“I hate you. You know that, right?” I asked. I adjusted the purse strap on my shoulder as I jogged the final stretch to the Prudential Center, known locally as The Pru.

“Well, I think you’ll hate me less when you hear why I called,” she said.

I stepped on a patch of ice, and my heel slid out from under me. I fought to keep my balance, pulling a hamstring in the process. “Ow! Shit!”

“How about I explain before you start swearing?”

“Sorry, that wasn’t meant for you. I slipped,” I said. Now I was limping, which I’m sure was a fabulous look for me. “I’m almost at the building. I might lose you in the elevator.”

“Then I’ll be quick,” she said. “I’m calling to offer you a job as the creative director in our company.”

“But your company’s in Phoenix,” I said. Sophie and her husband, Miguel, owned a graphic design firm that was quickly gaining national attention. This was no small offer.

“Yes.”

“You want me to move to Phoenix?” I stopped walking. The bitter wind pushed me up against the side of the building.

“Yes.”

“Phoenix, Arizona?”

“Yes.”

“But . . .”

“Just hear me out,” Sophie said. “You’re the most talented graphic designer I’ve ever known, an absolute trend visionary, and we desperately need you here. Phoenix is in a boom, and we can top the money you’re currently making as a freelancer. Think of it as an opportunity to shake up your life a little bit.”

“I wasn’t aware that my life needed shaking,” I said. It did, but I didn’t want to admit it because . . . pride.

“Oh, come on, Belly, come to Phoenix.”

For the record, Sophie is the only person on the planet allowed to call me “Belly,” because when we were roommates at the Savannah College of Art and Design, she held my hand when I got my belly button pierced. We shared a bond of bad decisions that was stronger than steel.

I tried to picture myself in the Southwest. Couldn’t do it. She used my stunned silence to press her point.

“You’ve been freelancing for five years,” she said. “Don’t you want more stability?”

“No.” Yes.

“A pay raise?”

“Maybe.” Definitely.

“Retirement? Benefits? Paid vacation?” Check, check, check.

I sighed. It came out as a limp jet of hot breath in cold air. She was making solid points. I had no rebuttal. I went for avoidance. I pulled my phone away from my ear to check the time. “I have to go. I’m going to be sooo late.”

“You’re always late.”

“I’m trying to be better,” I protested. “It was my New Year’s resolution.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Shush,” I said. “You’re not helping here.”

“I am helping. You just don’t want to hear it. Are you going to get back together with Jeremy?” she asked.