She nodded. She got this, too.
Thank God.
Then she asked, “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to get licensed and put out a shingle.”
Her head jerked. “Seriously?”
“Totally seriously.”
Her lips spread in a big smile. “That’s freakin’ awesome, honey.”
Again, pure Indy.
There was a reason she was my BFF, and it was not because we’d been thrown together as babies because our parents were best friends and we had no choice.
It was because she was the absolute shit. We clicked. She was not yin to my yang. She was not Laverne to my Shirley.
We were cut from the same cloth. She might be a redhead and me a brunette. She might have curves where I had angles. And she might be a tad bit less crazy than me (a tad).
But other than that, we were sisters.
To the core.
I did not share any of this deep crap with her.
I didn’t need to.
She already knew it.
Instead I guided the discussion to something (else) that was important.
That was, I warned, “No Rock Chick involvement. I don’t tell Roxie how to design websites. I don’t tell Jules how to counsel runaways. And you need to back me on that.”
She lifted a hand, palm my way.
A Rock Chick Promise.
“You got it. I’m all in on backing you on that.”
“That includes you,” I added. She dropped her hand and I knew what was coming, so I started, “Indy—”
“What if you need a decoy or something?” she asked.
Yep. I knew that was coming, and it was precisely why this conversation was two years late.
Fuck.
“If I do, that decoy won’t be you.”
Her head twitched. She was offended.
“It’s always me.”
That was true too, but now it couldn’t be.
I leaned in further in order to lay it out.