listing on Airbnb, where it was touted as a “Stylish Retreat, Short Walk to the Beach!” From the photos, the inside was just as cute as the outside, all exposed beams and distressed floors and big fluffy couches that were perfect for napping in after a long day of lazing under the sun. The host was a company called Surf Vacationz LLC and the weekly fee was more than I made in a month.

  It was my dream home, and it was completely out of my reach.

  Sometimes, when I was feeling particularly low, I liked to stand on the sidewalk in front of the house, my fingers grazing the top of the picket fence, and pretend it was mine. I’d envision myself sitting on the stoop, sipping an herbaceous cocktail out of a mason jar, or wandering aimlessly through the garden and sniffing the flowers. The thought always brought a smile to my face. Even if it was delusional.

  After the misery of this afternoon, I desperately needed a pick-me-up. So once the Lyft drove away, I took my usual spot by the picket fence and indulged in a little curbside home-owning fantasy. This time, I closed my eyes and imagined what it would be like to prepare a meal in that immaculate kitchen. Maybe brunch. In real life, I was a terrible cook, but since this was a fantasy, I whipped up my favorite breakfast—perfectly golden coconut-crusted French toast—then sat down at that rustic wood dining nook next to the window and—

  “Excuse me?”

  Just like that, my daydream was over. When I opened my eyes, though, I saw something even more delectable than that imaginary brunch: a shirtless surfer dude, standing by my side. Droplets of seawater fell from his thick, dark hair, trickling down his chest and pooling in his wet suit, which he’d stripped to the waist. He carried his board effortlessly under one arm, like it weighed nothing.

  “Hi.” I’d never seen this guy around before. If I had, I definitely would’ve remembered.

  “Hi.” He looked confused now. “I didn’t order any food.”

  “What?”

  “Aren’t you...” His eyes flicked down to my chest, where the GrubGetter logo sat right above my heart.

  “Oh, right. No.”

  “No?”

  “No.” Humiliating. This was the hottest guy I’d interacted with since Rob left town and I was wearing the filthiest item of clothing in my closet, on one of my worst days in recent memory. Rather than explain that I was off duty, since technically I didn’t know if I’d ever be on duty again, I changed the subject and nodded toward the bungalow. “Are you staying here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve seen the pictures on Airbnb, it looks really nice inside.”

  He studied the front door, as if seeing it for the first time. “It’s not bad. I mostly just like it for the location.”

  Pacific Beach was the perfect spot for a surf getaway, and this house was a three-block stroll to the ocean. But if all he was interested in was easy access to the waves, I wondered why he wasn’t staying in one of those cheap hostels right on the sand. Maybe he was splitting the rental with some friends. Or a girlfriend.

  “Well, you picked a great neighborhood to visit,” I said, launching into the usual spiel I gave to tourists who caught me ogling this house. “If you’re looking for good Mexican food, you should try Oscar’s on Turquoise Street. They make the best fish tacos. PB Shore Club is a fun place to grab a drink and watch the sunset. And at night, there are tons of bars and clubs and stuff on Garnet Street. It can get a little crazy there, though.”

  The corner of
his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “That’s not really my scene.”

  “Me neither. I’ve lived in PB for four years and I’ve only been to Garnet, like, three times.” It was always a bad time, too. Once, at two in the morning, I puked in a planter in the parking lot of a Jack in the Box. That was the first and last time I’d ever had a Jägerbomb.

  “Four years, huh?” He ran a hand over his glistening hair and shook the excess water on the sidewalk at his feet. “That’s about when I bought this place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tilting his chin toward the bungalow, he said, “I took it down off Airbnb last week.”

  “Oh.” This was Surf Vacationz LLC? He didn’t look much older than me.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Next door.”

  He looked over my shoulder. “In the triplex?”

  “Uh...yeah.” No need to get into nitty-gritty details at the moment. Instead, I held out my hand. “I’m Bree.”

  “Trey.”

  He shook my hand with a firm, respectful grip. It was the handshake of a man who ran an Airbnb business, a gesture that said, Pleased to meet your acquaintance. But his eyes said something else. Something a little more mischievous. They were deep set and dancing, and the way they searched my face made me squirm in a not-uncomfortable way.

  I really wished I wasn’t wearing my stained, smelly GrubGetter shirt.

  Trey released my hand, but kept his eyes on me. “I should probably go dry off now.”

  “Of course.”

  But he wasn’t making a move to walk away. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking somewhat uncomfortable.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  He smiled and let out a bubble of nervous laughter.

  “Um...” He cleared his throat. “This is kinda awkward.”

  Nothing seemed awkward to me. What was going on? It almost felt like...

  Was he about to ask me out?

  Wow. I hadn’t been on a proper date in I-didn’t-know-how-long. Years. It’s not like Rob and I ever went out together. His idea of a rollicking good time was smoking weed on the couch and housing a family-sized bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos before passing out in the middle of an Adventure Time marathon. Trey looked far more energetic. And from the cut of his abs, he probably didn’t eat a whole lot of Cheetos, either.

  “Yes?” I said, trying my best to play it cool.

  He glanced down at my hands resting on the gate of the picket fence. “You’re kinda blocking my way.”

  Humiliating.

  Heat crept up my neck, spreading across my scalp to the tips of my earlobes. I sidestepped away from the path to the front door. “Sorry.”

  “No worries.” There was that mischievous look again. As he unlatched the gate, he said, “I’ll see you around, Bree.”

  My name sounded good on his lips.

  But I was clearly out of my mind to think he might be interested in me, the wacky, unemployed delivery-girl-next-door. With his bronzed body and surfer physique, no doubt he dated Instagram models. This town was crawling with them, taking photos in bikinis as they frolicked on the beach. They tagged themselves drinking in the bars on Garnet or watching the waves at Crystal Pier.

  To save myself from further embarrassment, I quickly headed home. Crossing the dying grass in front of the triplex, I stole one quick glance over my shoulder to see Trey, standing in his garden, watching me walk away. He raised his hand to give a little wave. Adorable.

  Just as I was about to return the gesture, though, my foot caught on a surf leash someone had carelessly discarded on the lawn. I stumbled forward, arms flailing, and somehow managed to right myself without face-planting onto the desiccated lawn.

  Trey yelled out, “You okay?”

  “Fine!” I called, too mortified to make eye contact. Instead, I kept walking with my eyes fixed firmly on the path in front of me, lest I trip over another piece of PB detritus.

  After ducking through the narrow alleyway alongside the building where all the legal tenants lived, I crossed the communal courtyard and climbed the flight of rickety wooden steps that led me to my home above the garage. As I pulled my keys from the front pocket of my jeans, my back pocket buzzed. Natasha was calling. She probably saw that my Lyft ride was over and wanted to make sure...what, exactly? That I hadn’t been murdered en route? I sent her to voice mail and texted: I’m fine. Just got home.

  Stop declining my calls, she replied.

  Natasha knew I hated talking on the phone, but that didn’t stop her from complaining every time I refused to answer. That was typical Natasha, though. Total control freak. One hundred percent type A.

  In other words, the exact opposite of me.

  Case in point: my apartment, which was a professional organizer’s worst nightmare. Every time Natasha stepped foot inside my cluttered little studio, she’d shudder, occasionally throwing in a dramatic dry heave for good measure. She could scoff all she wanted, but according to several psychological studies, disorganization was a sign of genius. Besides, I’d gotten used to the mess by this point. It didn’t bother me.

  Well, it didn’t bother me that much.

  To be honest, the clutter wore on me sometimes. It was a constant reminder of things I should’ve been doing or should have already done. Like the towering stack of unpaid student loan bills on my coffee table, or the sad-looking aloe plant withering away on the windowsill, or the brand-new yoga mat jammed in the corner, still in its dust-covered original packaging.

  I would never have admitted this to Natasha, though. The one time I had, she’d shown up unannounced on my doorstep bright and early on a Sunday morning, armed with a Swiffer and a box of heavy-duty garbage bags. An impromptu decluttering session, she’d said. It ended fifteen minutes later in an epic, teary fight and we didn’t speak to each other for a week.

  Now, as I walked through my front door and surveyed the mess, I wished there was a simple way to clean it all up. One that required little to no effort, and definitely no intervention from Natasha. Like a magic spell.

  But magic spells were merely a fantasy, much like the idea of living in that cute blue bungalow or hooking up with the hot surfer who owned it. In the real world, I lived in this squalid dump, for which I was two hundred dollars short on the rent that was due in three days. And right now, I needed to find a way to earn some fast cash.

  Tossing aside last night’s pajamas, I flopped down on my unmade bed, pulled out my phone and googled “how to make money quick in San Diego.” There was no shortage of options for last-minute one-off jobs: face painting, sign spinning, housekeeping (though, honestly, was I really qualified to keep anyone’s house?). Problem was, these jobs were located all around the county, far from PB and inaccessible by public transportation. Without a car, I’d have to Lyft, which would pretty much cancel out my profits.

  So I changed my Google search to “how to make money quick from home” and scrolled through the seemingly endless series of listicles in the search results. The possibilities were interesting. I could charge those dockless electric scooters that were scattered all over the sidewalks or get paid to take online surveys. Apparently, I could self-publish an ebook and make thousands of dollars in passive income, but that would take an upfront investment of time, which I was currently short on. Selling stuff on eBay was a good idea, but unfortunately, I didn’t have much that anyone would want to buy. Except for maybe that six-foot bong Rob had left behind. I’d shoved it in the back of my closet, but I bet I could’ve pulled at least fifty bucks for it. Maybe sixty.

  Lots of ideas, but not many that would get me to two hundred dollars in three days. Unless I wanted to become a webcam girl. Those ladies were well paid.

  Emotionally exhausted from all that dead-end googling, I decided to take a break from the job hunt and engage in a quick, mindless scroll through Instagram. I ne
ver posted any photos of my own—it’s not like I ever did anything worth Instagramming—but there was nothing more deliciously distracting from the difficulties of real life than an endless stream of beautifully filtered photographs.

  While I followed a few friends, I mostly paid attention to strangers and faceless brands: random celebrities, luxury cosmetics companies, artsy Etsy shops, animal shelters that shared daily pics of their fluffiest adoptable cats. I followed influencers, travelgrammers, fashion bloggers, lifestyle models, and hashtags like #goals, #glamour, and #instastyle. There was something deeply satisfying about looking at all those pretty pictures of pretty people, perfectly posed in pretty places.

  It was also much easier to lose myself in the aspirational imagery of someone else’s flawless feed than it was to plan out a life of my own.

  I swiped up slowly, studying each snapshot. A woman in a bikini doing yoga in a field of flowers. A close-up of an expertly executed smoky eye. A plate of food. A city skyline. A disembodied pair of legs artfully positioned beside a romance novel and a steaming cup of tea.

  Then, gold words stamped on a plain pink background: No Excuses.

  Instantly, I thought of Andrea T. and her T-shirt, Professor Trammel and his total lack of recognition when he saw my face. The worst parts of my day came flooding back to me at the sight of these two little words.

  The image belonged to an account by the name of @demidipalma. It was a sponsored post, probably targeting me because of my most recent, desperate Google search, because the caption was eerily relevant.

  Have you been struggling to make ends meet? Do you need to make a change in your life, but don’t know where to start? Are you convinced everyone else has it all figured out except for you?

  Well, I’ve got news for you, sweetie: if you’re broke, lost, and miserable, THAT’S ON YOU.

  You are not a victim of circumstance. The power to succeed is in your hands. And you are UTTERLY and ENTIRELY in control of the trajectory of your life. All you have to do is STOP MAKING EXCUSES for your failures.

  It’s time to start #SLAYING your days, #DOMINATING your desires, and #MANIFESTING your dreams into a reality.