CHAPTER NINE

 

Project Coco Fund = $535.05

 

I NEED TO stay focused. I hate fighting with Betty, but there’s no way I’m backing down now.

She doesn’t realize how important this “silly” bag is to me. It’s like the missing piece of a puzzle I can’t solve. And until I get that final piece, I can’t move forward.

Plus, it’s already led to a bunch of positive changes in my life: I’ve started my own business, I’ve made more than five-hundred dollars, and I’m building up a client base.

Maybe Erin Girl will become my full-time gig, and I can quit my job once and for all. So what if I haven’t enjoyed most of the errands I’ve run. At least, it’s my own show. I can’t say that about my desk job.

I know I can do this. I just have to keep going.

And as the universe (no matter what Betty thinks) is in on this with me, my phone rings. Another client. Destiny.

“Hello, Erin Girl.” What the heck; I don’t care if anyone hears me, even Carol.

“Oh, hello. I’m so glad to have reached you. Is this the real Erin or one of her assistants?”

I never thought about having assistants. I could turn this solo operation of mine into an army of errand-running superheroes. But instead of assistants, they would be called sidekicks. (Obviously.)

“In the flesh!” I say. I like this lady already. “How can I help you today?”

“Well, I’m calling from Vancouver, but I’m originally from Toronto. My father passed away a year ago, and I haven’t been back since the funeral.”

“I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” I say automatically.

“Thank you. You see, my father loved daisies, and I feel horrible that he’s gone this long without any flowers. So I was wondering—I know it sounds somewhat unorthodox—but I was hoping you could take some daisies to his gravestone at Mount Pleasant—”

“I’m so sorry, but that’s out of Erin Girl’s jurisdiction. We focus exclusively on the downtown core. Maybe another errand service can help you with your request. I’m so sorry,” I say again and end the call.

I can’t breathe. I need to get some fresh air.

 

 

I’m calling in sick.

I’ve never called in sick before. Sure, I come to work late every single morning, but somehow calling in sick seemed like the last straw. As if once I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop.

But I have a long list of errands to run today, and there’s no way I can get them completed under Carol’s watchful eyes. And it’s not a total lie; I’m not feeling the greatest.

So I’m leaving Carol a voice message, saying I won’t be coming in. To play it safe, I’m calling at a quarter-to-seven. I hope she doesn’t get in that early. I have no idea when she arrives at work, as I’ve never been there before her. Actually, I’ve never left work after her, either. She may never go home.

I’ve been practicing my sick voice, which is easy at this time of the morning; I already sound pretty hoarse. My voice box doesn’t normally open for business before eight.

The phone rings a few times, then goes to Carol’s voicemail. Even her voice annoys me, so I hit the pound key to skip to the end.

“Hey, Carol. It’s Erin . . . cough . . . I’m not feeling well . . . sniff . . . I think I’ve come down with one of those twenty-four-hour bugs or something . . . gag . . . so I’ll be staying home today. Please, let Bradford know. I’m sure I’ll be fine by tomorrow. Bye!”

Ugh. My “bye” was too chipper.

There’s nothing I can do now—except enjoy my first-ever sick day. Ah, the freedom! Maybe I’ll catch an afternoon matinée or spend the entire day in bed . . .

Oh, yeah, I have to waste it running some crummy errands.

 

 

Even though I’m not going into work, I still have to go downtown.

My first errand of the day is to mail off a bunch of letters for a woman who lives in a suite at Trump Tower. I didn’t realize people still wrote letters. She tells me to call her M., so I automatically think she’s MI6. (Her British accent supports my spy theory.)

M. has a stack of two dozen letters of various sizes, shapes, and thicknesses, with most going to different countries. I’m especially intrigued by the one addressed to the Embassy of the Republic of Yemen, but I resist asking. She’s not very . . . friendly. I get the impression I’m inconveniencing her by being in her presence.

M. trusts a specific post office to handle her complicated mailing instructions. She has a long list of which letters should be sent by registered mail, which ones must arrive by tomorrow morning, and which ones need a boring, old stamp.

Her trusted post office is located in the underground path. This makes me nervous, even though it isn’t near my office building, it’s part of the same path. I wish I’d brought my sunglasses. I’m wearing a scarf, so I could always use it as a head cover.

I make my way to M.’s special post office, passing two others along the way. When I find it, I see there’s a long line. These guys must be really good at, um, mailing. I hurry to join the line before it gets any longer.

As I’m wrestling with the letters, trying to keep them all organized, I glance up and notice the back of a familiar head. It’s not until the person turns slightly that I can confirm it for sure: it’s Bradford.

What is he doing all the way down here? Is he also in the know of these mailing magicians? Is this some sort of private club that only a select few have knowledge of?

He’s three people ahead of me. I don’t think he’s seen me. I’ll have to leave and come back when the coast is clear.

I turn quickly and bump into the person standing behind me. Some of the letters I was holding fall to the ground with a loud thump.

Shit! I’m so getting caught!

I bend down to hastily pick up the letters. The person I’ve bumped into has bent down, too. I look up, and our eyes lock. I find myself staring into the most beautiful blue eyes. I know those blue eyes.

It’s Suit Guy.

“Here, let me help you with those,” he says, grinning. Wow, even his teeth are gorgeous.

I inhale his intoxicating scent and get lightheaded. I’m about to thank him profusely, but then I remember my boss is standing a few feet away from me. I can’t risk Bradford recognizing my voice, so I nod and smile shyly as I reluctantly make my getaway.

 

 

Maybe the universe is actually conspiring against me.

Why doesn’t anything ever go smoothly? Why was Bradford in my line, of all lines? And why did I have to run into Suit Guy for the first time ever outside of the subway, today, of all days? I might of had the courage to finally—finally!—talk to him. All ruined by the bad timing of my boss requiring postage.

The only positive thing to come out of this was that I touched Suit Guy for the first time. Okay, it was more of a body-check. But, at least, I have that.

 

 

I hide out in a store across from the post office until I see both Bradford and Suit Guy leave. I wait a few extra minutes in case Bradford goes back for another hit of magical stamps.

After I get the letters mailed, I make my way back to M. She has an envelope waiting for me with the exact cash required to reimburse me for the cost of the mailings and my time. She’s even marked the envelope with an “E.” Maybe I’ll start referring to myself as that from now on to add an air of mystery.

I run Mr. Trader his vegan lunch, then head for the subway to complete my final errands of the day.

As I’m passing through the turnstile, my phone vibrates, alerting me that I have a voice message. I turn back to find a quieter place to listen to it.

I have to replay it several times to make it out. It’s the nice saleslady from the vintage shop. I’d left my name and number with her so she could let me know when my bag returned from repairs.

She’s called to say it will be back by Friday and restocked for Saturday.

Saturday! That’s only four days away. It’s too soon!

I’ll have to step things up, or all of this would’ve been for nothing.