“Hey, Lottie Bug,” he says, using the nickname Mom gave me years ago.

“Hey, Jeff.” I wave as he turns off the mower and adjusts his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. “Yard is looking great.”

“Thank you. I think the beautification committee will have to notice us this year.”

Oh, Jeff, always so hopeful.

You see, we live on the border, and I mean, one street over, from The Flats in Beverly Hills. And every summer, there’s a committee that walks from house to house, picking out the best yards in the neighborhood and awarding them prizes. We’ve always walked through The Flats, taking in the fabulously manicured lawns curated by professional landscapers, not the actual owners. It’s a bloodbath the week before the judges take their walk, including here at our house, because the last house on the route is across the street, and in order to see the house, you see ours, just past the bushes, and Jeff is bound and determined to be noticed.

“You’ll have to get Mom to fix the roof if you want any shot at it.”

There’s a fat chance in hell that our yard would ever be noticed. The beautification committee is made up of a bunch of rich snobs who would never look across the street. But it’s nice to give Jeff hope, especially since he works so hard.

His shoulders slump in defeat. “I told her that. I need the roof to be pristine. Those broken shingles will never get the win. I think I’m going to call the boys over one of these days and fix it while she’s at work. Act first, ask for forgiveness later.”

“Very smart approach.”

“How was work?”

I pause in my pursuit of the front door. Keeping my smile in full force, I say, “Great. Just a typical day.” Yup, a typical day of meandering around the streets of Los Angeles, killing time before I could return home, knowing full well my mom and Jeff are aware of my schedule and if I arrived home any earlier than normal, they’d be suspicious. And luckily for me, during my meandering, I was told to go buy some pantyhose by an endearing homeless man who scowled at my bare legs. I bought some consolation mint ice cream, which fell victim to the summer California sun and ended up dripping down the front of my white blouse, and, to top it off, I tripped over a street grate and tore a heel off my two-seasons-ago Jimmy Choo shoes, which is why I’m walking barefoot into the house.

It’s been one of those days.

“Promotion is in a week, right?” Jeff asks. “Are you excited? You can finally find a place of your own.”

Insert the deep sigh here.

I give him a thumbs up. “Super pumped.”

Without another word, I open the door to the house and immediately smell Mom’s homemade fish sticks. Lord Jesus, not again.

This girl can’t catch a break.

“Jeff, dinner is almost ready.”

“It’s me, Mom,” I say, heading to my room, but before I can get too far down the hallway, Mom peeks her head around the doorway to the kitchen.

“Lottie Bug, just in time for dinner.”

I wave my hand at her. “Not really hungry.” I grip my stomach. “Late lunch. I might have an apple later.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Go wash your hands”—yes, she still makes me wash my hands before a meal—“and freshen up. I’ll have a place setting waiting for you.”

Sighing, I say, “Thanks, Mom.” I reach my room, shut the door, and then slide down against it until my butt hits the floor. “God, I need booze.” I pull my phone out of my purse and text my sister.

Lottie: Booze needed. Day drinking when Mom and Jeff leave tomorrow. You in?

Kelsey, my Irish twin as Mom likes to call her, is only twelve months younger than me, and is an up-and-coming organizer—yeah, I was confused when she told me that little nugget of information as well. Basically, she’s started her own organizing business where she goes to different people’s houses to show them how to organize their pantries and closets to be more functional—so, how to not be pack rats. I asked her how she differs from everyone else jumping on The Home Edit trend, and her answer blew me away—because it was actually well-thought-out. She focuses on organizing sustainably. Instead of encouraging all of her clients to use clear acrylic bins, she works with a company that offers sustainably sourced organizational products, as well as products made from fully recycled materials. Better for the environment and better for your home. See? Blown away. Apparently, she’s one celebrity away from being discovered. I believe her. She makes just enough right now to grow her business and to afford a small studio apartment in West Hollywood.

My phone beeps with a text.

Kelsey: Shouldn’t you be at work tomorrow?

I stand from my spot on the floor and untuck my shirt before texting her back.

Lottie: I should . . .

I set my phone down and undress, tossing my clothes in my hamper, not even bothering with the stain. The damage has been done. I put on a pair of shorts and a tank top and tie my long brown hair up in a knot.

Kelsey: Don’t tell me that ho fired you.

Lottie: Consider me unemployed.

Kelsey: I FREAKING told you this was going to happen. She’s such a . . . God, Lottie, if you ever talk to her again, I’m going to disown you. Do you hear me?

Lottie: Trust me, Angela is dead to me now, despite what SHE might think.

Kelsey: Let me guess, the narcissist still thinks you’re going to be friends.

Lottie: Yup. Anyway, I’m not telling Mom and Jeff, not until I can figure something out. They still think I’m moving out next week when I get my “promotion”—aka, downgraded to unemployed.

Kelsey: Your secret is safe with me. I’ll be over around nine with tequila and margarita fixings.

Lottie: Can you come with the idea notebook?

Kelsey: Already packing it. I got you, sis.

Lottie: I love you.

Kelsey: Love you. And don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.

Feeling relieved, I set my phone down on the dresser, because if Mom sees a phone anywhere near the dinner table, she snatches it away and tosses it in the toilet. I’ve fallen victim to such thievery once and only once. After drying your toilet-water phone in rice overnight, you quickly learn to never do that again.

I head down the hallway and to the dining room, where I catch Jeff press a chaste kiss to my mom’s cheek. He whispers “thank you” to her before taking a seat. He’s changed his clothes as well, hands free from any landscaping dirt. I know he’ll be right back outside after this, but I appreciate his understanding for my mom’s rules at the table.

“Smells good, Mom,” I lie as I take a seat. Jeff loves her homemade fish sticks. I loathe them. But I eat them because I was taught at a very early age, you eat what’s on your plate and you don’t complain about it. Be happy you have food at all.

“Thank you. I made some of your favorite cobbler for dessert.”

Now that’s something I can choke down fish sticks for.

“You’re amazing. Thank you.”

Mom takes a seat, and then as a cute family of three, we link hands, Mom leads us in a prayer, and then we dig in. Thankfully, Mom gave me smaller portions. I can easily take this down for the promise of some fresh cobbler.

“How was work, sweetie?” Mom asks while putting a dollop of tartar sauce on her plate. She passes the sauce to Jeff, who takes a scoop as well, and then to me. I load up my plate with the pickle-ridden dipping sauce because it’s the only way I can chew through the sticks of fish.

“It was great,” I answer, the lie feeling raw on my tongue.

Three things I learned while growing up with a strong, independent woman—you don’t lie, you don’t cheat, and you always work for what you want. Well, I just lied, but I can’t possibly stomach telling the truth. Not when Mom and Jeff told me—just like Kelsey—what a bad idea it was to take a job from Angela. Hot and cold Angela. Narcissistic and erratic Angela. They told me to wait out the job market, that something would come along for a graduate from UC Irvine with a master’s in business.