Free Olive Oil and White Bread by Georgia Beers

for. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She’d meant it to sting,and she could tell by her mother’s face that it had. So why did she feel no satisfaction?
    She gave each parent a kiss on the cheek and left. Once outside—and not for the first time—she was amazed at how much easier it was to breathe.

    Later that evening, Jillian and Angie sat at their breakfast bar counter and ate lasagna.
    â€œI don’t know why you let them get to you like that,” Angie said.
    â€œI don’t let them get to me. I let her get to me. I always have.” Jillian put a forkful from her second helping into her mouth and chewed. “I don’t know why. She has this . . . this . . . power. I don’t know what it is, but she can make me feel like I’m eight years old again just like that.” She snapped her fingers to punctuate the statement.
    â€œYou just want her approval,” Angie said. “We all want our mothers’ approval. It’s a basic need.”
    â€œI guess.” Jillian continued as Angie headed to the refrigerator. “She’s always been tough on me, but when I came out? God, I thought she’d disown me right there.”
    â€œBut she didn’t.”
    â€œNot officially. She thought I was simply copying Shay. Can you believe that? I really think she thought it would pass. We just never talked about it again. That’s my family’s M.O. We never talk about anything that involves feelings or emotions.”
    â€œGod, my family can’t talk about anything without feelings or emotions.”
    Jillian laughed. “We couldn’t really have come from two more opposite ends of the spectrum, could we?”
    â€œI don’t think so. And now, to change the subject.” Angie pulled a bottle out of the fridge. “Ta da!”
    â€œChampagne?”
    â€œWell, not exactly champagne. Sparkling wine. Not as fancy, but still something with celebratory bubbles.”
    â€œAnd what’s that for? Why do we need celebratory bubbles?”
    â€œThink about it,” Angie hinted, making a rolling gesture with her hand.
    Jillian scrunched up her face, wracking her brains before gasping. “Did you get the Solomon program?”
    â€œI did.”
    Jillian squealed and jumped off her stool, running over to hug Angie, who joined in the squealing, and together they hopped in a squealing circle. “Baby, that’s great! I am so proud of you. How many quotes did you end up sending all together?”
    â€œSix, for god’s sake.” Solomon was a huge payroll company and Angie had met with the head of marketing four separate times before they chose her. “You know how exhausting all the meetings and paperwork were. But today? Totally worth it.”
    Jillian opened the wine and poured, then held up her glass. “To my girl, the most awesome,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “not to mention the sexiest, saleswoman around. Way to go, baby doll.”
    They touched their glasses together and sipped. Angie took the cork, grabbed a Sharpie from the drawer, and wrote the date and the occasion for the celebration on it. Then she dropped it into a big glass jar on the windowsill, where the cork dated with their move-in date already sat.
    â€œYou know,” she said. “A program like this means pretty steady orders. I hope. And you know what steady orders mean?”
    â€œSteady commission,” they said in unison.
    Angie went on. “It’ll make a nice supplement to my measly paycheck. And if I can work hard and grow this program, we only go up from here.”

    Angie rolled over in bed. The clock read 1:17, and she sighed heavily. She couldn’t seem to shut off her mind. The Solomon logo, in all its reflex blue glory, popped brightly into her head. Again. With a sigh of frustration, she quietly got out of bed, donned sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt, and padded downstairs in her