Page 21 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

“I have a hard time believing that your nomadic lifestyle isn’t free-spirited in all aspects,” she says, tiptoeing around what she’s really trying to say. That’s okay. I’ll say it for her.

“Being an influencer slash writer doesn’t make me a slut, Claire,” I say, and she nearly chokes, her pale cheeks blazing red.

“For heaven’s sake, Scarlett, keep your voice down,” she whisper-yells.

But let’s face it. It’s just another part of my existence Claire admittedly doesn’t approve of.

Here’s a quick history of the Moore girls. AKA Claire and me.

We both started out on the same path. She went to college, graduated with a Bachelor’s in English, became a teacher, got married, and popped out some kids. And I did the same. Well, the first part. I went to college, majored in English, made it all the way through the first semester of freshman year, and dropped out. That part, if you didn’t guess, was not part of following in her footsteps.

But college wasn’t for me. I knew I was a good writer. I also knew I wanted to travel. And in a world run by social media accounts that make money simply off living their life on camera, I decided I had a fair chance at making my dreams come true. Even if Claire disapproved. And boy, did she ever. She still does.

She can’t stand what I do. Working for magazines and online blogs. It’s the kind of life everyone dreams of…sort of. Honestly, it can be a bumpy ride from time to time. Traveling alone is expensive, scary, and not always Instagram-post-worthy. Yet, I wouldn’t change it. Although I struggle to pay my rent or buy groceries often, I feel like I can’t change it. It’s who I am. It’s an art, and artists are known for starving.

“New subject,” she says, clapping her hands together.

“Thank God,” I sigh, shoving my plate aside and garnishing it with my crumpled up napkin.

“What’s next on the job roster?” she asks, and I deflate a little. I’m not really sure how this subject is new.

“Well.” I nod. “With the success of that last article, I wouldn’t be surprised if there are more coming my way.”

And cue the eyebrow ruffle. It’s like an unseen force is pinching the bridge of Claire’s nose, causing her to squint. “How does that work exactly?” she asks.

“They send me assignments. I sign an NDA. I complete said assignment. And they pay me. Generously, I might add.”

Generously enough that I don’t have to play eenie-meanie-miny-moe between my phone bill and groceries this week. My rent will of course be late, but Jaque, the landlord, has always been somewhat flexible about that. Though he is getting a little grumpier.

“But you still don’t know who they are,” Claire points out, nose still pinched. “How does that look on taxes? How do you know they’ll pay? Also, what about your brand? You’ve never surrendered to writing anonymously before.”

“I’ll probably still post things for my brand,” I tell her.

“Of the resorts you’re reviewing? You don’t think anyone will put two and two together that you always happen to be where those reviews are coming from?” she asks.

And yes. I have thought about this. Enough that I smile without worry.

“You know me,” I tell her. “I prefer the local scene over the all-inclusive. People won’t know the difference. My work will pay the travel expenses, and my brand will benefit. It’s a loophole.”

“It’s risky,” she says.

If you haven’t caught on yet, Claire uses that word to describe every aspect of my life choices since I was 18.

Major in English with an emphasis in journalism instead of education? Risky.

Drop out after winter semester because screw gen eds and student debt? Risky.

Sell my half-used textbooks to get a passport, a suitcase, and my first plane ticket? Risky and reckless.

Fortunately for me, I’ve never been very good at listening to my sister. Though her voice does like to haunt my dreams from time to time. Especially when my rent is due and I don’t know where my next job will be.

“It will be fine,” I tell her.

“You always say that.” She frowns.

But I smile in contrast. “And it always is,” I say, taking another satisfactory sip of my very sweet peach tea.

Later that evening I walk inside my apartment and lock the door, keeping the lights off. I swear I saw Jaque taking out the trash (the apartment complex is four rooms above a bakery of all things) and I’m not really in the mood for our biweekly “Rent is due soon…” conversation right now. I will without a doubt have the funds after the next job, which hopefully is written out in detail for me in an awaiting email from CB whoever.