Page 17 of Playbook
“Oh, really?” Her voice trails off in a tone I know too well. That voice has set me up on numerous blind dates and once convinced me to sign up for a dating app.
“He’s a professional football player and underwear model,” I say. “And I yelled at him.”
“You’re hot. He’d be so lucky to let you yell at him again.”
Something only a true best friend would say.
Thankfully she drops it and asks, “What are you doing the rest of the night? Do you want to grab dinner or do a little shoe shopping?”
“I can’t. I gotta work.”
“You just left work,” she says, one brow cocked.
“Illustration jobs have picked up. I’m booked through the month.” I try to brush it off, but in true best friend fashion, shelatches right onto it.
“Lo, that’s amazing. I’m so happy for you. You are so talented. I’ve told you a million times that you should be doing that full-time instead of wasting away at that stuffy news station. Have I not told you that? I framed the drawing you did of me and Pat at our wedding.”
Her excitement is the encouragement I didn’t realize I needed.
“Get your parents out of your head,” she says with a stern look. I hadn’t been thinking of them, but now I am. They don’t think my freelance work is a “real job.” They think I need a stable, steady job with benefits and a corporate ladder to climb. Part of it is just that they’re still salty I didn’t go to law school like planned. But after two years you’d think they’d be over it.
“Thanks. I need that stuffy job to pay the bills though. I don’t know if I’ll ever make enough from the side projects to do it full-time, but it feels good to be creative.”
My job at the news station is fine. I do graphic design for the website and social media pages, but there isn’t a lot of room for creativity. I have specific colors and fonts I can use so that it’s all cohesive and branded.
My freelance clients have a broad range of needs and wants. I get a lot of portrait requests, character art, and right now I’m even working on an illustration for a fantasy book cover.
“Well, I’m proud of you. And you know I will blast your information to all my clients. Do you have some business cards I can hand out during open houses? They’re all still using paper.”
Paige works for her family’s estate sale business. She organizes and hosts estate sales for clients to sell off household items to prepare for the house to be rented or sold. We met in college. Shestudied interior design, even though she already knew she was going to work for the family business. Her husband, Pat, works there too. He does a lot of the heavy lifting, moving furniture around to stage for the sale and then delivering it after it’s sold.
“I don’t think that’s exactly my target audience,” I tell her.
“These old people have money to spend,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Last weekend I sold a fifty-piece basket collection for over five thousand dollars. Baskets! Who needs five grand worth of baskets?”
I snort a laugh. “What do you even do with that many baskets?”
“No idea, but I’d bet they’re also looking for portraits of cats and dogs, maybe the grandkids.”
“Perhaps cats and dogs in baskets?” I tease.
“Definitely.” She laughs. “I am happy to pimp you out as the official Stephenson Family Estate Sale company artist.”
“And I love you for that, but I’m okay. Truly. A few of my clients have already booked more projects with me later in the year. I know there will be slow months with only word of mouth marketing, but I don’t have enough hours to spare anyway. Slow and steady is just fine with me.”
“All right, but just say the word.” She eyes me closely like she wants to make sure I’m not pushing her away when I really need a life raft.
Maybe I’m being stubborn, but I want to do it on my own with clients that I connect with. It’s all been mostly referral so far and that’s allowed me to build slowly. Cats in baskets isn’t a bad fallback plan though.
“All right, well, I am going to do some shopping for Pat and my’s vacation.”
I groan. “Don’t go.”
She’ll be gone the weekend of Sierra’s engagement party, and I really wish Paige could be my plus one. Maybe it wouldn’t be so awful with her to help me suffer through.
“You should just come with us. Tell your family that as my maid of honor, you’re required to be there for the honeymoon. Besides, this is just Sierra’s first wedding. I’m sure there will be others.”
I laugh, something loosening in my chest at everything she just said. Even if I know it’s not true. Or I hope it’s not.
