Page 7 of Toxic B!tch
Indigo: Bold choice for a male! I was expecting the boring blue.
Me: Purple is prettier. What’s yours?
Indigo: Blood red.
Her responses bring a smile to my face, a refreshing contrast to the monotony of my day. Taking another bite of my grilled cheese burrito, the gooey, cheesy goodness melts in my mouth. I wash it down with a swig of Baja Blast, the sweetness tingling on my tongue. I lean back in my seat, savoring the comfort food, while I type a reply to Indigo.
Me: Good choice. What about animals? If you could have any animal as a pet, what would it be?
Indigo: Raccoon.
Me: Trash pandas? What? No!
Indigo: Those little shits are cool as hell! Don’t lie.
Me: Caught me. A big liar. I love raccoons and the trash they string all over my curb every Wednesday night.
Indigo: Okay sassy pants, what’s your pet of choice?
Me: Ferret.
Indigo: The noodle rat of doom? And you’re judging my raccoon? This friendship is over!
I laugh out loud, a sound that feels too big for the quiet truck cab. Is that what we are? Friends? The warmth spreads through me. Can you be friends with someone you’ve only ever texted? It feels odd but exhilarating.
I finish my lunch, feeling a bit lighter as I head to my next appointment. I wonder if I’ve lost my damn mind wanting to be friends with a random woman I’ve never met, who might very well be catfishing me. But something tells me this is different. There’s a spark here, and for the first time in a long while, I feel like I’m sharing the real me—the version everyone else misses because of the package I’m wrapped in.
As I pull up to my next client’s house, I steal one last glance at my phone, hoping for another message. I want to carry her energy with me, something to hold on to.
This job is a bit different from the usual. The couple bought an empty house that’s half-finished, and they want to customize it to their liking. If they go with us, we can get it done quickly, since we won’t have to navigate around their moving schedule.
They answer the door with warm smiles, their enthusiasm palpable as they invite me in. The walls are bare, and the unfinished space is ripe with possibilities. I start pitching my proposal, detailing how we can transform this house into their dream home in record time.
To my surprise, they sign right away, their excitement contagious. They even hand me a check for the ten percent down payment, and I grin at their eagerness. They want to be in by Valentine’s Day, which is only two months away, but that feels manageable. We shake hands, and I thank them profusely, the thrill of landing a job like this lifting my spirits as I head home.
When I finally get home, I throw a frozen pizza in the oven—my go-to comfort food—and jump in the shower, letting the hot water wash away the stress after a long day. The oven timer goes off just as I'm stepping out of the tub, wrapping a towel aroundmy waist. My stomach growls at the smell of melted cheese and crispy crust wafting through the air. Padding into the kitchen a few minutes later, I take the pizza out, slice it up, and carry it to the living room.
Settling onto the couch, I turn on the TV and find myself drawn into a new episode ofLaw and Order: SVU. The tension builds as I watch Olivia Benson fight the decision of whether to tell the truth about a woman who killed her abusive husband.
In the middle of the episode, I grab my phone and type out a quick message to Indigo.
Me: I’m watching some Law and Order then heading to bed. Goodnight, Indigo.
Her response comes almost instantly, and I smile at how effortlessly we’ve connected.
Indigo: Are you watching the new episode with Annabeth?
My heart lifts at the thought of us sharing this moment, even if it’s through a screen. It feels like a thread connecting us, pulling us closer together.
Me: Yep! I’m just at the part where she’s deciding whether to testify. What do you think? Should she tell the truth?
Indigo: Definitely. The truth always matters, even when it’s hard. But Annabeth is justified in her killing. That POS had to go.
I nod to myself, appreciating her perspective. We text back and forth, diving into the complexities of the plot and sharingour thoughts about the characters. Each message feels like another brick in the foundation of our strange little friendship, and I feel grateful for this unexpected connection.
As the episode wraps up, I glance at the clock and realize it’s getting late. I feel a warmth spread through me—not just from the pizza or the show but from the simple joy of sharing my thoughts with someone who gets it.
I take a deep breath and type out one last message.
