Page 51 of Minted
“She’s been dead for eight years. It was a pretty resourceful move.”
And it’s thoroughly depressing. “Well, look, the reason I was there—”
“They’re a client of yours. You said.” She grunts. “You’re wondering whether they can work for you, now that you’re also their guardian.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, it’s not like, a big moral quandary. They’ve got a super cute Insta account, and they post about their tennis matches and little pranks they play.”
“Okay.”
“They’ve been doing things for our clients for almost twenty months now.”
“Then why is this even a question?”
“One of our clients wants them to do a commercial,” I say. “It’s more money, and I think they’ll want to do it, and it’s not a dicey commercial. They’d play tennis, maybe sing a jingle or something, and promote gum.”
“Okay.”
“But can I be the one who makes that decision for them, since I’m also the one who’s offering them the job?”
“Do you get money from the client for them doing their work?”
“Personally? No. I mean, my company does, and I’m employed by them.”
“But you’re not paid differently, whether they take the job or not?”
“No.”
“And you think they’ll want to do it.”
“I do.”
“Then ask them. But make sure that you put their best interests first.”
“You don’t think it’ll make it less likely that. . .” I feel stupid asking whether it could jeopardize them staying with me. It feels greedy, like I don’t want to let them go.
“You want to keep them,” she says. “And you want to make sure a judge couldn’t use this to deny your request for custody.”
“Is that dumb?” I gulp.
“Generally speaking, Barbara, judges and social workers, we’re looking for reasons to keep kids in good homes. So unless their dad shows up, or unless their mom isn’t really dead, or unless you’re secretly some kind of criminal, you’re kind of a lock.”
I breathe a little easier, knowing I can talk to them about the commercial without worrying that I will need to tell them that they shouldn’t do it.
And now it’s time to get ready to prance around and smile and act like I’m exactly where I want to be. When I’m changing in the bathroom, I realize that I forgot my girdle at home. It’s fine, but it makes it hard to zip up this dress past my waist, and there’s a definite bulge in my middle that I really wish wasn’t there.
No matter which way I turn, and no matter how hard I suck in, it’s there.
I hate this extra weight.
I know it shouldn’t matter. I know Bentley says it’s fine, but I’m not blind. I can see that I don’t look like I used to, and I promise myself that I’ll try and eat a little better and run a little more. I’m tired of looking in the mirror and seeing someone I don’t even recognize.
When I pull up at the party, I realize for the first time that it’s outside, at a park. It’s lovely, actually, and they have space heaters all over. I park my car and navigate the snow-cleared walkway as well as I can in heels. I don’t see any super showy sports cars, so I’m pretty sure I beat Bentley here. I contemplate waiting around in the parking lot, but I decide to head for the party. I’m nearly there when Bentley comes jogging up from the other direction.
“Hey.” He’s breathing heavily.
“Where did you come from?”
“My GPS is fired,” he says. “It took me the south route, and then the only parking I could get—never mind.” He shakes his head.
