Page 7 of The False Flat

Marketing. At TCF, Lynn and the marketing team found and lumped clients for all the planners. All I’d had to do was walk in and seal the deal. Now, I was flying solo. Scary.

Content creation (not social media). One of my strengths. I stood out from the crowd by presenting my ability to manage client cash flow but also make recommendations on market investments. A lot of planners excelled in only one area; I could do both.

Client services. My existing portfolios were pristine. I’d sent personal exit emails to all my clients before Houston could tell me not to. Navigating my noncompete would be tricky, but I hoped at least a few of my clients would stick with me.

This business was all about making financial goals, developing strategies, and reacting to curveballs. But since I had very few clients, portfolios, or money, all those goals, strategies, and reactions, along with my fancy experience and colorful charts, meant little.

My eyes shot back up to the window as my pen drummed against the legal pad, keeping time with the blender running somewhere in the background of this coffee shop. The window started to fog, my breath obscuring my view of all the confident, successful people out on the sidewalk. My hand hit my paper cup, nearly knocking it over as I crammed my numbered to-do list into my satchel. The page snagged on the zipper and ripped, and the severed shred peeked out of my bag, a little white flag waving in the nonexistent breeze.

“Laney, we’ve got to figure out how to declare this on our taxes. Don’t you care?” This came from the table next to me; one woman spoke loudly to another, intruding on my self-deprecation. I casually turned. The pair looked like sisters, possibly twins, but were easily distinguished by their clothes and hair. One had black, spiky locks, a nose ring, and a killer black coat that made her look like she was a Guardian of the Galaxy. The other was full-on beige: skin, hair, turtleneck, and slacks, or possibly a jumpsuit because I couldn’t tell where the top of her outfit ended and the bottom began. I guessed they were around my age—bonus.

“That’s ages away,” a much calmer voice countered. “We have a whole year.”

“Don’t you at least want to invest it?”

Taxes.

Invest.

Was I hallucinating? Because this was too good to be true, too perfect, almost like a joke. Or maybe it was fate, and that’s why I’d decided to pay $5.19 for a coffee instead of brewing some at home. The ladies of Nashville needed me.

My heart ticked too fast: what I can only assume a predator feels when she spots prey. The sudden shift in my mental state—despair to aggressive hope—made me the slightest bit unsteady on my feet. I gave myself five seconds to get a grip and walked over to the table, where one sister insisted this was about asset growth in a tone that said she didn’t really understand the term but knew it was important.

It was important. It was also music to my ears.

Black Coat tapped a chart she’d likely printed from a Google search.

“Ladies, excuse me for interrupting, but I couldn’t help overhearing.” I stood tall and spoke with a confidence I only had when I was talking finance. No need to turn them into numbers because they were already potential bank accounts. Nothing personal here. “I’m a financial planner, starting my private business in Nashville, and I think I could help you.” I handed them each a card I pulled from my satchel. They were branded with the TCF logo, but I’d crossed out my office number and highlighted my cell. Until I printed new ones, these would help establish credibility.

I slid onto the third chair at their table.

Within five minutes, Black Coat (Lenni) and Beige (Laney) told me that one week ago, they had inherited a large sum of money and a run-down building in East Nashville from their childless uncle.

Within ten minutes, I’d briefly outlined my business model, discussed my investment philosophy, and emailed them worksheets to fill in that would better articulate their goals.

Within fifteen minutes, we were shaking hands, and I was telling them we’d discuss next steps at my office in one week—if my office “maintenance” had been completed by then.

We parted ways on the sidewalk, and I headed for my bicycle, mentally mapping out my next destination, the office I didn’t have yet. One Nashville Place was a coworking space I’d briefly considered leasing on Fourth Avenue, which would look professional without the heavy investment or commitment. Now that I had clients—these ladies were mine—I could risk my dwindling finances and rent some office space.

My chest rose and fell as I sucked in the aroma of hot dogs and fries and downtown sewer, the smells of possibility.

Within an hour, I’d scarfed two hot dogs, toured the WeWork space, and signed a three-month lease on a private office, all thanks to Black Coat and Beige. By late June, I should know whether or not this whole Nashville business endeavor meant professional freedom or was an impulsive disaster.

CHAPTER 4

LIFE REALIZATION #2: GETTING RID OF A MARRIED MAN IS HARDER THAN YOU THINK

Two days later, I was on my way home from my new, pristine workspace with one hand on my steering wheel and the other in a crinkly Doritos bag on my lap, an appetizer before my frozen pizza dinner. Today, I’d met my new “coworkers”: Michelle, a very innovative, easy-to-talk-to graphic designer, a massage therapist, a husband-and-wife talent agency who booked gigs for country music singers, and an eccentric social media star, Lady Mama, who needed an office space because . . .

Michelle hadn’t minced words; she’d immediately insisted I needed a brand to go along with my platform, something edgy. Then she’d jumped in to designing a logo wherein my pantsuited silhouette would lead to razor-sharp high heels, which would end in the point of a pen actively writing my name, Pen Auberge. I wasn’t exactly sure what that looked like, but she was excited about it, and her confidence gave me a boost. Her card coupled nicely with my history of advising large corporations and my market hunches, which I strategically called “expertise,” and—this might work.

I pulled a perfectly triangular Dorito out of the bag as I turned in to my driveway.

The Nose was sitting on her front porch drinking from a ridged glass that caught the light from the rusty lantern sconce on her house. There was something about that woman that made me curious.

She waved and pointed to my house. I nodded. Yes, that’s where I live. As I tried to figure out what she was attempting to communicate, a face popped up in my window. I screamed, flailed, and knocked the Doritos into the passenger floorboard.

Once I realized who it was, I closed my eyes, waited for my heart to stop racing, and tried to pretend my ex wasn’t standing in my driveway. Maybe I could run him over. How many years would I get for accidental manslaughter? Would it even be accidental manslaughter? No, The Nose would tell the authorities I’d put the car in reverse before “accidentally” gunning it forward.