“Just bear with me for a second. I'm trying to think on my feet here,” she explains, beginning to pace back and forth across the yellow linoleum tiles in front of the avocado green fridge. Her kitchen is so outdated, it is practically falling back into style again.
“Okay. What if you just got next to Kirkman? Got a picture with him? And then you can tell Lori that there was no business available there, but at least you could prove that you tried?”
“So, like… I wouldn’t be taking anything away from August? You're sure?”
She chews on the knuckle of her forefinger, bouncing her head back and forth as though following imaginary timeline.
“Yeah, I think this will work,” she finally pronounces. “You just get in the room with Kirkman, snap a selfie, get out… and tell Lori there was nothing there for you to pursue. No questions asked. Nice and neat.”
I run it all over in my mind. Instead of trying to find new business, I guess I'm just trying to find an escape hatch out of the dumb thing I said today. At least the fallout of this would be much less disastrous than trying to follow through on what I foolishly said I could do.
“You know what, I think this could actually work. At least, I can back out of the trouble I just got myself in.”
“Exactly!” she declares. “And then you will be free to find all new kinds of trouble to get in!”
“Brilliant!” I say, toasting her in the air. She refills my glass and I take a sip before I remember I was only going to have one drink. Suddenly the world seems a little bit brighter. At least my screwup will not be permanent.
“So, now we just need to get August to put you in a room with Kirkman! Simple!”
My mouth falls open a little bit. I guess I forgot about that tiny detail.
“Wait. How am I supposed do that?”
She grits her teeth, grimacing. “Can't you just ask him?”
“Well… wouldn't it be better if I didn't? I'd like to keep this disaster contained, if possible. Not flowing outward in an ever-expanding puddle of awful.”
“Contained, contained,” she repeats, musing. “Okay. I have an idea. Give me your phone.”
I pull it out of my purse and hand it to her, confused. Before I know what she's doing, she reaches forward, snapping open the top two buttons on my blouse and sticking the phone practically into my bra.
“What the hell do you think you're doing?” I protest, buttoning my shirt back up and jerking away from her. “I have definitely not had enough booze for that!”
“Oh you wish!” She rolls her eyes. She keeps tapping on my phone, opening apps and not letting me see what's going on.
“Seriously, Bunny. What are you doing?”
More tapping. More ignoring me. Finally she holds up the phone triumphantly.
“There. You're all set up,” she announces.
She hands the phone back to me and I take it, peering at it suspiciously. “I'm all set up for what?”
She grins evilly. “Your new Finstagram. @WantKirkman.”
My eyes go wide. My breath catches my throat. “Oh my God, Bunny, what the hell did you just do?”
I stare at the phone, aghast at what's in front of me. There is a picture of my cleavage with the words “Kirkman hmu!” across it in fat pink text.
“I just set you up a Finstagram — a Fake Instagram. You should be thanking me!”
“Oh my God, how do I delete this?” I mutter, looking for the settings portion of the app.
“Don't delete it! That's your way in!”
I shake my head, not understanding. “Bunny, if my dad saw a picture of my tits on Instagram, he would skin me alive. Not to mention, I would probably lose my job immediately. What the hell are you thinking?”
She knuckles her hips and tips her head to the side.