How to Look Happy by Stacey Wiedower Page B

of my sisters-in-law and to Christine’s best friend, Meghan. The four of us are sitting on the back deck drinking lemonade through bendy straws. Maybe I’ve become too accustomed to my carefree, single woman’s life, but I’m thinking, This could sure use a spike of vodka .
    “Clearly she’s not planning to fire you,” Eleanor said in a rational tone. “Or she would have already.”
    “She’s just trying to make sure you quit,” added Meghan in her high-pitched voice. She’s a former college cheerleader with round, freckled cheeks and blonde hair streaked with highlights that’s cut in that trademark “mom style” so many women seem to get after having babies—uber-short in the back and stacked and feathered at the crown of her head so it resembles an upside-down bob. I’ve told Carrie to nail shut the salon door before she ever lets me do that to myself, and she expects the same favor from me.
    Pretty much all of Christine’s friends have that hair, but she doesn’t, thankfully. Saves me an awkward conversation.
    “Trust me, that’s occurred to me,” I say. “I’m not planning to give her that satisfaction.” I’ve now told the story of Jeremy’s and my breakup and how I humiliated myself on the most public platform at my disposal three separate times, and this is the second time today Eleanor has heard it.
    “I think you need to get revenge by being awesome,” Eleanor says. “Do amazing work. Show her she can’t get you down.”
    That’s Carrie’s take on things too, and I’m inclined to agree. Besides, it’s on my own comeback plan. I visualize my list, which I haven’t thought about once since creating it a week ago.
    “I think you need to get revenge by starting your own firm, and then doing amazing work,” Christine says. “Why should that… woman … get the benefit of your hard work?” I can tell she really, really wanted to use a better expletive, but Christine’s been trying to stop using curse words since the kids were born.
    Meghan and even Eleanor are nodding emphatically, which takes me aback a little bit. Me, start my own design firm? How on God’s green earth could I make that happen? Starting a business comes with a pesky little thing called overhead, and with my mortgage, car payment, and student loans I’m already barely getting by, especially after losing the Brewster commission.
    “Ha. Yeah, right,” I say, looking down into my lemonade and taking a long, slow sip. A gnat is buzzing around the rim of my cup, and I swat it away.
    “Yeah, right? Why?” It’s Eleanor who asks this, and again I feel a little jolt of surprise, or indignation.
    “Well, think about it,” I say. “I’d have to find a space, then afford the rent—which, let me tell you, just isn’t happening. And then I’d have to hope against all hope that my clients would follow me to the new place, and chances are that not all of them would. And then I’d have to figure out how to build a workroom, buy samples, advertise. All of this would probably mean I’d have to hire employees, which means I’d have to pay them. Honestly, this would take years to build. And I have no capital to build from. My house, car, and all my other expenses don’t give me a ton of leftover income.”
    I probably need to advertise for a roommate , I think, feeling depressed all over again. I’d been counting on Jeremy moving in soon and lifting part of the mortgage burden off of my salary.
    Eleanor starts to protest, but just then Christine jumps out of her chair and runs to the edge of the deck. “Christopher Maxwell Dawson, shut that hose off and leave your sister alone. Are you kidding me?” She turns to us. “He’s eight. Eight. He should know better than this.” She stalks down the deck steps as Charlotte runs toward us, wailing at the top of her lungs. The bottom half of her dress is soaked through and sticking to her legs. “Max, the Xbox is off for the rest of the weekend.”
    Eleanor is trying