"Rep-re-sen-ta-tive!" My voice drips with unabashed disdain, as if I can let the automated machine know how stupid she is.

"Thanks," Ms. Robot says with an annoying bubbliness that borders on sarcasm. "Did I hear you right—you want to receive a receipt for your order? If yes, say..."

"Oh for the love of God, woman! Just let me speak to a real person!" I accidentally lift my right arm up and yelp from the pain that shoots up and down the limb. It's only been about two weeks in this cast and sling and every movement still hurts.

"To go back to the main menu, say, 'Main Menu.'"

I want to strangle her. Even if it's just with my left hand, I'd find a way.

A couple of urgent knocks on the door save me from pitching my phone across my room and watching it shatter into a million tiny pieces. "Honey," my mom's voice streams through the wooden barrier, "are you busy?" Before I can even respond, the door opens and her head pops through. She's smiling widely but her expression falters and her blue eyes grow wide when she starts looking around the space. While it's not exactly neat in here, with my clothes decorating the floor, my walls an ever-changing canvas for mural art practice, and my bed unmade, why does she have to act aghast every time?

And why, oh why, does she never wait for me to respond before opening the door?

"Zoey, how do you even live like this?" she asks with the motherly concern I know so well. She steps through the door frame and I wave her off.

"Mom, I can't talk! I'm on the phone."

"Are you still there? Goodbye," Ms. Robot says and literally hangs up on me like the sadist she is.

"Ugh! Are you kidding me? I'm never buying from this stupid company again!" I chuck my phone on my bed and it bounces into the folds of the comforter.

"What's wrong? What happened? Are you hungry?" Mom asks as she makes her way to my bed and starts making it while I'm still on it. Her navy blue jacket reserved for Fall weather makes a swishing sound as she moves her arms around. It's a taunting noise that sends an ache through my right arm and fingers.

"Mom. Stop. I can make my bed."

"I wish that were true even without the bone fractures. Here, you can help me move this sheet."

I sigh and use my left hand to help her make the bed. "I was on the phone with that company Akin for over twenty minutes trying to get this order sorted. I bought underwear..." I pause, stopping myself from saying it's because I'm running out and I don't want to do laundry, "...and the company sent me men's boxer briefs instead."

"Do they have an online messaging thing you can use?"

"No. They only have call or email options."

"So just email," she says as if it's the simplest solution in the world.

In theory, sending this company an email about the mix-up should be a simple solution. A non-robot person would read the email, and in no time would send me a fresh batch of undies. But knowing my luck, it'd take days to get a response and then it would be something like, "Sorry you're having trouble. We've charged your card again. Goodbye."

I never used to believe in things like luck. In college, I had fully developed dreams to take the mural art world by storm and I truly thought I would. I was ready to prove to my family of overachievers, who debate politics and recount historical facts at the dinner table, that this kind of art isn't just a hobby but an actual career.

Except here I am. Post-college. Twenty-two and living with my parents in the middle of nowhere California because I can't afford rent on my own. Here I am—jobless because of broken bones and dumped by a boyfriend of six months for being emotionally distant (or whatever it was Dean said last week). Here I am—buying underwear online because I'm too busy trying to get back on my feet to go to the store, but then getting the wrong underwear anyway.

So yeah, maybe Lady Luck has decided to deal me a bad hand after all (no pun intended). She's mocking me like the full range of mobility on my mom's arms that I will never have my life together and I will always be the loser of the family.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath. Even though I am here, believing in this unlucky streak that is my life, I need to keep going. If I continue to live at my parents' place, seeing the evidence of my otherness day in and day out, I might just go crazy.

My body will be fully healed by Christmas and then I can get back into work. I can do this. I'm a bad bitch, I can totally do this. My gaze zeroes in on the box of underwear. "I'm a bad bitch," I whisper to myself.

"What was that, Zo?" Mom says as she smooths out the sheet on my bed.

"Nothing." I reopen the mailer box at the foot of my bed and pull out the pack of plain gray boxer briefs in it. I tear through the cardboard and grab one of the undies. Will these fit me?

Pulling down my black sweatpants and wobbling as I step out of them, I resort to trying to put the boxers on over my underwear, hoping they'll fit.

"Zoey, you can't be serious. Let me take you out and I'll buy you new underwear."

"No, Mom. These fit fine! See?" I glance at my full-length mirror. My one arm could only get them halfway over my butt. And while they're a little snug with my hips pushing the fabric wider than they'd probably like to go, it gets the job done. Problem solved.

Mom laughs as she fluffs the pillows. "I'll buy you some underwear when I go to the store later."

I huff out a sigh, take off the boxers, and re-dress. I can't argue with her and she'll do whatever she wants anyway. "Mom, thanks for helping with the bed, but did you need anything? I need to get back to job hunting."

"Actually," she sits neatly down on the side of my bed, her eyes sparkling, "I have some exciting news!"

"You and Dad are finally letting me paint a mural on the back of the house," I deadpan, plopping down next to her as I start untying my messy bun.

"Keep dreaming!" She clasps her French-manicured hands together. "So, remember my friends Jackie and Bill?"

I rack my brain. "No."

"Jackie and Bill Londer?"

"Ohhh," I tease before saying, "No."

"Your dad and I went to college with them. I'm sure I've talked about them before!"

I shrug and shake my head. Honestly, I have a hard time remembering any of my parents' friends' names. There are way too many. My parents, along with both my sisters, could create a thriving nation with their friends.

"Well, anyways, Jackie and I were just on the phone catching up, and they've invited us over to their cabin in Vermont for Christmas!"

My brows furrow. "You guys are leaving us for Christmas?"

"No, we're all going to go! Me, your dad, you, Erika, and hopefully Margaret will be able to join too with Will and the kids."

"What?" I shift in my spot on the bed.

"Why are you giving me that face? We do Christmas here every year and your dad and I think it's about time we do something different for a change. Plus, Jackie and Bill are some of our closest friends who we haven't seen in ages. They're like family to us."

"What? I've literally never heard of Jackie or Bill. Also, you hate doing things differently. You're like the queen of tradition," I say, waving a hand in the air. Mom smirks and instantly I know there's something else going on. "Be serious, Mom. What's going on?"

"Okay, don't you dare tell Erika!" She wiggles excitedly in her place.

I shake my head in agreement, knowing full well I will call my sister up after this conversation and tell her word for word everything that Mom is about to say.

"So, Jackie and Bill have a son who is a few years older than Erika. He works in business just like her, is single, and is a very handsome young man. Jackie and I were thinking he and Erika would be perfect for each other!"

I snort out a laugh. "You're not seriously making us all fly across the country so that Erika can get a boyfriend."

"It's not just that! I really think they would hit it off and it could be something serious! Plus, Jackie and I have always joked about how we want our kids to be married someday so we can have more excuses to visit each other and then this thought came to both of us at the same time." She takes in a short breath of excitement. "It started out as just some fun joking and then we were like why not? Everyone has off for Christmas anyway, so it's the perfect time, and your sister has been so down lately after breaking things off with Steve last month, I feel like this will be such a fun treat for her."

I blink a few times. She's actually serious about this. And she actually just called this man a treat as if he were a chocolate snack after a long day. "Why can't you guys just give them each others' numbers like normal meddling moms?"

"You know how your sister is with optics. She'd hate to say that her mom set her up."

That is very true. Even though Erika is as put-together as my mom and my other sister Margaret, she would never let my mom set her up. It's the one of the few things she and I have in common–being averse to our parents' meddling. Also, she works as a social and PR manager for a prestigious make-up company, and her life is all about making sure things look perfect from all angles. So, being set-up by our fifty six year old mother isn't exactly the fairytale romance story she's dreamed about.

I sigh, trying to find a way to reason with her. "What if he's crazy? Do you really want a crazy son-in-law? Also, Erika's going to find out."

"He's not! He sounds amazing from all that Jackie has told me." She flips her straightened, blonde hair behind her shoulder. "And fine, if she finds out, she finds out. But your dad and I are going to see Jackie and Bill and you kids are welcome to join or not."

"So you would ditch us for Christmas for people you don't know anymore?" I rub my forehead. I don't have time to get into every possible reason why Mom's plan is faultier than Akin's customer service program, but there's another glaring one—I'll be healed and ready to get back into the job market by Christmas. "Mom, I can't go all the way to Vermont. What if a job opens up here?"

"You could see if there are openings there! Their cabin is in Woodstock, Vermont. Jackie was telling me about all the Christmas traditions the town does and it seems like this," she points to my half-updated wall of abstract faces, "could be something the town would be open to."

I open my mouth to object but she lifts up a hand to stop me. "Just think about it, okay? It would be amazing if we could all be there and you kids could get to know the people that set your dad and I up all those years ago. Us four were inseparable in college." She stands up, a far off look of joy painting her face. "'I'll go make some lunch, and we can talk more about this later."

Mom leaves and I fall back on my bed. I hate not having a choice with anything ever. If I don't go with them, I'll end up spending Christmas alone, and if I do, I'll end up having to sit through so many awkward conversations with people I don't know and potentially lose out on more time for work.

Also, I'm even more convinced now that it was a good idea to not tell Mom that Dean and I broke up. Who knows what she would have done? The last thing I need is to date again and Mom would have probably set up some full-blown matchmaking LLC to get her remaining two unwed daughters wed.

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.

Turning, I spot my phone buzzing on the floor. I grab it and see an unknown number calling. Could this be Ms. Robot from Akin Underwear trying to rectify her mistake?

I swipe to answer and hit the speakerphone button. "Hello?"

"Hi, ma'am," a deep male-sounding voice streams through the speaker. He clears his throat and my pulse picks up speed for no reason whatsoever. "Can you hear me okay?" His rich, full-bodied voice carries an air of spellbinding authority.

"Yeah." My voice suddenly sounds so high-pitched and childish to my ears. "Can you hear me?" I say even though we are both speaking very clearly and there isn't even a hint of static.

"Yeah." A very pregnant pause later, he continues. "So, this is kind of weird, Ma'am," he says very slowly, and with...is that amusement in his tone? Also, what's with all the ma'am's?

It feels like a lifetime before he speaks again and when he does, I start rubbing at my chest. "It looks like there's been a mix-up. I think I have your...intimate belongings."

"My what?" I tilt my head back.

"Ma'am," he says more firmly and with a near shout. "I have your underwear!"