Page 2 of Daddy Knows Best

Somewhere inside, Madison was probably sanitizing the counter where my poverty had touched it. The mother and daughter were probably bonding over their shared relief at not being me.

My phone buzzed with cheerful cruelty: "Fraud alert! Was this you? Reply Y or N." As if the real fraud wasn't pretending I belonged in places like Silk & Sass in the first place.

"Youravailablecreditis...fifteen dollars and forty-two cents."

The robotic voice on the phone delivered my financial death sentence with all the emotion of a GPS recalculating. Fifteen dollars. Not even enough for the clearance thong that started this whole humiliation parade.

"Seriously?" The word burst out before I could stop it. An elderly woman walking her Yorkie gave me a wide berth, probably thinking I was one of those people who argued with parking meters. Which, to be fair, wasn't far off—I was shouting at an algorithm.

My eyes burned with the specific brand of tears that came from being twenty-eight and still failing at basic adulting. Otherwomen my age were buying houses and maxing out 401ks. I couldn't even max out a Victoria's Secret credit card without triggering a fraud alert.

"Emmy?"

I jerked my head up so fast my glasses slipped down my nose. Sara Bennett stood three feet away, looking like she'd stepped out of a LinkedIn success story. Her signature red wool coat and perfect bob looked like they’d survive an atomic bomb.

"Oh. Hey." I tried for casual and landed somewhere between constipated and guilty. "Just, you know, checking my . . . messages."

Sara's dark eyes narrowed the way they did when she spotted a calculation error. She took in my flushed cheeks, the death grip on my phone, the way I'd pressed myself against the building like I was trying to become one with the architecture.

"Uh-huh." She shifted her leather tote—probably worth more than my car—to her other shoulder. "And does checking messages usually involve looking like you're about to vomit on your Uggs?"

"They'reknock-offUggs, actually." The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "So technically I'd be vomiting on lies."

"Emily." Her voice gentled. "What happened?"

I opened my mouth to lie. To say I was fine, just tired, maybe coming down with something. But I couldn’t, not to Sara.

"My card got declined." The confession came out in a whisper. "At Silk and Sass."

Sara's expression shifted through several stages—surprise, concern, and then something that looked dangerously like pity. I'd rather she'd laughed.

"How bad?" No judgment in her tone, just that analytical assessment that made her so good at her job.

I showed her my phone screen, still displaying the pathetic balance. She winced.

"Okay, that's . . . suboptimal." Sara had a gift for understatement. "When's the last time you looked at your full financial picture?"

"Define 'looked at.'" I shoved my phone in my pocket, fingers encountering a receipt I didn't remember. "Because I definitely glance at the bills before I hide them in my junk drawer."

"Em." She stepped closer, voice dropping. "How long has it been this bad?"

The concern in her voice almost broke me. I'd kept this secret for months, pretending everything was fine while my credit score plummeted faster than my dignity in that lingerie store.

"Since August?" My voice cracked. "Maybe July?"

Sara pulled out her phone with the efficiency of someone who solved problems for a living. "You need professional help."

"I tried that budgeting app you recommended—"

"No." She looked up from whatever she was typing. "I mean actual professional help. Someone who can address the root cause, not just the symptoms."

I laughed, but it came out bitter. "What's next, financial therapy? 'Tell me about your relationship with your credit card?'"

"Actually . . ." Sara's lips curved into a smile that made me nervous. "That's exactly what I'm thinking. But first, we need alcohol. Lots of it."

She linked her arm through mine, steering me away from the scene of my retail crime. "I'm buying, obviously. Your fifteen dollars can stay right where it is."

"Sara—"

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