Page 811 of End Game

“You’re good at this,” she says. “Take the money.”

A laugh escapes me.

“That may be the most persuasive career advice I’ve ever received.”

“Good.”

One of the babies moves again under her shirt.

I look down.

Then back at her. “Take the money and run before the children arrive?”

“Basically.”

I squeeze her hand. “I think I’m going to say yes.”

“You should.”

“Okay.”

Her grin is immediate. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

And for a few seconds I just sit there, holding the hand of my extremely pregnant friend while trying to process the fact that somehow, in the last year, I went from calculating whether I could afford insulin and rent at the same time to being offered an executive-level contract.

Life is fucking weird.

By the time I get home, I have mentally spent the money six times and saved it twelve.

Everyone is in the kitchen because the mobile signing appointment with the lawyer’s office is tonight, and apparently nothing says romance like five people signing documents about incapacity and death around the same table where we eat tacos.

Dex sees my face first. “What happened?”

“I got a job.”

Micah looks up from the refrigerator. “A job job?”

“I had jobs before.”

“You know what I mean.”

I drop my bag on the counter. “Interim Director of Marketing for Laughert for six months.”

Griffin smiles immediately. “Cami, that’s huge.”

“It’s also six figures.”

Silence.

Dex slowly puts down the chip he is holding. “For six months?”

“Yes.”

“Are they hiring musicians? Bartenders?”

“No.”