While Cleo and Lola sipped from cans of Pacifico, I slurped out of my metal water bottle. We passed around a bag of Pirate’s Booty between us. Technically, it was a free meal. I applauded my frugalness without letting myself get too depressed that I was thirty years old and eating white cheddar puffs for dinner because I was terrified the business I hadn’t even officially started yet was doomed to go under. Not that I was going to bring that up tonight. I needed this time with my friends to decompress, forget for a moment that I was screwed. Besides, my friends worried enough about me already.

“Franny?” Cleo said. “You okay?”

And…that’s the problem with good friends—they know when something’s up, even when you don’t tell them.

“I didn’t get that nursery job. With Grant.” I squeezed out a small, sad smile, in an attempt to act like I was okay.

“No!” Lola gasped as Cleo leaned in to give my arm a squeeze.

“I was kind of counting on that for…well, I guess for everything,” I said slowly. “And I really need to figure out how to get some actual clients this year if I want to…you know.”

They stared at me. “Want to what?” Lola asked.

“Really and truly start my own business.” I sighed. “Not go broke and totally fail at this and humiliate myself in front of everyone I know. Keep my apartment and not have to move back home.”

“Franny…” Cleo’s voice was calm, her judicious, pragmatic side kicking in. “You just decided to do this. Don’t put so much pressure on yourself right off the bat.”

“Yeah.” Lola nodded in agreement. “You’re gonna set yourself up for failure.” She reached out to touch her toes, thinking. “And, honestly, what you’re doing is seriously brave.”

“Thank you,” I said. “But bravery doesn’t pay my rent, you know? I’ve got some feelers out to my old clients at Spayce, but maybe I was naive to think I could just pivot and work for myself.”

Cleo waved the Pirate’s Booty bag at me, and I grabbed it, digging in.

“I’m just saying, keep your ears peeled for rich people with tons of money who want to blow it all on handwoven Turkish rugs, okay?”

“Those are basically the only kind of people I know, so…,” Lola joked as she stretched her legs out in front of her, shaking them. “But, hey, seriously, Fran.” She turned her eyes toward me. “You’ve had a bizarre time lately. Go easy on yourself.”

Cleo nodded. “Work. Your sister. Your birth dad. It’s a lot.”

“And,” Lola chimed in, “you know we can always help you figure out what to say to—”

“Anna,” I said as Cleo shoot her a look.

“Right.” Lola nodded. “If you decided to respond.”

“I haven’t yet, but I’m working on it.”