Page 1 of Special Delivery

CHAPTER ONE

Paige

My fingers fidget in my lap as I watch my boss’ eyes trail the computer screen with impressive speed. Martha is a woman in her fifties, but you’d never guess by looking at her.

Her hair is freshly blown out, blonde highlights hiding any semblance of gray. The dress she wears was on the runway just last week, and I don’t need a ruler to know her heels are over four inches tall. A manicured, soft-pink stiletto nail presses the keyboard, scrolling down on my article. Even a hundred units of Botox injected into the skin between her eyebrows can’t stop the frown from forming on her face.

A ball of nerves forms in my throat, so I try to focus on something else. Her office is on the fiftieth floor of an office building in San Francisco, but apart from a glass desk with a sleek, thin iMac, a couple of blush suede chairs, and a few of the magazine’s more memorable covers adorning the walls, the room is bare.

Martha draws my attention with a soft clear of her throat. “This is… not good.”

My stomach drops. “I know it’s not really what you’re used to, but plants are in right now. There’s an entire section of the internet dedicated to memes about taking care of different plants.”

Her gaze lifts behind her glasses as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “It’s an article about Monstera plants. It’s not that it’s badly written—you’re too good for that—but The Last Paige should be a fun, sexy read. Not… this.” She motions to the screen, and I dip my head, knowing she’s right.

Girl Talk is a lifestyle magazine that caters to women in their twenties, with topics like fashion, beauty, and relationships. My column—The Last Paige—has been my pride and joy for over three years now. I started with Girl Talk by doing smaller pieces and editing gigs during grad school before working up to my very own column. Lately, though, my inspiration has run dry. The last few pieces were like pulling teeth, and even though I was proud of finally deciding on a topic, a part of me knows Martha is right. There’s nothing sexy about propagating Monsteras.

“Look, Paige…” Martha takes off her glasses. I often wonder if she even needs them or if she uses them solely to look more serious. “You know I love you. You’re one of the most talented writers I’ve met. But I feel like this magazine and you have grown apart in the last couple of months.” She takes a big breath as if readying herself to say something I don’t want to hear, so I interject.

“You’re right, Martha. This is crap.” Her eyes widen at my outburst, but I know she loves hearing how right she is. “I just haven’t been able to get in the zone lately. But I can do it. You know I can. I’ll scrap this and write something new.”

She hesitates for a second before shaking her head. “You have a week. A week to blow me away. I know you’re not dating at the moment, but self-love is a hot topic right now. You don’t have to write about men to write about sex.” The look she shoots me is pointed. “We’ll meet in a week and decide where to go from here. And trust me, if it doesn’t work out, it’s going to hurt me more than it will hurt you.”

I give her the best smile I can muster at the moment, heavily disagreeing with her statement. The sentiment is there, but I’m the one who can’t afford to lose this job.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make this right.” My voice reflects confidence I don’t feel. Her phone rings, and I scramble to get on my feet. “I’ll see you in a week.”

“Tell Amy to make you an appointment,” she responds, already pressing the phone to her cheek.

With two pints of ice cream, three bottles of wine, and eyes full of tears, I knock on my twin sister’s door. The car ride from the city was excruciating, my inner critic working overtime. I stare at the red door as it stares right back, before it finally opens.

Emma’s warm eyes land on me, her maroon-stained lips parting. She’s my sister-in-law, and my second favorite person in the world, right after her wife.

“Oh, honey,” she says, noticing my expression, and I let out a sniffle. She takes the things out of my hands, yelling toward the back of the house. “Jordan, Paige is here.” I follow Emma to their living room, where Jordan joins us.

“She hated the article.” I groan, dropping onto their coral couch, hugging a forest green velvet pillow close to my body. The contrast, though stark, goes perfectly, especially with their lush green accent wall.

“I could have told you that before the meeting,” Jordan responds, and Emma slaps her shoulder.

My sister and I are pretty much the same person in different fonts. Our light blue eyes hold the same almond shape, with our cheekbones being the most visible feature. Our lips are thin and wide, and our hair is dark. Unlike the pale skin of my neck, patchwork tattoos cover hers, and while I sport a messy bob with curtain bangs, her short hair is styled on top of her head.

“Not helpful,” I say, my face falling into my hands.

“Babe, how about you go pour us some wine?” Emma suggests.

“She’s right, though,” I add. “I was an idiot to think my monstera article would be good enough.”

“Not an idiot,” Jordan’s voice returns. I lift my head, noticing she’s back with the wine glasses. “But that article was pathetic, yes.” She rubs her hands on her basketball shorts before opening the first wine bottle.

“I have a week to write a better one.” She hands me the glass, and I down half of it before continuing, “Or I get fired.”

Emma lets out a gasp, her hand landing on her chest. “Can she do that?”

“I’ve been underperforming for months now.” I sigh. “She could’ve done that a long time ago.”

“We’re going to need more wine,” Emma murmurs, and I couldn’t agree more.

Two and a half bottles of wine later, my problems don’t seem so big anymore. My body shakes and my eyes water not because I’m on the verge of crying, but because I’m laughing too hard. I’m sitting on the floor, my bare feet enjoying the plush carpet.