My life is a wreck.
I know, I know, pretty much everyone's life is a wreck. But the problem is that mine shouldn't be. It kind of goes against everything I stand for as a lifestyle makeover coach. I'm all about going from chaos to boss, meaningless to meaningful. Should probably be more about marketing, though, since it's been years since I could afford a true vacation.
The woman behind the hotel desk blinks at me, hand outstretched for my credit card which I just told her I'd pay for my room with. I fumble through a faux-leather purse, one I got during an online supersale. Got to love ninety-percent off merchandise — and black sharpies. They're a lifesaver when the sides of the bag start to peel, revealing the white, definitely not leather underneath.
"Do you need a moment, Miss Albright?" the clerk asks.
I glance up. Her hand is no longer outstretched and instead lays awkwardly on the table, halfway between me and her keyboard. My fingers cram into the last few card slots inside my bag, unzip another pocket, then bury themselves underneath all the junk inside the bag one more time, just in case my card fell to the bottom. I school my features as I remove my hand, mustering as much dignity as one can manage in a situation like this.
"I'm sorry. It appears that I —" I clear my throat, hoping no client, or potential client, is around. "It appears that I forgot my credit card at home."
As I always tell my clients: when you mess up, own up to it. It's a part of life, a part of being human. Most people are understanding in these situations, and if they aren't, you know who to refer them to for a lifestyle and mindset makeover.
My advice is much easier said than put into practice. Heat singes my cheeks, and I'm certain my baby-pink blush just grew a few shades brighter.
"I see." The woman retracts her hand fully so that it drapes over the keyboard. "Would you like to pay through another method?"
My cheeks are on fire now. "You know what? I think I'll cancel my reservation for this time. I'm only staying a few days." And if I don't have a credit card, my stay just got a whole lot shorter.
The woman arcs a neatly-penciled eyebrow. "Are you sure? Because we'll accept..."
"It really won't be necessary," I say, zipping my purse shut. "Thank you so much for all your help today. I'm so sorry for any inconvenience I may have caused."
I smile as sincerely and brightly as I can. It's my customer smile, the one I put on during work when I'm really not having the best day. Because work isn't about me, it's about them. Really, I ought to add therapist to my job description. Usually, the first half of my sessions involve a client ranting about how hard their life is, about how they spilled coffee on their shirt at breakfast, making them five minutes late for work. Then we talk through the importance of choices, and what choices the person can take next time so their boss doesn't give them the side eye.
I'm definitely regretting my life choices right now.
"It's no inconvenience to me," she says, though her eyes stray to the three travelers standing behind me. "But the hotel will charge you a fee for canceling during the check-in window."
"Charge it to my card," I say without thinking. I cough, clear my throat. "The one I left at home."
"Of course." Long, maroon nails click on the keyboard. Her lips purse in concentration. There's a nearly one-hundred percent chance that she doesn't believe that I have a credit card waiting at home, at least, one that works. My shame deepens. I want to scream, "I swear I have a credit card! I just forgot it! It's a mistake. You know, one of those things a normal human does."
I don't scream. It is inappropriate in this situation.
The clerk asks me a few more questions about billing before sending me on my way. I feel as tall as my heels — three inches — as I exit the glass double doors. Sunlight bursts in my eyes, and I whip out a pair of shades from my bag. They're black with tiny, fake gems on the sides to up the glam and glitter in the sun. Paired with a lacy black dress and a fake diamond necklace, I look expensive.
I inhale a deep breath. My filled lungs help roll my shoulders back, help me stand a little straighter as my heels click against the concrete walkway. Yes, I feel like a hot mess on heels. Yes, I'm disappointed that I won't be getting my spa vacation, which I've been saving up for in the past few months. But I can still go swimming in the ocean even though I don't have a hotel room. I know I brought a towel and swimsuit. And my car is old anyway, so it doesn't matter if some saltwater gets on the seats.
This will be great, a chance to unplug from normal conveniences. It'll just be me and my car and my cat... which I'd planned to smuggle into the resort. Come on, I can't just leave Jennifurr when going on a three day vacation. But now I won't have to break any rules. There's always a silver lining.
That is, until I remember that I have to eat. I only packed a few granola bars for the trip, and I'd rather not go on the college student diet while on vacation. I stop beside a palm tree, on the curb of the parking lot. Maybe I should just go home, call up the clients I canceled for this week, and get back to work. Except if my memory serves me correctly, I'm almost out of gas. There's no way I'll make it an hour home without filling up.
I grab my keys from the top of my bag before venturing toward my old sedan. Once seated on discolored, cream upholstery, I tear through my purse a final time.
No luck. An empty slot sits in the wallet that usually contains my credit card. I flop back in my seat, fingering the blue edges above the slit. It suddenly clicks into my head that I could've used that to pay for my room. I normally don't think about using a debit card. My parents drilled into my head that someone would steal all my banking information if they got a hold of my bank number. The only way to prevent that is to use credit over debit. But surely the hotel would be more secure with my information than that, right?
Right?
A ball of fluff descends from the headrest into my face. Tiny claws burrow through my blonde hair, grazing my scalp. Jennifurr waves her tail back and forth, tickling my skin.
"Jennifurr," I mumble through a mouthful of gray hair. I really ought to give her a haircut, but I can't bear to trim her beautiful, silky coat. Both my hands nestle in it as I pry her from my head. Jennifurr wriggles in my lap while I stroke her. Perhaps I should go back, try to get my room. But I'm not sure I can stand a double walk of shame.
My eyes roave the car, and my strokes grow more insistent. Gentle purrs turn into grunts of discontent, and Jennifurr leaps into the backseat. As I turn around, I spot two coins in the cup holder, probably the extent of the cash I have on me. A double check of my purse assures me that I'm correct.
Cash. An idea pops into my head. Saltport is part of Eversea County, which means it will have a branch of the Eversea County Bank, where I hold my money. If I can just make it to an ATM, I might be able to withdraw enough cash to pay for a room or dinner, or even a trip home to get my credit card. Yes, that is the ideal scenario. Then I won't have to worry about some shady gas station stealing my bank number.
A quick search on my phone shows that there's an ATM on the boardwalk by the ocean. It's an odd placement if you ask me, but clearly they didn't ask. After five minutes in the car, I'm there, pulling into a five minute road-side parking area reserved for bank clients. I step into salty, warm air that carries the call of distant seagulls. I drink in the satisfying scent, letting the fresh air cleanse away my panic, the sun outshine my gloom.
My heels thud against the boardwalk as I approach the metal kiosk labeled "Saltport ATM" at the top. A breeze stirs the curled ends of my hair, breaking up the heat radiating onto my bare arms and back. I clutch my bank card in my fist to ensure it doesn't slip through the cracks in the boardwalk. That's the last thing I need today, another thing to go wrong.
A blue screen lights up as I approach. It directs me to insert my bank card in a slot beside the display, which I do. The words Good Afternoon, Jessi Albright, appear on the screen.
And then it goes black. My brow furrows, and I search the metal box for a button that would enable me to turn it back on. But before I can press anything, a high-pitched hum whirrs through the air. A tray pops out below the screen, and the machine starts spitting out cash by the hundreds.
Panic surges in my veins. This stupid machine appears to be emptying my entire account. I jam my finger against key after key, but it doesn't stop the crazed contraption. In fact, it seems to speed up the paper vomit. I stand there, helpless. The debit card digs into my palm from squeezing my fists too hard.
The cash keeps coming. My eyes grow larger and larger. I check the time on my phone. It's been four minutes since I left my car, and the cash is still fluttering from the machine, into an infinitely deep cash tray. This is beyond the amount of money in my account by now. Is it giving me all the Saltport bank's reserves? All the reserves in the Eversea district? The state of Florida?
Fourteen minutes later, and it's still coming. I grow impatient. I shift my stance, swing my arms, change which hand holds the card, check the time again. My feet are beginning to hurt from standing here for so long in heels, or maybe that's just impatience settling in, getting nice and cozy in my bones and tissue. Eventually, I tuck my bank card back inside my purse and prepare to make a run for it. I don't want to get in trouble for whatever malfunction this machine is infected with.
The cash slows. I watch with narrowed eyes as the last bills float into the cash tray. The blue screen lights up again with white letters scrawling across it.
We hope to see you again tomorrow, Jessi Albright. Enjoy the —
My knees buckle. I stumble forward, my hands bracing me against the machine. I blink several times, the numbers coming in and out of focus. That can't be right. It has to be a typo. It has to —
Enjoy the $70,000,000.
Emotions overload my senses at once so it's impossible to distinguish one from another. Only one thought can break through the haze clouding my mind. There's been a mistake. Maybe there are two Jessi Albrights, and the machine confused them. Maybe it's suffering from malware, or a short, or some other fancy electrical thing I don't understand.
Gears knock together inside the ATM. The cash drains from the tray, which is sucked from view. Two little doors fly open on the bottom, whacking my shin. I yelp in pain, hopping onto my right foot. Pain shoots through that ankle, and I wobble for a moment before falling onto the boardwalk. A brown bag drops onto the ground, and the silver doors swing closed.
My heart races in my chest. I give myself a moment to settle down, to allow the salt-filled air to fill my lungs, then slowly release.
Restore the calm. Feel the calm.
Once my heart rate and breathing has steadied, I reach over to the bag and inspect it. On the side, a little white tag says "made with responsibly recycled organic cotton." If I didn't know what was inside, I'd say it was completely normal.
Seventy-million dollars is not normal.
I'm at a loss for what to do. On the one hand, I kind of don't want anything to do with the weird parcel, nor do I wish to be prosecuted for stealing, even though my actions were perfectly lawful. It's not my fault it malfunctioned, right?
On the other hand, I can't just leave this bag of cash sitting on the boardwalk. That would be irresponsible. Then again, do I want to be responsible for this much cash?
The police. I need to bring this money to the police. They'll know what to do. I whip my phone from my purse and check the time again. It's a quarter to five in the afternoon. The station will surely still be open. I'm about to get up when a shadow crosses the boardwalk, strolling toward me. No sound accompanies it, only the wind and waves whoosh in my ears.
My muscles paralyze in fear. Every neuron in my brain is screaming at me to move, to run. But for a split second, I can't seem to stand up. A hand peels from the shadowy mass, a long, needle-like object between its fingers. I start to turn around, hands braced against the wood. If I had one more second, I'd be on two legs and racing as fast as I can from here.
I don't get a second. A needle plunges into my shoulder, and the world turns black.