The Saltport ATM

1. Your Life Coach is a Hot Mess

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."