by Ellis, Aven
“Yes, Daddy!” Jacob replies.
I walk Mr. Not Bacon out the door. Chris is standing on the sidewalk further down, ready to shoot. And then I see Henna, who has climbed inside the TV network van and slammed the door shut.
Wow. She really does think she’s in a Jurassic Park film and has to take cover. I bet she even locks the door for extra protection against Mr. Not Bacon.
I head up the sidewalk with Mr. Not Bacon, just like the stroll we took the other day with Courtney and the kids. We reach the top of the sidewalk, and I turn him to head in the direction of the camera. But as soon as we turn, Mr. Not Bacon stops dead in his tracks.
I tug on his leash. “Come on, Mr. Not Bacon. Let’s walk!”
He’s not having it.
Panic fills me. I know the only reason I’m getting air time is because people saw me walking him in the parking lot of the vet clinic. If he doesn’t walk, there’s no story, because Henna has made it clear she’s not interested in filming me organizing Courtney’s life into beautiful gold-striped Kate Spade folders.
If I want to get two seconds of air time for Payton’s Take On Kate, I have to walk him.
“Come on!” I say cheerfully, my voice not reflecting the panic that is taking over my body. “Let’s walk!”
Mr. Not Bacon snorts.
And lies down on the sidewalk.
Shit.
“Let’s go!” I try again, tugging on the leash.
Nope.
“We’re going to walk!” I say excitedly.
Mr. Not Bacon flops over on his side.
Gah!
“I’ll get Cheerios!” Courtney yells, running back into the house.
“Mommy!” Jacob cries out.
“In a second, sweetie, Mommy will be right back,” Courtney says, running into the house.
I glance at Jacob, who is—oh no—holding his hand over his crotch on his shorts.
“I have to pee-pee!” he screams at the top of his lungs.
I have a flashback to my first day at Courtney’s. When Jacob ripped off his clothes and—
“Pee!” Jacob yells, taking off his shorts.
Dan’s eyes bulge. “Jakey, no! Go to the bathroom! Let’s go!”
Dan hurries toward him, but the dogs circle his legs and he has to stop before tripping. “Move, Bailey!”
But while Dan is trying to herd Scottish Terriers, Jacob rips off his pull-up training pants and proceeds to pee in the bushes in front of the house.
“Jacob! No!” Dan yells.
But it’s too late.
“That’s better,” Jacob declares as he finishes. “I’m done! My willy is done peeing!” Jacob grins and moves his penis around.
Then half-naked, he runs back into the house, passing Courtney on the way out, who drops the box of Cheerios on the patio in shock.
Mr. Not Bacon immediately rolls up, as the sound of Cheerios is his siren song, and runs up the sidewalk, to the entry way, dragging me behind him.
And he proceeds to Hoover up the spilled Cheerios like a vacuum cleaner, grunting and snorting happily as he does.
Oh, my God.
This is a disaster.
Mr. Not Bacon has not only terrified the reporter, but refused to go on a walk, making me appear incompetent. Jacob has peed in the bushes. Madison ate the reporter’s hair. And now Mr. Not Bacon has walked me around to his command so he can eat a box of spilled Cheerios.
Really, the blog not being mentioned is now the least of my problems.
Because if this makes air as is, I’ll look like nothing short of a complete idiot.
CHAPTER 19
Today’s plan to improve myself item (cont.): After today’s disaster of a TV interview, I need to do all that I can to make lemonade out of lemons.
Result: Screw that. I’m going out for drinks to forget it.
***
“Payton, it can’t be as bad as you say,” Marlowe declares, running her hand through her sleek, jet-black hair.
I put my head in my hands and groan. I’m out with Marlowe and Whitney at a cute little wine bar in Ballard, trying to forget my misery over a glass of chilled rosé.
“It was horrible. It was a freak show!” I declare, lifting my head up. “And Henna Stewart is the fakest person I’ve ever met. She was irritated she had to do this story and put zero effort into it. Lord knows what is going to end up on air, but it’s only going to damage my reputation, not enhance it.”
I feel sick at the thought. When I was first asked to be on TV it seemed like a gift dropped from the heavens. Now it’s my worst nightmare, and I have no control over the final product.
Worse, it will only confirm Sophie’s belief that I’m flighty and my parents will be convinced more than ever that I’m not going to be successful and apply more pressure to work at Google, Amazon, Microsoft or any other of the huge corporations based in the Seattle area.
I take a sip of my rosé, letting the chilled wine slide down the back of my throat, to see if it’s taking the edge off my anxiety.
Nope. I’m still mortified.
Of course, I’d probably have to down a bottle to get rid of the images of today swirling in my brain.
“Let’s not talk about this,” I say quickly. “Marlowe, how is the new job?”
Marlowe’s blue eyes flicker. “Um, it’s okay.”
Whitney takes a sip of her chardonnay. “What do you mean, okay? It’s what you wanted, a job at a top accounting firm, right?”
At UW, Marlowe majored in accounting. Straight A’s, fantastic internships in New York, worked her way through school. She’s one of the brightest people I know. I’ve never seen her struggle at anything, and since the day I met her in an English lecture at college, all she’s ever been focused on is being an accountant.
But I also know since she’s started her job, she’s been swamped with work. This is the first time I’ve seen her since she started last month, actually.
“It’s hard,” Marlowe admits. “There’s so much to do, so much expected of you, and I can’t finish everything I need to do even if I stay late. This is the first night off I’ve given myself since I started.”
“I hate that you are working like this,” Whitney says, her green-gold eyes shining with empathy. “You’ve been what, pulling sixty hour work weeks? This isn’t healthy, Marlowe. I’m worried about you.”
“I’ll be fine. And you have to pay your dues, right?” Marlowe says, forcing a smile on her face.
“Still, you need time for a life,” I say, nodding.
“It will come. Eventually. Anyway, we should celebrate the fact that I am not at work tonight!” Marlowe declares.
“Cheers to that,” Whitney says, picking up her glass. But then she freezes. A panicked expression filters across her beautiful face.
“Whit?” Marlow asks.
“He’s here,” Whitney whispers.
“Who?” I ask turning around.
And then I see him.
Jordan.
I whip back around and see nothing but pain on Whitney’s face. She hasn’t seen Jordan since he broke up with her right after New Year’s Eve.
She’s not over him, I think. Not at all.
“Do you want to leave?” Marlowe asks, obviously reaching the same conclusion as I do. “I can pay while you guys go wait outside.”
Suddenly, Whitney blinks. “Don’t be ridiculous. We broke up months ago. But it’s weird seeing him again.”
Then her face falls a second time. “Oh, no,” she whispers.
Marlowe and I both turn around.
Jordan is with another woman, whom he embraces and kisses lingeringly on the lips.
He’s moved on.
And Whitney is still trying to put her heart back together.
“We’re leaving,” I say.
“I’ll get it,” Marlowe says.
“No. Absolutely not. Part of life is facing the facts, even when you don’t want to,” Whitney declares.
“You know the facts. You don’t need
to torture yourself,” Marlowe says. “Now go.”
I stand up and Whitney does, too. I know she’s trying to be strong but I know she wants to leave, even if she won’t admit it.
“We’ll wait for you outside,” I say.
Marlowe nods.
I walk with Whitney, grateful that the exit is in the opposite direction of Jordan, and we step outside.
“I’m so sorry,” I say softly.
I can tell Whitney is trying to fight back tears. “How can I be so devastated and he’s moved on?” she asks quietly.
“You deserve someone who will love you, Whitney,” I say. “Jordan isn’t that man. But there is someone who is.”
“I can’t even think about it right now,” Whitney says, her voice thick.
“You don’t have to. When your Tom Hiddleston enters your life, you’ll know it. And you’ll be ready for him.”
“If it’s going to be Tom Hiddleston, I’ll be ready now,” she laughs. Then she clears her throat. “I’m so lucky to have you and Marlowe in my life. I wouldn’t have survived this without you both.”
“I love you, Whit-Bit,” I say, hugging her. “And you will be loved again, and even better than before. I promise you.”
Whitney steps back from me. “I don’t know about that, but at least one of us has a hot British boyfriend.”
My face grows hot. “Brooks is not my boyfriend.”
Just then Marlowe steps out. “Excuse me, what did you say? Brooks is not your boyfriend?”
“He’s so your boyfriend,” Whitney declares as we begin walking down the street to our next destination.
“Brooks hasn’t said that,” I insist. “And we’ve only known each other a week.”
“Marlowe, how many texts have you received mentioning the words ‘hot vet,’ “Brooks,’ and ‘I have the feels!’?” Whitney asks.
I want to die now.
Marlowe grins. “I’m an accountant. I’m a whiz with numbers. And I can’t even add that up in my head without a calculator.”
“Would you two stop?” I say, feeling the blush radiate all the way down to my neck. “How about this Mexican place?” I ask, stopping next to a restaurant. “Nachos? Crispy tacos?”
“You have had several dates with him. One involved a nap. Two involved sleepovers. No sex. He calls. He texts. You have gone food shopping together. Watched movies,” Whitney says, ignoring me.
“With no infamous ‘Let’s Netflix and chill,’” Marlowe says knowingly.
“Boyfriend!” Whitney declares. “Otherwise he’d have sex and move on. Or not call and move on. Brooks isn’t moving anywhere.”
“Unless it’s to see you,” Marlowe adds.
“Still not my boyfriend,” I declare firmly.
Although in my heart I know he is.
“When are you seeing him next?” Whitney asks.
I pause for a moment. “I don’t know. We didn’t set anything up for this week yet. But maybe I’ll plan a special date for him.”
I ponder this for a moment. Brooks said he wants to do a nice evening out, somewhere wonderfully chic and we’d both dress up and order great food and have wine. And while I can’t wait for this date, I have another idea coming to mind. Of course, it will be harder to plan because I need to know when he’s on call, and he definitely can’t be on call for this, but this could be fun. And I’ll see how in tune Brooks is to his American side with this date.
Excitement fills me. Oh, yes, this will be fun!
In fact, it will be perfect.
Buzz!
Before I can go any further, my phone alerts me I have a new text.
I swipe my phone and with a furrowed brow see a message from a number I don’t know. I open it:
Payton, it’s Henna Stewart. Just wanted to let you know your story is going to run tonight, isn’t that fabulous? Thanks for being so entertaining today, our viewers are going to be SO amused by this story.
Tonight! I thought I’d have at least a week to avoid seeing this disaster. It must be a slow news day if they are throwing me up on the same day.
Then I fixate on her word choices.
Entertaining.
Amused.
Shit.
And with those words, I have confirmed that I’m going to be known as the girl who is dragged around by a pig.
***
I think I’m going to throw up.
I’m sitting on my parents’ couch in Kirkland, a suburb of Seattle, anxiously waiting for my TV debut. I knew I had to tell my mom, Lord knows somebody would have seen it and told her and then I’d be in trouble for not telling her. Then she insisted we all watch together as a family.
Yay. Nothing like having your family watch you go down in flames to enhance the experience.
I glance around the familiar living room, and it looks as though I’m sitting in the middle of a lifestyle catalog photo shoot. Gorgeous hardwood floors. Black upholstered chairs with a poppy floral print. A huge taupe sofa sectional with pillows to match the chairs. Lanterns. Botanical prints artfully arranged on the walls.
Once again, the word perfect comes to mind. Mom would have a stroke if she knew back at the apartment I leave magazines out on the table and forget to take empty mugs back to the sink. That never happened at this house. It’s kind of like we had to act like we didn’t live here. Not kick off your shoes, leave a US Weekly on the coffee table kind of living. Everything has a place that is hidden from view unless it is part of the artful arrangement she copied from a catalog.
“I have to say, I’m excited to see this,” my mom declares, smiling brightly at me as she hands me a mug of green tea in a pale yellow Pottery Barn mug. “I never dreamed they’d want you on TV to talk about your career.”
Oy.
“Mom, it’s not exactly like that,” I say. An uncomfortable feeling sweeps through me as once again, I’m going to have to defend my career choice. “I’m using this as an opportunity to promote my blog, but it’s not exactly about my blog.”
Sophie comes into the living room from down the hall, having just checked on Connor, who is sleeping in his crib in the guest bedroom.
“Wait, I thought this interview was about your blogs,” Sophie says. “If it’s not about your blogs, then why did they interview you?”
“No, I never said it was completely about my blog,” I say, studying her as she sinks down into the sofa next to her husband, Tanner, and places her hand over his knee.
“What on earth would they interview you about then?” Sophie persists, that searching expression coming into her eye.
Ugh, I hate that look. She’s going to needle me until she gets the answer she wants, and then she’ll triumphantly point out how ridiculous I am.
I decide to beat her to the punch.
“They interviewed me about my concierge work,” I say simply.
“About running errands?” Sophie says, shooting her husband the she’s so weird look.
My defenses pick up.
“Somebody has to run errands for people. And why do you have a problem with that, Sophie? Why do you care what I do?”
“I care when you’re obviously not doing something that matches your potential,” she says, her voice taking on that know-it-all tone again.
“Really, Sophie? How many times are we going to have this conversation?” I snap in irritation.
“Payton, honey, Sophie only says that because she is concerned about you,” my mom interjects.
“But I’m supporting myself! I’m fine. Why can’t you all accept this? Blogging is perfect for me.”
“Sweetheart, but what is the ratio of time you spend running errands to actually doing this blog thing?” my dad asks, studying me seriously. “I don’t want to see you picking up dry cleaning for the rest of your life.”
I try to bury down the frustration that is building in my chest. Dammit. I wish I were watching with my friends instead, who think nothing of me following my dream.
But most of all, I wish Brooks weren't
on call tonight. I could so use his support right now. Because even if my own family doesn’t believe in me, I know he does.
“Look!” Tanner calls out over the conversation, “Payton, you’re up next!”
“Rewind!” Mom shouts at Dad.
Dad quickly grabs the remote and rewinds it.
“And up next, reporter Henna Stewart has an interview with a woman with one of Seattle’s most interesting professions. A Pig Concierge!” Ric Patterson, the male anchor says cheerfully as images of Mr. Not Bacon on a leash rolls by. “You don’t want to miss this.”
Then the station breaks to commercial.
Oh. My. God.
I’m a Pig Concierge.
Silence fills the living room. I can’t bear to look at anyone, and my face is burning hot.
My phone starts blowing up, but I don’t move to touch it. Everyone else’s phones start going off, and I have no doubt that those are all friends of either my parents, Sophie, or Tanner, asking what the hell is wrong with me and how did I end up being a professional pig servant.
Gah.
“That is a misrepresentation,” I say firmly, my eyes cast on the stack of art coffee table books in the middle of the glass coffee table.
“You were walking a pig in that video!” Sophie declares.
“I have taken Mr. Not Bacon to the vet once and walked him twice! That doesn’t make me a pig concierge,” I counter.
Which only makes Sophie roll her eyes, which makes me feel like we’re 16 and 10 again.
“Your nanny wants dibs on ham,” Mom blurts out.
“What?” I cry, aghast.
“She said if you are doing this farm-to-table thing, she wants fresh ham.”
“I don’t know how much more clear about this I can be, but I am not an urban farmer, I’m not a chef starting a farm-to-table-food truck, and I’m not just a dry cleaning runner!”
“Dry cleaning would be an improvement over cleaning up pig poop,” Sophie interjects sarcastically.
The return music comes back, and we see Ric and his co-host Karen sitting behind the desk, sorting through their news notes and consulting their laptops. Then on cue, they both look up and smile brightly at the camera.
I’m going to throw up.
“And lastly tonight, our very own Henna Stewart comes to us with a very unique Eye On Seattle feature,” Karen says, flashing us her toothy smile. “Henna, did you actually spend time with a pig concierge?”
