* Everyone is a third wheel at some point in their lives. This is dedicated to the all uncomfortable, invisible, pity, unwanted third wheels who have the courage to pull through the PDA and awkwardness.

This one's for you. *

"Miss Leia, your resume is quite impressive."

The manager sipped her coffee, tired eyes worn out from the twenty other plain interviewees who visited this morning.

"You were once a cashier at Pet Value, a regular volunteer at the local soup kitchen, and"--she choked on drink--"It says you're a full-time third wheeler?"

"Yes, ma'am. My current profession is third wheeling," I replied.

She flipped to the next page. "Under your hobbies you put third wheeling." Her eyes dropped to the bottom of the resume. "And in skills." She tore off her round spectacles and peered down at me. "You put third wheeling as your job, hobby and skill on your professional resume?"

I answered this question at least twenty times over the past two weeks so a solid response shouldn't have been a problem.

My fingers kept fumbling with my briefcase latch under the desk. "Correct. It's a stable job but the business is—"

"Business?" The resume I spent hours on my grandparent's typewriter slipped between her hands. "You own a...third wheeling business?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Really?" Terribly intrigued, the manager leaned over the desk and rested her chin on her open palms. "Do explain."

I crossed one shaky leg over another. "My self-run company provides a few different services for the customer—"

"Like as in sexual favours?" she cut in.

"No!" I burst out. Startled, she leaned back, and I quickly cleared my throat. "I mean, no. Not those kind of services."

"Then what kind?"

I grinded my teeth together, clutching the briefcase handle. "Services such as—"

The timer went off and my knees sprung up and hit the desk.

The little clock bounced around before she took a slap shot with her hand, smacking the clock off her papers. A thunk echoed between us as the it landed in the trash can. I hugged my briefcase tighter.

"Sorry, you were saying?" She flashed a sweet smile.

"It's alright," I began, praying she couldn't see my legs trembling under my skirt. "I should be off anyway. I don't want to cut into the time for your next interview." I stood up and pushed my chair in. "I know there's a lot of candidates still waiting outside—"

"No, no. Do sit!"

I shook my head, still clutching the briefcase that quivered against my chest. "I'm awfully sorry but I really must go."

"Wait, Leia! Miss"—she did a double take on my resume and chuckled. "For a second I thought it said Skywalker. Hey, you're the second kid from the Sky family I had in today. You don't happen to be..."

"My twin brother's name is Luke. He came for an interview this morning." Before the usual connection sunk into her brain, I added, "You know, our parents are just intense Star Wars fans. Nothing big."

"Ah." I could see the gears turning in her head as a strange look possessed her face—one that I've become used to for eighteen years.

I did a small curtsy in my skirt and made the quickest attempt for the door, but her sharp voice brought me to a halt.

"Are you hiring at your workplace? I'm in need of a new career," she asked.

How ironic.

"Actually, the business is..."

"I'll give you a deal, kid."

My heart thumped against my ribcage. What a toxic word, it sucked in the hopeless and left one desperate: deal.

I kept my fist around the door knob, my silence answering her next question.

"If you tell me about this third wheeling business and why you're willing to throw it away, I'll give you the job."

My eyes grew wide, and I made a one-eighty twist. "Are you shitting—I mean, seriously?"

She opened her hand out to the seat opposite of her.

I played with the latch of my briefcase, averting my eyes to the carpeted floors. The thought of an empty plate for dinner again triggered my clenched fists to tighten around the handle.

"Okay," I agreed.

A pleased smile spread across her mouth and she placed her fingertips together in a satisfied position.

"Wonderful. We look for extraordinary candidates at this company and I want to know if you have that 'umph' we're looking for."

I let out a loud laugh that should've been a scoff, but the amount of humour in that thought needed more than just a snort.

"Trust me, the story of my third wheeling business has more 'umph' than you think."

"Excellent." She opened her drawer and fished out another timer. I wondered how many times she backhanded her clock into the trash.

She wound the small timer back, placed it between us and waved her hand for me to carry on. "This is your chance to use me or lose me. Give me hell, Leia. Give me that 'umph' I'm looking for."

I took in a deep breath, mentally creaking open up the doors I bolted shut weeks ago.

You gotta sell it, Leia. Like the old days.

Give her what she wants to hear. Make her need you. Every person has a problem--make yourself the solution.

Give her tension. Escalation. Bring her right to the edge of understanding—then grab her by the balls and 'wow' her or she pushes you out the door and your ass is back on the streets.

"I'm gonna take you to the story as late as I can," I started. "Just before the plane takes off, just before the doors to prom are about to close, just before shit's gonna go down. I need you to take it all in—no time to worry, no time to reconsider, no time to think whether you want to ride this ride or get off and go get another coffee because too late, you're mentally buckled in."

She drew closer as her eyes enlarged to fit her sudden curiosity.

My next words swallowed her into a realm that cost me too many friendships, a hunk of money, and even a life.

Yet here I was—breaking my promise again; using my gift of persuasion to give that 'umph' one last time.

The hot July air made its second sexual assault on me that summer; I remembered the feeling of the sun licking up my back, the way it left a sticky, gleaming sheet of sweat down my spine.

I would have filed a report if it weren't for the fact Mother Nature gave no shits about human harassment.

Not that I had the time to curse to the skies—I had somewhere to be.

The scene fell into place around me. The stifling yellow walls of the manager's office faded away, and the linoleum tiles beneath my feet were painted over by decaying pavement; a crowded street overflowed in abandoned bikes and children playing jump rope.

I was seventeen again, under the pounding sun and a cloud of buzzing flies.

I rolled out a kink in my neck and tossed my braid over my shoulder. I mounted my old red bicycle and winced as the metal handlebars burnt my hand.

Infuriated, I kicked off the stand with the back of my heel.

My stupid brother took the van today so I was left with this trash from the eighth grade. Just thinking about that deadbeat made me cringe at last night's fight.

I pedaled onto the busy road, wobbling a bit before gaining a fast pace that could've easily caused one tire to fly off.

"Fuckfuckfuckshitfuckfuckshitfuck." My throat vibrated as the wheels turned over the stoned pathway.

I dipped and curved around a pack of seven-year-olds before making it onto the main road, my house sitting at the corner of the busiest intersection. I sped around vans and trucks, the bicycle lane already packed at the side of the street.

I approached a yellow light, slowing down in time to see my phone screen light up in the basket attached to my bike.

Unknown Number: Where are you, babe? It's gonna start soon!

A honk blew past my right ear, and I pedalled forward, blending into the blurry buildings and people at the corner of my eyes. I whipped down the lane, blowing past the hot air slapping against my cheeks.

I snaked through the movie theater parking lot and pedaled backwards, tires burning to a stop. After fumbling with the bike lock, I let out a frustrated groan as I tried to push down the ends of my dress that kept flying up.

The late summer called for a traditional 70s folk dress of fine floral print that popped against the soft bronze of my skin.

I rushed inside before I took another torment from the hot air and treacherous wind.

A pair of coffee brown eyes spotted my dress and relaxed in relief. He shuffled through the crowd towards me.

"You look great," I started off, dodging the 85% chance of silently awkward introductions.

"Thanks." He kissed the side of my cheek and his shaggy black hair tickled my nose. He lowered his gaze. "I'm liking the, uh"—his eyes widened at the little lace socks riding up my ankles—"the Little House on the Prairie look. It's cute."

"I...I find the vintage style aesthetically pleasing thank you very much," I managed to pant. My thighs burned from the bike ride, and I thanked my dress for covering my quivering knees.

He smiled down at me and I brushed aside a part of my bangs. "Sorry I'm late," I pipped up. "I know you've been looking forward to today."

"It's cool. So are you ready to be the best third wheel? I heard you're really good at it," he spoke.

Wisps of hair had broken free of my braid and I failed to tuck them in, too busy catching my breath. "Yeah, huh. Hold...hold on."

I fumbled on the latch of my satchel and pulled out half of the form before I jerked my head up. "Wait, she's not here yet is she? Your date?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Running late I guess."

I nodded and quickly fished out the rest of the yellow form, an attached pink pen dangling off the clipboard. "Just sign here and here and fill in the boxes."

He plucked the pink pen out of my fingers and gave me a dry look. "Pink? Really?"

"Are you going to sign it or not?" My pointed-toe shoes tapped on the tiled floors, my voice drowning in the Friday afternoon crowd.

He looked at me once more before signing off the contract, clearly skipping over the rules and fine print.

Figures. Half my clients were like that.

He handed it back and I checked through the contract. "I assume you know what you just agreed to."

"I didn't sign my soul away, did?" he joked.

His grin tugged up the corner of my lip, and I rolled my eyes. "C'mon. Be serious."

"You be my third wheel and I pay you. Simple."

The rest of my smile pieced together. "Yes. You pay for the movie ticket and food. You are free to tell me to step out for a bit, and give you and your date space. I don't encourage PDA, but I'm not against it either. It's your date, not mine. And it's ten bucks per hour."

Laughter rumbled in his chest. "You're expensive."

"I'm good at my job," I corrected.

I smoothed the creases of the paper and safely put the contract in my bag where the rest of them sat. I had another client in two hours. Fridays were my busiest nights.

"What's the arranged meeting time between you and your date?" I asked, glancing across for a single female in the crowd.

"You're not even going to introduce yourself?" He didn't even bother to look for his date.

"I like to keep my information personal," I replied, giving a small smile before avoiding any more eye contact. I've learned to not get too deep into a client's personal life.

"C'mon," he persisted and squeezed my hand. "How am I supposed to introduce you to my date?

Introduction? I met his gaze with a deep frown. Usually clients never introduced me to their dates, simply explaining I was their distant relative visiting Canada or the daughter of their dad's friend who was forced to come along.

I couldn't give my real name—I couldn't let my family find out about this business and have rumors spread like wildfire around my high school.

Panic seized my chest and squeezed an answer out of my mouth. "Leia," I told him. Way to go.

"As in the princess—"

"From Star Wars? Yes," I finished his thought.

"Neat." He kept staring at me like I was an exotic bird, horribly fascinated by the way I composed myself. He was probably questioning my morals and why the hell a teenage girl would post an ad in the newspaper and willingly third wheel for strangers.

Sometimes I questioned that myself. Then I'd look down at my hands and the sting of tears would hit my nose, cheeks flushing into a dark red.

I shook off the memory and heard a snippet of his name.

"Harold." He placed his hand out and I examined his farmer hand, hesitantly shaking it as I felt his callouses brush against my palm like sandpaper.

I quickly pulled back and used every ounce of respect in my body not to wipe my hand across my dress.

"That's nice." The ticket booth area now packed, I rose to my tip toes and searched through the sea of heads and shoulders for his supposed date. "Do you know what she's wearing?"

Harold shrugged. "How would I know? This is a blind date."

My eyes widened and I spun my head around. "Remind me again why you want my services?"

"I need you to be that buffer kind of third wheel. In case this date has a shit ton of awkward silence or something, fill it in with small talk or do whatever you do. Or if I just don't get along with them, I get to use you as an excuse to leave. You're my backup. You're my wingman."

"Wingwoman."

"Whatever. Plus, you're my ride home."

"So I'm your chauffeur now?" Fuck, I was going to have to text Luke to pick us up or something. Frustrated by the new addition to the plan, I pulled out my phone and texted my brother.

"Yeah. None of my friends wanted to third wheel. And if this flunks, they'll never stopping bugging the shit out of me about it."

After I sent the text, I shoved my phone back in my bag and started fiddling with my bracelet. "So did she say when she was meeting you? Or what she was going to wear?"

"Actually, I was just going to—"

"There you are," said a voice. Two hands came up behind Harold and grabbed shoulders. "I was looking all over for you. My friend told me you'd come here late, but I guess they were wrong."

Harold's date and I looked up at each other and the colour vanished from both of our faces.

"Luke?!" I exclaimed.

"Leia?!" my brother screamed.

Harold looked between us. "You guys know each other?"

*Want more?

Check out my newest summer read called 'Third Person's the Charm'. Join Leia as she has turned her embarrassing reputation as a Third Wheeler into a money-grabbing phenomenon: Third Person's The Charm; an underground business where high school students pay Leia to third wheel.*

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