Ten Rules for Faking It

by Sophie Sullivan

  He turned, glanced at Stacey. “I got that. But I can’t send the voice of the show home, can I? We’ll let the calls go to voice-mail, but in the future? Your job description does not include personal shout-outs to your friends. Or singing live.”

  If a person could burst into flames from embarrassment, Everly would have lit the station on fire. Instead, she stood up, knocking her chair, making it roll across the linoleum. She hated the awkward tension that hung in the room. If she left, she could crawl into bed and wait for the day to be over.

  “Stace, it’s fine. I’ll go home.” She looked at her boss. “You’re not going to fire me or something, right?”

  She couldn’t lose her job. It was her thing. She sucked at crafting and couldn’t stand running. She had no patience for the adult coloring craze, so that was out. She didn’t mind jotting her thoughts down in journals, but it wasn’t something she’d call a hobby. Work was where she excelled. But nothing was ever written in stone. The station had been undergoing programming and staffing changes for the last couple of years. Chris was one of three new managers they’d had since Everly had accepted her position. The numbers for their show weren’t great, but they had a following.

  She met his gaze, refusing to back down. Everly couldn’t leave wondering what would happen next. She hated not knowing.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed deeply. “Not to my knowledge, Ms. Dean. Just go home, do something for yourself. Hopefully, the attention from this will fade away by tomorrow and it’ll be a normal day.”

  Ms. Dean. He was so damn professional and standoffish with her. What had she ever done to him?

  “I’ll apologize to the audience again. Just let her stay,” Stacey said.

  He looked back at Everly, and she thought she saw his eyes soften for a split second. His voice was anything but soft when he said, “This is for the best. I’ll contact you.”

  Everly nodded and gathered her purse and lunch bag, wishing she’d never gotten out of bed this morning. As she walked down the thirteen stairs, her boss watching from the top landing, she decided this birthday was now a definite ten. At age thirty, she finally reached maximum suckage.

  [2]

  Technically, she’d accomplished rule three by heading home for her birthday. As she walked up the path to the converted mansion where she rented an apartment, the front door opened. There were four units in the house, two on the top and two on the bottom. With only four homes, the neighbors knew each other’s basic statistics, but none of them hung out together or anything.

  The woman from unit 4, Shannyn, and daughter, Lexie, held hands. Everly was ready to nod and wave—her standard greeting of choice, but Shannyn’s gaze caught hers, and Everly’s stomach sank.

  Her neighbor’s eyes darted right and left, then landed back on Everly. “Sorry about … about your day.”

  Everly smiled too brightly, trying to tell herself it was great that people listened to the show. Meanwhile, her skin started to itch. “Thanks.”

  She didn’t want to say anything more, so she headed for the stairs, let herself through the front entrance, and took the next set of stairs up to the top-right unit.

  When she made it inside, she pushed the door closed with her foot and hung her keys on the hook. Leaning against the door, she thumped her head against it and didn’t even care that it hurt. She stood, staring at what she could see of her apartment, and realized she didn’t want to be in it right now. She also didn’t want to go out. Normally, she loved coming home, but not once, not even when she’d broken the ice cream machine at the ice cream shop where she worked, had she been sent home.

  Her house was clean—not obsessive clean, just comfortable and organized. She liked living alone and had always preferred to. But right now, coming home to an empty place in the middle of the day added to its dismalness.

  “Rule three,” she said out loud just to fill the silence. “Stay home on birthdays. Come on, Ev. You like following the rules.”

  She slipped off her Converse and headed for the kitchen. She could use the day to catch up on something. Maybe make a bunch of meals that she could put in the freezer and pull out each evening. That sounded like something someone in their thirties might do.

  Opening the fridge, she grabbed a can of diet soda and cracked the top. Pulling a glass from the cupboard, she poured it in, watching the bubbles with more intensity than needed. After all, they’d pop whether she watched or not.

  God. Sometimes, she annoyed herself. Being inside of her own brain reminded her of a hamster on a wheel, after he’d been given too much caffeine with a side of uppers. Round and round. One thought after another like a chain-smoker who lit the next cigarette with the one they were putting out. The thoughts collided into one another in passing until she physically felt the exhaustion creep into her head and her body. She took a sip of her soda. Maybe she should do something to turn the day around.

  “Ha. How about unseeing Captain Jackass and his sidekick, Flexy Girl?” Being able to do that would be a definite mood changer.

  Everly pulled her phone out of her back pocket, entertaining the idea of calling her mom or dad to see if they wanted to grab lunch. She decided against it, not sure if she was up to the whirlwind that was her parents’ relationship. Theirs was a back-and-forth that rivaled the Swift–Kardashian drama. Even on her best days, and theirs, Everly’s visits with them made her feel like she leaning too far over an edge with nothing to hang on to.

  No lunch. Not with her parents, anyway. Her chaos limit was maxed out for the day. Instead, she grabbed a bag of pretzels from the pantry and took them and her soda to the living room and settled on the couch. She was content with her life. Her job. Her home and friends. There was nothing wrong with any of those things, and yet … restlessness coursed through her veins. She hated the duality of her feelings. Wanting to do something but not go anywhere, wanting to see someone but not have to entertain.

  Her phone rang, and since it was Stacey, she picked up.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi. I only have a minute. I’m so sorry.”

  “You’ve apologized more for this than Simon did for cheating on me. It happened. It’s over. I’m not mad at you.” She wasn’t. She was mad at herself for thinking today would be different from any other birthday and for letting her emotions bubble over at work.

  “I’m coming over later. I’m bringing reinforcements.”

  Everly laughed, knowing that meant chocolate, salty foods, and alcohol of some sort.

  “Sounds good. I’m sitting here contemplating life.” Which was a lot better than thinking about what had happened this morning. If she replayed it in her head, she’d end up hiding under her blankets. No hiding. Thirty is too old for that. Leaning her head back against the cushions, she stared at the popcorn ceiling.

  “No time like the present to break out of ruts. Maybe we should do something crazy tonight. Ever try a Brazilian?”

  This time, her laugh was more of a squawk. “No, and if you have, we’ll put it in the TMI category.”

  “I didn’t know that existed between us,” Stacey said.

  Everly heard the smile in her voice. “Apparently, it needs to. I think I’ve done my crazy for the day. Doing a tell-all on-air is enough for me. Besides, I can’t go out.”

  That was technically true, and technicalities mattered. A lot of things got dismissed in courtrooms because of them.

  “Why’s that?” Music sounded in the background.

  “New rule. Number three. Stay home on birthdays.”

  “Since when?”

  Everly sat up, tilted her head to keep the phone tucked in the crook of her neck, and opened the pretzels. “Since today. I’ve got a whole list of them.”

  Three was a list. There weren’t more at the moment, so that was the whole list. Technically. Details mattered. A grin tugged her lips up. Maybe she should write it down so she could back herself up with documentation.

  “I want to see this list,” Stacey
said, easily ignoring Everly’s groan. Why had she said it out loud? To Stacey of all people? She might actually make her go through with completing something on the list. Or the list itself. A text sounded in her ear at the same time Stacey added, “I have to go. See you later.”

  Everly hung up, checked the text.

  DAD: I want a last name on this Simon character. Call me when you’re done at work. You’ll come for dinner tonight. You should be with your family on your birthday.

  “Uh, hard no. Sorry, Dad, rule number three—I can’t.” She stared at the text for another few seconds wondering if he realized she’d often been with her family on her birthday and this had never helped make it better.

  She set her phone down and focused on her pretzels. A list wasn’t a bad idea.

  She bit off one loop of the pretzel. What else could she add? Three things wasn’t enough, really, to be considered a list. Five didn’t seem like enough either. Ten? Ten seemed doable, and in truth, maybe thirty was the time to actually make a list of rules or goals or some grown-up shit like that. It wasn’t like her unguided life was leading her in amazing directions. She didn’t have any complaints and liked most of what life had thrown her way, but it wouldn’t hurt to be a little more … purposeful.

  Blowing out an exaggerated, lip-fluttering breath, she swore out loud when pretzel crumbs littered her pants. She looked down at her legs as she swiped off the remnants, then realized now she’d have to sweep.

  “Nice job.”

  She tossed the bag back on the table, getting up to grab her broom from the narrow closet slash cupboard—way too narrow for even Harry Potter but perfect for cleaning supplies. As she swept up the crumbs, she considered items for her list. By the time she sat back down, picked up her soda, all she’d come up with was: Eat healthier. She didn’t eat unhealthily, but everyone could stand to eat better, right?

  “That’s a resolution, not a rule.” She’d have to be careful not to mix the two up. Rules provided structure and organization. A way to proceed. That’s what she needed. A set of guided principles to help her make decisions. Ones that wouldn’t have her walking in on her boyfriend getting busy with a woman who could easily be nicknamed Elastigirl.

  “Better yet, guidelines that would demand you make better choices in that department all the way around.” Not that she’d purposely chosen a cheater. Could people actually tell if someone was predisposed to cheating? Everly wasn’t sure, but she could be honest enough with herself to admit the men she chose were unlikely to be her soul mates. It was like she thought she could absorb their qualities—being sociable, funny, spontaneous—by becoming their girlfriend. A sort of dating osmosis.

  After drinking down almost half her soda, she worried her bottom lip for a few seconds before pushing up and walking to the antique-looking, multi-drawer cabinet that sat against the wall between the door and her hallway. It looked like a great-great-relative had left it to her. She liked things that looked old but were actually new. Which she was pretty sure should be Pottery Barn’s actual tagline.

  Inside one of the drawers were notebooks, used and unused. Now and again, when her thoughts crowded too much of her brain, it helped to let some of them spill out onto the page. It wasn’t something she did with any regularity, though. That could change. Your regularly scheduled programing could stand an overhaul. The first one was red with the word gratitude written across it in gold. She moved it aside. That could be for her forties. The next two already had some writing in them, so she dug deeper and laughed when she saw one Stacey had given her a few years ago. Untraditional, like her friend, the small font on the front read: SEIZE THE DAY (AS SOON AS YOU MAKE A PLAN). That fit. Snagging a pen from a different drawer, she went back to the couch and flipped through the pages. Some were plain, others colorful or decorated with the kinds of doodles Everly could never pull off. A few had quotes that made her grin.

  The pen needed a few random squiggly circles to get it going. She wrote across the top of the first page: The Rules for Turning Thirty.

  Focus on the good.

  No hoarding, animal or otherwise.

  Stay home on my birthday.

  * * *

  She could add to it. Would add to it. It didn’t have to be today, though.

  She’d told Stacey it was a whole list. That meant thinking about what she actually wanted for herself, what she wanted for this chapter of her life. Thirty was supposed to mean something. Everly put the pen cap between her teeth. She’d told herself the same thing about twenty. And probably her teens. Every twelve-year-old vowed to really live it up once they finally hit thirteen, right? And then told herself maybe next year. Or the year after.

  She went back to 4 and wrote: Try new things. Like getting a Brazilian? She shuddered and crossed it out to write: Try something new once a month. That was specific enough. Something she couldn’t let herself slip out of on one of those technicalities.

  Tapping the pen against the book, she thought of other ideas and dismissed them almost immediately. Wear high heels to work (or anywhere), go to a costume party, go to a concert, do a workshop on broadcast journalism at her alma mater. They’d been asking for two years, but speaking in front of a crowd was second on her levels-of-hell list. These weren’t rules. She needed to add things that would push her to be … more. Add something for work. Hello, comfort zone.

  “Push the boundaries of your comfort zone,” she told herself. She’d been thinking about something for a while now and hadn’t had the guts to bring it up to the team or Chris. Her inner cheerleader, which, funnily enough had Stacey’s voice, chanted, Write it. Write it.

  Pitch producing a podcast associated with the station.

  * * *

  The idea stemmed from a segment she and Stacey started called “Straight Talk with Stacey.” Once a week, the deejay shared something that seemed popular and gave her unadulterated opinion on it. Their numbers for the show overall might have been low, but they got a lot of feedback on that segment. Listeners chimed in on social media. It made for some fun conversations online and around the station.

  Producing something outside of the show would level her up in her career, so to speak. Maybe even give her and Stacey a shot at the coveted morning spot. She scanned the list. God, she was boring.

  “You don’t need excitement.” It stressed her out. “You just need to push a little. Stop always choosing the status quo.” Nah. More than a little push was necessary. She needed a shove off a ledge.

  Do something exciting. Something that gives you a rush. Even if you get hives. Roller coaster? Impromptu trip to Europe? Driving without a license.

  There. Now you’re pushing yourself.

  The buzzer alerting her to a visitor pulled her out of her self-congratulatory thoughts.

  When she asked who it was, her mom’s voice came through the tinny speaker. Everly opened her apartment door in time to see her mom bounding up the steps with the energy of someone at least ten years younger. She carried a bag in each hand. Long dark hair bounced with each step, and her eyes sparkled when they met Everly’s.

  “There’s the birthday girl,” her mom said, her smile rounding out the apples of her cheeks.

  “It didn’t work out so well for me the last time someone said that to me today.” If her father heard, her mother would know, and vice versa. Even during separations, they stayed in contact. Hence the reunions.

  The good news, Everly realized as she stepped aside to let her mother come in, was that even if thirty sucked, all indicators suggested she’d age well. At fifty-four, Jessica Dean had plenty of energy and enthusiasm that showed in her youthful skin and stylish way of dressing. A registered massage therapist, her mom attributed her strong core—Everly’s words as Jessica used the term seductive curves—to weekly yoga. She was forever trying to get Everly to join.

  Locking the door, she followed her mom to the kitchen, amused by the overflowing grocery bags.

  “I have food, Mom.”

  Her mom glanc
ed over her shoulder. “Not mom food.”

  Unable to suppress her grin, Everly teasingly pointed at her mom. “You’re right. Is there a special store where you get food sold only to mothers?”

  Setting the bags on the counter, Jessica closed the distance, pulling Everly into a hard hug. “Your father called me at the office to tell me what happened. I’m sorry. I’m just glad we never met him. I’d hate to have gotten attached to one of your boyfriends only to have him treat you like this.”

  It finally worked in her favor that she opted never to introduce her parents to the guys she dated. Not that there were all that many. At least you saved Mom from getting attached. Everly held in the sigh, which made her chest ache.

  Her mom leaned back, then cupped Everly’s cheeks the way she’d done for as long as Everly could remember. “Any chance you’ll let him grovel and make it up?”

  That her mother would even ask said a lot about the differences between them. “No.”

  The corners of her mom’s lips tilted down, but she nodded and patted Everly’s cheeks before going to the bags and beginning to unload.

  Everly tracked the items getting put on the counter: kale—no, thank you; orange juice—sure; salad fixings—fine without the kale; cupcakes—now we’re talking. And one, two, three issues of Cosmo.

  Everly arched her brows. “Really?”

  Her mother had a long history of attempting to “educate” Everly about being a sexually fulfilled woman. While she appreciated the sentiment, Everly strongly believed these discussions were best between girlfriends. Sometimes her mother forgot the rules and their roles. She’d been sure, once they’d had “the talk” when Everly was twelve, her mother would let it go. They could avoid the conversations much like the STDs she’d warned against.

  By sixteen, her mother stuck just-in-case condoms into the pockets of Everly’s handbags. Once Everly discovered that, she’d taken to tucking them away in the piñata that, to her knowledge, still sat in the back of her childhood closet.