Page 12 of One Wild Wish

“Move to Siberia.”

I giggled, even though there was nothing amusing about this situation. The giggle grew, an uncontrollable laugh quaking my body, culminating in an unattractive snort. My world was about to come crashing down, and I had to squeeze my knees together to stop from piddling on the street.

“You really are still drunk, aren’t you?” Gwen’s amusement didn’t help.

I was still drunk. And anxious, the latter responsible for my mad cackle—aka my nervous laugh that was a cross between a wheezing emphysema patient and a two-year-old giggling at a fart joke. Gwen and Ainsley loved to get me going, if only to witness The Cackle in action.

“Yes,” I said, my laughter under control, my anxiety unfortunately not. “Definitely still drunk. And freaked out.”

“Okay,” she said, adopting her I’m serious voice, “I get that. But can we discuss this whole job thing a sec?”

“Maybe…” I pressed my back against my apartment’s brick exterior. It was either that or slide to the sidewalk. I readied myself for a dose of Gwen Truth.

Gwen was an expert at reading people. She worked at an adoption agency and spent her days interviewing candidates, making sure babies landed in the right homes. She also called me on my bullshit. When I’d convinced myself becoming a tattoo artist was my calling—I’d always been able to draw, and no diploma was needed—she’d dragged me into a parlor, ranting that I couldn’t tattoo others without knowing how it felt.

We no longer spoke of the incident.

She cleared her throat. “Fact is, you hate being a loan officer. You hate it more than when you had to perform reiki on the creep with the perma hard-on, and probably more than that Thai massage gig. I don’t even know how you touched those hairy guys. Granted, going out with this epic sendoff isn’t ideal, but it will force you to find something better. You need to make a change.”

A change I’d wished for last night. Maybe this was another form of Russian roulette, with my job instead of drinking to unleash Reckless Rachel. My boss may get my email. He may not. If he did, I’d be forced to realize my wish, which was more like a New Year’s resolution. It would compel me to face my future head on, ready or not. But having a paycheck while researching careers would be preferable.

The bruise on my tailbone pulsed. I winced as the throbbing along my temples renewed. “I planned on quitting eventually, just not flashing my boss in the process, and not without a plan. Every time I’ve been fired or I’ve quit, I haven’t had anything lined up. I think that’s why I’ve rushed into jobs. The pressure, maybe? The need to make rent forced me into bad situations.”

“I know, love. I’m sorry you mooned your boss.”

Words I never thought I’d hear.

I almost asked her about the power outage that had followed our wishes, if she’d felt a change in the air, too. It could have been the drinks or my desire to believe something bigger would help change my life, but I could have sworn a wisp of magic had danced up my arms. Better not to admit that out loud. Especially since that type of thinking was probably responsible for my drunken lapse in judgment.

Gwen suggested I inhale Advil and water before we hung up. An excellent idea. When this hangover wore off, I’d feel better. I’d play job roulette and hope for the best. If that butt shot disappeared in cyberspace, I’d put the incident behind me. I’d move on from this catastrophic night. Considering I had no memory of the sex-fest with Bad Boy, and I’d never see him again, forgetting it would be a cinch.

But my phone pinged when I opened my apartment door. A message from my boss greeted me: I wouldn’t use me as a reference.