Page 88 of Silver Linings
She looks over then, having spotted us, and jogs over. But instead of directing her attention to Kena like I think she will, she comes to me, face alight with happiness, and rests her free hand on my stomach.
“You have to come see this.” She starts to drag me towards the table she was standing at. “They have mini figurines of celebrities, and look!” She reaches down and grabs a miniature Paul Hollywood, searing demonic blue stare and all. “I’m gonna get him for the bedside table.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “For mine or yours?”
“We can work out a joint custody agreement.”
I can’t help myself—she’s just so fucking adorable, I’ll die if I don’t kiss her. Leaning down, I brush my lips against hers lightly, testing how she feels about public displays of affection. But she leans into me, deepening the kiss in a way that signals I need to pull back now, or this is about to get very inappropriate for a flea market.
She pouts as I retreat but reaches her hand out to wipe her lip balm off my mouth with the pad of her thumb. The move is so familiar and intimate at the same time. I plant a kiss on her forehead, resting my hand on her back as I pull away and look at the employee working the stall. “We’ll take one Hollywood.”
twenty-six
. . .
It’s beenfour weeks of near perfect bliss.
Four weeks of Hendrix taking me on dates, unbelievable nights lost in each other’s bodies, and my personal favorite—waking up next to him. Every time I opened my eyes to see him asleep next to me, chest rising and falling peacefully, I felt the fears and anxieties settle within me. I never want to sleep alone again.
During the day, I work at the bookstore, still yet to be given a new name but with new floorboards, thanks to the damage, and Hendrix works at The Langham. At night, he meets me to finish up the last few things we have to do before the soft reopening, and we almost always get distracted. Sometimes, it’s just talking to each other, discovering new things to fall for, and sometimes, we’re distracted by other, more tantalizing things… Either way, the store is justnearlythere.
Today is the only day I have off before the big day on Saturday, and I’m trying my best to actually relax some, but my body feels like it’s twisted up in knots.
I’ve been running on autopilot for weeks now, working to get everything done and avoiding thinking about what happenswhen it’s actually finished. Namely, the scope of work I’ll have to do just to keep the shop afloat so we all keep our jobs and I don’t let everyone down. All the responsibility falls to my shoulders. But as the philosophers say, I made my bed, or some bullshit to that effect.
For the last week, we’ve been getting word out about the re-opening so we can have a good turnout, mostly by hanging up fliers in cafes and on street lamps around the city. But it’s hard to really market yourself when things still feel incomplete. Holly and Carmen have been hounding me to decide on a new name for the store, but it feels like too big of a decision, too much pressure, and it’s psyching me out. Nothingfeelsright. A new name will set the tone for who we are, whoIam. I’m terrified I’m going to get it wrong before it has a chance to go right. Or maybe that’s my avoidant attachment rising to the surface. Almost like when you find a stray animal and don’t want to give it a name, because then you’ll love it too much before having to give it up.
And the cherry on top of the chaos sundae that is my reckless decisions: I’ve been trying to bring the store into this century by upgrading all of our tech—new phones, point of sale systems, and website—but getting appointments has been a struggle. I’ve managed to get the POS systems installed, and we’ve been uploading inventory and training on it before Saturday comes, but the phone and website still aren’t done. It’s looking like I won’t be able to get someone out until after the party.
Convincing myself it’s not a big deal, that it won’t make or break our success, has been hard when there’s a small, persistent voice in the back of my head, screaming,not enough. Your efforts are not enough. Youarenotenough. That voice sounds disturbingly like my mother.
But then there’s another voice, one that comes in quietly at first, tentative and unsure before it rises in volume, louder than the other, telling me Icando this. That voice…it sounds a littlelike me. It’s me with a choir of my friends behind me, echoing my words. That’s what is keeping me going. The money has run out, my body is tired, and it’s not going to be perfect, but I’m happy. I’mproud—even while I’m scared of screwing it all up. I’ve lived my life keeping everything an arm’s length away from my heart, not committing to anything or anyone, but the store changed that in an instant. It’s mine, for better or worse.
But today is my day off, and I’ve been ordered by pretty much everyone to rest and recharge, since the rest of the week would be so hectic. So far, I have not listened to their advice. In my defense, my apartment is a wreck and in serious need of a deep clean. I’d been spending most of my time either at the store or at Hendrix’s, and as a result, my place has fallen to the wayside. I now have a pile of laundry taller than The Statue of Liberty that I have to tackle in the tenant laundry room today.
I put on my headphones and click play on my latest audiobook, a dark romance, to keep me company as I dart around my modest apartment and get my life sorted out. Clear mind, clear life—or whatever all the lifestyle gurus keep trying to convince me of when I’m doom scrolling at night.
Two hours, a sink full of dishes, a spotless bathroom, and a pristine bedroom later, I’m sorting my mammoth-sized pile of laundry into different categories, when my phone rings, pausing my audiobook. My heart leaps, hoping it’s Hendrix so I can hear his voice. I don’t know when I became a person who looks forward to hearing from a man, but every time he texts me, and I see the picture of me force-feeding him a churro, my own face stuffed full, my heart does a little dance.
I race to the other side of the room to retrieve my phone, expecting to see Hendrix’s exasperated smile looking down at my chipmunk cheeks. Instead, my stomach drops.
A charcoal background with the wordMomlights up the screen.
I stare at the phone until it goes silent once more, screen darkening to black, my face a blurry reflection in the glass with a frown marring my mouth.
A few seconds later, a voicemail notification pops onto the screen. My body reacts instinctively, opening my phone and deleting the message. Whatever she has to say, I’m not interested.
Why haven’t I blocked her? Why does the thought make me queasy?
I reopen my audiobook app and hit play again, letting the narrator’s voice sweep me away as I grab my laundry and head down to the basement.
Silver
What are you wearing?
Hot Handyman
Lederhosen and cowboy boots.
