“Our plumbing says otherwise. It’s two grand, if I flirt.” I could play Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman for a night.

Cody looked up from stirring the taco meat. “Your dignity is worth more than two grand, Marin.”

Not when Cody hadn’t made a car sale in over two weeks. With his commission-based income at a used car lot, most months we scraped to get by. This was especially troubling because the shortage of computer chips due to the pandemic had resulted in the sharp decline of new car production, which put used vehicles in high demand. Cody should have been making that cheese hand over fist, but he just didn’t fit the fast-talking mold of the stereotypical used car salesman. His ethics were extremely high. He was apt to blow a sale by revealing some mechanical or cosmetic flaw, simply because it was the right thing to do. His manager kept him on because the customers liked his self-effacing personality and his honesty, which generated a great deal of repair and maintenance business. But that didn’t put good grub on the table. Hence we ate a lot of spaghetti and tacos, but never ribs.

“Do you realize how hard it is to find a good-paying job that doesn’t require me to get a degree? It doesn’t exist.” I moved down the despised orange countertop to where a head of lettuce and a tomato still needed to be chopped. I picked up the knife and imagined the tomato was Mortimer’s heart, slicing the blade through the red skin with demented glee.

“How about starting your own company, like Felicity did? People are making a killing as entrepreneurs. You’re smart enough and creative enough.”

I found Cody’s word choice—make a killing—ironic, given the urge I felt. “What exactly would I do? I don’t have a business plan or any capital, and getting a business loan is too risky right now.”

“You could revisit the acting goal. Maybe start your own community theatre?”

“There’s no money in that. I’d still have to work full-time to support it until it took off.” With the tomato fully mutilated, I switched to the lettuce. It was about the same size as Mortimer’s head. The knife blade sunk in. “It’d be a passion project, which we just can’t afford. Especially if we want to keep trying for a baby.”

I was tired of nothing working out for me. Not a baby. Not the acting. Not even a job I thought I would love. Even my marriage and homeownership dreams were crumbling through my fingers.

“You mentioned getting new headshots. Why not at least try?”