Page 2 of Silver Linings
He really doesn’t like it when I call him Bob.
I step away, hands up in surrender. “One day, I’ll get you to love me.”
The only response I get back is a snarl, and my head throbs in reply.
God, I need coffee, perhaps a three gallon IV drip intravenously injected for maximum potency if I’m going to get this ache to finally abate.
Respect the Drip is my favorite coffee shop in the entire city—stepping into their haven is like being enveloped in a hug. The scent is warm and comforting, everyone is smiling and caffeinated, and the baristaabsolutelyknows your coffee orderbecause you are a creature of habit who refuses to try anything else. My best friend, Makena, would argue I need to broaden my horizons—step out of my comfort zone—but why mess with something that’s already perfect?
I drag myself inside, letting the air conditioning wash over my sun-fevered skin in a cooling caress.
“I wondered when I’d see you in,” Dax calls out from behind the counter as he makes someone’s macchiato.
Dax, the owner, became our friend after I painstakingly wore him down over many early morning visits with an unwavering determination to make nice with someone who could always keep me caffeinated. He was there last night celebrating Makena’s promotion, but he left early since he had to be here at five for morning prep work.
Stepping up to the counter, I lean dramatically against the concrete slab. “It was touch-and-go there for a while, I won’t lie.” The Grim Reaper, in all his dark robed glory, made an appearance in my booze induced dreams. When I jolted out of bed this morning, I may have thought I’d been sent straight to hell, but no—that was just construction, so metaphorical hell then.
“You want your usual?” He knows without me having to say anything—I want a toffee nut cold brew with sweet foam on top.
“Please, and a flat white for Holly.”
I pay and step aside, dropping a couple extra bills in their tip jar and waiting for Dax to work his magic on the only hope I have left to cure me.
“What happened with that guy at the bar last night?” Dax asks as he whips up my drink. “It looked like things were escalating when I headed out.”
He’s referring to the corporate analyst I met and then spent the rest of the night kissing. I almost forgot that happened—Iwouldhave forgotten, without the reminder.
I open my mouth to tell him as much before I’m interrupted.
“She left that poor sap high and dry before he could even learn her name. Don’t you know by now, Dax? Our Silver doesn’tdocommitment,” my best friend since grade school, Makena, says from behind me.
What the hell?
I didn’t even see him come in. Why does he look so good? We both went out last night, and we both drank our body weight in G&Ts. So why the hell does his deep brown skin look luminous and hydrated while I look like a bridge troll?
“First off—” I look from Kena to Dax, “—that is absolutely true. I am a hump and dump kind of lady. Secondly—” I round on Kena “—how in the actual hell do you look so good right now? Did you do some kind of ritual sacrifice before you went to bed to look so full of vitality?” Meanwhile,Ilook like a reanimated corpse.
Kena barks out a laugh, a wide smile stretching across his face. “No, honey. I just washed my makeup off and did my skincare before I fell asleep. You should try it some time.” He rolls his eyes with a hint of chastisement.
I want to retort that Ididwash my face, but then I remember it wasn’t until this morning, and I definitely woke up with mascara flakes all over my cheekbones.
“Are you nervous about today?” We both grab our coffee, waving goodbye to Dax, and head out arm in arm towards our destinations—him to catch the train and me towards the bookshop.
Kena and I grew up together in the city, living at The Langham until Nan moved down to Florida and his parents went upstate. Our whole college experience, we lived in my nan’s rent-controlled apartment. It will be a cold day in hell when I leave.
It’s the perfect location, just on the border of West Village and Tribeca, and it’s disgustingly cheap. New Yorkers knowwhen you find a place in a great neighborhood with a good layout and efficient building management, you’re more likely to die there than you are to move.
“I’m pretty anxious,” he admits, pausing before I nudge him to continue. “I guess I just don’t want to mess it up. Maison Atelier has been on the vision board since high school.” His ebony eyes take on a dream-like quality as he smiles softly to himself. “I can still hardly believe it.”
I halt our steps with a hand on his arm. “You are Makena Williams. You have been mixing textiles and patterns since your mom took you to the garment district at age three, and you got lost in a sea of brocade and silk. You have given countless clients their dream home. Hell, you made our apartment a palace when we lived there—not to mention the magic you can work on a flea market flip.”
“I do love a good flea market flip.”
“Everyone does, babe. That’s not the point.” I loop my arm through his, steering us forward and back on to the topic at hand. “You are the most talented designer I know?—”
“I’m the only designer you know.”
I give him a playful shove. “You’re the most talented designer in theworld—”I wave my arms with an exaggerated flourish, “—and clearly, Maison Atelier saw something in you that made them break all their rigid rules for hiring. Be yourself. You shine brightest when you don’t hide.”
