Page 46 of Silver Linings
“But?” I coax.
“But I think there’s some jealousy from other designers. Sometimes, I feel like I’m on the design world’s version of Selling Sunset.”
“Are they bullying you?” My hackles start to rise. Kena dealt with enough bullying when we were growing up that just the thought of it happening in our adult life makes me borderline homicidal.
“Calm down,” he laughs. “No one is bullying me. Just petty glances and sharp tongues. It’s a little stressful but also flattering.”
“Okay, but if they–”
“Bring the intensity down. You’re channeling Bob again, and it’s a little scary.”
He always says this when I get defensive of anything. When I argued that Summer is the worst of the four seasons, he likened me to that six pound hell demon. But I stand by my controversial statement. Summer in the city is a sweltering cesspool of humidity, the scent of steaming trash, and under-boob sweat creating a slip-n-slide under your shirt. Sure, the daylight hours are nice, and seasonal depression takes a hike once the sun comes out, but I, for one, am glad it’s the end of September.
“How’s it going at the store?”
“It’s slow progress since we can only do small sections at a time. We painted the left wall behind the register last night, and it already looks so much better.”
“What’s next on the plans?”
“Probably the bookshelves. I think they’re going to take the longest. They’re in bad shape, and a lot of the shelves have to be replaced and painted. They’re bowing under the weight.”
“Are you sure you don’t just want to close down the store for a couple weeks so you can do everything quickly?”
“I can’t afford to.” I look away, knowing he was worried about this very thing happening. “After paying Pat, all my spare cash is going towards the renovation, and I can’t close the store down and still have money to pay Holly and Carmen when the store is barely breaking even on a good day.”
“Is it really that bad?”
“It’s not great. That’s why I need this to succeed. I didn’t realize how bad the store was doing before I took over. Pat never hinted at or wanted us to do anything to increase sales. She always said getting a book in a person’s hand was all that mattered, but the store has been in a deficit more months than not. God,” I drop my head and stare down at my lap, “maybe I was too rash.”
I turn to look at my best friend of over a decade and see compassion lining his features.
“You know how steadfastly you believe I can do anything I want to do? How frequently you’ve told me that over the years?”
“Yeah…”
He grabs my hand and tucks our joined hands against his heart, like whatever he’s about to say, heneedsme to hear, to understand but isn’t sure that I will. “There is not a single thing you can’t do, Silver. The world islimitlessfor you and your potential. All you have to do is reach out and take it...and when you have it—don’t let go.”
I want to say I’m scared—scared that I’ve gotten in too deep, that I’ve taken on a project so big, there’s no possible way I could finish it. That even if I did, it’s destined to fail no matter what. That the anxiety I’ve been hiding from him and everyone else sometimes feels so paralyzing, so isolating, it’s like I’m on the Zero Gravity ride at the fair and it won’t stop spinning. It’ll just go round and round, scrambling my brain until I’m just a husk. I’ll never feel the solid ground again or take a steady breath.
But I don’t.
I do what I always do when someone feels too close to seeing the version of me I want to hide away, even Kena after all these years. Don’t let anyone see how much you may need them, don’t worry the ones whoareclose enough to you to notice. This carefully constructed version of me I give to the world is all for show. I’m so good at it now, I even trick myself.
“You’ve been listening to too many motivational podcasts.” I paste a smile to my face as I pull my hand from his grip and run it through my hair.
Sera comes back into the room carrying a plate of focaccia bread topped with rosemary and a few bowls of her homemade Bolognese.
I reach out with grabby hands like a starving toddler, but before I can grab a bowl, she swats me away like an Italian Nona.
“I’m going to serve my wife first. She’s been working hard on her manuscript all day.”
I harumph and settle back in my seat. “I guess, if you want to be romantic or whatever.”
When she comes back into the room, I sit up again and take one of the steaming bowls of piping hot tagliatelle and meat sauce. Nothing makes me happier than carbs…except maybe sweets.
I’m taking a bite larger than my fist when she asks, “So, Silver, tell me about the sexual tension between you and the handyman.”
I start choking on my dinner while Kena pats my back with too much enthusiasm.
