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“You are on a two-week suspension, without pay. I know you have an emergency fund saved up, but you don’t want to rely on it alone. Plus, I think this is the time to re-evaluate your current job.”

“What? I have worked so hard for my position. Cascadia Legal is the prime law firm in the area, and I would have to go to Portland to get more prestigious,” I respond indignantly.

“Maybe you take these two weeks to think about what prestige means to you,” Becca explains, then reaches into her bag and pulls out her laptop, opening a spreadsheet entitled “Phoenix’s Duplex.”

“I have broken it out between each side, the one you are currently living in and the one that you are renovating.”

“You didn’t start this spreadsheet last night, did you?” I ask, admiring the detailed breakdown of projected income and costs for each side.

“Of course not, I started after I was your realtor on this place. Been updating when I came over and running comparables for the area.”

I smile at her thoroughness, not the least bit unnerved by her analyzing my home every time she came over. Financial planning is her love language.

“Okay, now for the nitty-gritty. What are your mandatory outgoing expenses like?”

Becca is always grilling us on our portfolios, making sure we have all scenarios planned for and discussed. This is a normal part of our girl talk.

“As you know, I only had to take out half of the cost of my student loans; my mom paid the other half.” She didn’t do it with generosity. It was transactional. She expected me to have half paid off before my thirtieth birthday.

“Five years is enough to set yourself up in your career and pay this down. It gives you something to make sure you are always accomplishing, working toward, so you don’t get complacent.”

Turns out, in the economy I graduated into, with more lawyers than needed, this was nearly impossible. I am thirty-one years old and have been killing myself to get the balance down, but I passed by my mother’s set accomplishment date and still think of it in shame.

“I double, usually triple, my loan payments each month, so that can be lowered.”

“Excellent,” Becca acknowledges, then moves on. “We don’t want you to have to do that, so I propose you move out of this side, Unit A, and live in the one you are renovating, Unit B.”

“Becca I⁠—”

“Look.” She holds her hand up to stop me. “I get it; you will be living in a renovation zone. But I sent photos to Sam; there are only a few things that need to be done to be habitable: installing the bathroom vanity, fixing some wiring, and sanding down the floors in the bedroom.”

What time did she wake up this morning?

“Yes, those are all items that could take weeks to complete.”

“For you, working a full-time job,” Becca states. “For my sexy contractor hubby? He will be over tonight and have your bathroom ready to go. And now, with your time, you can get the floors sanded yourself. Sam is dropping his sander thingy tool, whatever it is, off. Then once complete, he will stain it, and voila, you move in 5–7 days.”

I stare at her, stunned. She just planned my financial well-being and my renovation schedule for the next few months.

Deep down, I think I always knew I needed another stream of income, a safety net. I could have bought a smaller, fully renovated place that would be plenty big for me. But I started looking at duplexes that I knew could give me a return. Becca helped me find this one and secure the deal. And now she is helping me again.

“Alright, I will move to the other duplex and list this side.”

“Smart,” Becca agrees, putting her laptop away. “I should have it listed today. I will personally vet each applicant to ensure they have an excellent credit score, first and last month’s rent, as well as an ironclad rental agreement.” With that, she stands up and proclaims she is off to work, Mack handing her a to-go coffee on the way out.

Nessa reappears from doing who knows what to my house and sits down with a flourish.

“I have prepared the most perfect reset day,” she says, sighing dreamily.

“Resetting what exactly?” I ask hesitantly.

“Take your pick: bad energy, chakra misalignment, or flow fix.”

I arch an eyebrow at Mack, who answers my unasked question, “I have reviewed the agenda and crossed out the ones that I know will not work, or I know will cause you more stress. A public nudity charge is not something we need to add to our list of drama.”

“Hey, bathing in the moonlight has plenty of healing properties!” Nessa admonishes before continuing.

“Anyway, we start with a soft clothing mandate, nothing structured, itchy, or tight,” Nessa dictates.