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“God,” I realize. “It’s been a whole year. How is that possible?”
“You dodged a bullet.” Jen nods sagely. “Twobullets. So,” she changes the subject. “What do you think you’ll search for, jobs wise?”
“It depends,” I quip brightly. “Who’s looking for someone with dog-wrangling, cake-fetching skills?”
“Come on,” Jen laughs. “You do way more than that.”
I nod. I know I do. In fact, I’m pretty much the most kickass, efficient, resourceful assistant out there—solving all problems and discreetly avoiding emergencies at every turn. It’s not all dog shampooing and cake deliveries: I’ve done everything from co-ordinate a 200-kid zoo-themed birthday party on a yacht floating down the Hudson (complete with two giraffes, and a zebra,on board)to tracking a shipment of Grecian antique urns through every freeport in Monaco. You’d think that would be simple, given that it’s a principality under one square mile. And yet…
Just give me a cape, and call me Super PA.
Or, even better, give me a job with benefits and a decent paycheck, I’m not picky.
I didn’t exactly plan on this for a career. When I started at an education non-profit straight out of college, they promised me that if I paid my dues with the assistant gig, I’d be promoted to a real job soon. But then our funding got cut, and I was laid off, and the only jobs available were more PA positions. Rinse and repeat for six years, and now I’m pretty much the most experienced assistant in the game. I usually love the variety and challenges, but right now, it isn’t the source of comfort and pride that it usually is.
“I just thought I’d have things figured out,” I say with a wistful sigh. “Career, love, a home… I’m nearly thirty, and that’s ancient!”
Jen snorts. “Gee, thanks.”
“You know what I mean!”
“Aw, babe,” Skye says. “Everyone is lost at twenty-eight.”
“We were.” Jen bobs her head in agreement. “Totally.”
“Thank you, but yeah right,” I snort. “Youalready had your amazing apartment…”
“Yeah,” Jen says, “because I hadn’t worked up the nerve to quit my lifeless corporate job.”
“Andyouwere working here, at least,” I tell Skye.
“True.” Skye pushes a few curls behind her ear. “But I was inlovewith this girl from my local herb-gardening group, but she was—”
“… Oblivious,” Jen says, smiling. “I was still trying to make a relationship work with someone else.”
“I was heartsick,” Skye says. “Jen was miserable at her job.”
“We were watering our balcony gardens with tears!” Jen insists.
They’re playing it up for me, but it’s still nice to hear. “I just thought I’d have a few dominoes lined up by now.”
“Dominoes?” Skye asks.
“Yeah. Like… Some of the pieces. The ones that eventually fall into place. That’s what your thirties are supposed to be, right?”
Skye and Jen exchange a look. They’re always exchanging looks. This is, fundamentally, what I long for: The person who is always waiting to meet my eyes. With commiseration, withknowing.
Jen clears her throat. “Have you maybe watched13 Going on 30too many times?”
“It’s an excellent film!” I protest. “And a great life plan, too. Who wouldn’t want to be thirty, flirty, and thriving?”
They laugh.
The chimes over the door sound, and two teenagers wander in.
“Welcome!” Skye says. “Can we help with anything?”
The short-haired girl smiles hesitantly. “Um. I saw that you posted about these special love teas… ?”
