A week later, we are boarding the plane. As the plane rushes through the sky, anxious thoughts rush through my mind.

       What if Molly is nothing like she says she is?

       The flight feels like a small eternity, even with a few vodkas in me. When we land, I’m relieved to have my feet back on solid ground.  

       As we’re exiting the plane, I spot her fairly quickly. She’s prettier, shorter, and much sweeter in person than I had initially assumed. A tad quieter too, but that doesn't last long. Hugging each other like old friends, we exchange hellos and formal introductions with our husbands. They seem to take a liking to each other immediately.

       Just like that, we’re friends in real life too. Somehow, it doesn’t feel strange at all, and she doesn’t feel like a stranger after all.

       We spend the weekend blabbing our faces off like old friends with lots of shopping in between.

       Picking the first store we come to, we walk in and head straight towards the back. On our way there, we stumble upon the baby section. I can’t help but admire the tiny outfits.     

How fucking adorable.

Turning to Molly, I ask, “Are y’all planning on having another baby?”

She shakes her head sadly. “He doesn’t want anymore.” 

With her husband unknowingly in earshot, I half-jokingly make a comment about him refusing her happiness or some other form of hyperbole. I don’t really mean it and she laughs politely at it. It isn’t funny, and I know this. 

We end our evening in a drunken stupor and happily slip away to our hotel rooms. When I see her the next day, with her eyes big and wide, she turns to me and says, "I think you got me pregnant!"

“Wait, what? Excuse me?” I whisper, thoroughly confused.

“Yeah, he just went for it.” She says,  shrugging.

“Went for? Oh. That’s silly. You can’t possibly know already. It’s been like, what, 13 hours?”

“Jessi, I’m serious.”

“Are you trying to tell me I’m a baby daddy now?”

“Basically,” she agrees. “You got me pregnant!”

“I never knew my sperm was so powerful.”

She cracks up at this.

“Super sperm!” She agrees.

Suddenly, I’m not so sure if we’re kidding anymore. As the subject changes, the weekend flies by us, leaving us and our memories in the Missouri dust. 

As we are flying home, I feel like crying and I don’t know why. It isn’t the heights though I’m certainly petrified of them. It’s something else, but I can’t put my finger on it. I’ve never missed a friend quite like this.

A few short hours later, we are back home and settled. I settle back into my non-routine, painting everything. As more and more orders come through, I’m falling further and further behind on them.

The days begin to blur together and no matter how hard I try, I’m consistently running behind schedule. To my dismay, no matter how much I practice, each project is taking a couple of days at least. I spend most of my time, just waiting for the paint to dry and nursing my migraines.

       I think this paint is making me sick. There has to be a better way. Some ways to increase my efficiency. Glancing around the crowded room with paint-covered antiques, I know something has to give and it can’t keep being me. 

By now, I’ve tried just about every paint product on the market. They each disappoint me. Latex paint. Chalk paint. Mineral paint. Acrylic too. None of them will do. As much as I love chalk paint, I’m almost certain it’s causing my migraines. My frustrations continue to grow, but with it, so does my curiosity. 

What if I could create my own version to suit my needs? 

I dismiss the thought almost immediately. Don’t be silly. You’re no chemist. No scientist. You’re just a girl that loves the Internet. 

Despite my doubts, a week later, I’m standing in my kitchen, and the counters are adorned with measuring cups and a plethora of ingredients. 

“Alexa, play Kelly Clarkson.”

As the music starts playing from the speakers, I begin to experiment with different recipes. 

Hours later covered in ingredients, I feel oddly in my element.