Page 50 of Tank
Alex and I sit across from several well-dressed, well-heeled, well-meaning members of Boise’s community at a long conference table, our notepads filled with donor commitments and auction item lists.
The rep from Luna Art Gallery, Stacy Demetreo, slides a glossy photo across the table — a gorgeous framed abstract painting, splashes of deep blue and shimmering gold, that either represent hope, the rising sun, or a stack of pancakes with blueberries.
Or maybe I’m just hungry.
“It’s a favorite of mine,” Stacy says with a cheerful smile, as if she has no idea how her generosity could change everything for us. “I hope it helps your cause.”
“We can’t thank you enough,” I tell her, meaning it. If she asked, I’d kiss her right now.
This painting, and the generous share of it that Safe House will get when it sells at our upcoming dinner, is a reason to hope all on its own. Alex, ever the pragmatist, adds it to the list as I watch in disbelief as more promises and offers pour in from around the table.
A few seats over, Nick Valentino from Urban Roots Brewery grins at me like we’re old friends, even though we’ve only met once before. “And I’ll throw in a private beer tasting for twenty. Make it a fun night.”
“Or a messy one,” says the man sitting next to him — Gale McCaughan, the owner of the exclusive spa, ‘Serenity Now.’ “Which is why I’m offering a luxury massage and facial package. Hopefully, whoever wins your beer package will have the sense to swing by my place, too. We do excellent detoxes.”
I laugh, warmth spreading through every part of me as I watch Alex write their donations, our list growing longer and longer while my gratitude grows even faster. With every item on it, my fear of losing everything and losing myself grows a little fainter. I look down at the notepad in front of me, my eyes racing over the auction items as I run a finger up and down the list: a chef’s table dinner at Piccolo’s, VIP theater tickets, a custom silver necklace, a weekend getaway at a boutique hotel. Item after item, promise after promise, support I have barely allowed myself to dream of, all lined up, one right after the other.
Safe House might actually be safe.
By the time the meeting wraps up, I feel like I’m floating.
Alex and I gather our stacks of notes and flyers, and I look over at her, our eyes momentarily meeting in shared disbelief. We leave the meeting room and stride down the hallway. It’s not until we reach my office that the reality of what just happened sinks in, and the door is barely shut before Alex drops everything on the floor, grabs hold of my hands, and pulls me into celebration mode. We both erupt in shrieks of joy. Suddenly, my redheaded, practical, spreadsheet-loving partner in crime and I are jumping up and down like two ecstatic teenagers at a boy-band concert, our pent-up anxiety exploding into euphoric giggles and high-pitched squeals.
“We’re doing it, Bianca!” she shrieks.
And then, for the first time in what feels like forever, I laugh. A real, full-bodied laugh that sweeps through me like a cleansing tide, washing away weeks of sleepless nights, doubt, and desperation. I hardly recognize the sound as it bounces off the office walls because it’s been buried beneath so many layers of fear and guilt. I let it out anyway, again and again, feeling lighter with every breath.
Before I can second-guess it, I bend down, yank open the mini-fridge under my desk, and pull out a bottle of cheap white wine.
“Jesus, I forgot you keep this here,” Alex says through more laughter, reaching for the bottle as if it’s a prized vintage, her grin impossibly wide and contagious.
“Only for special occasions,” I reply, fumbling through the drawer for something to drink out of. I find two mugs — one chipped, the other with a faded motivational quote — and quickly pour.
“To Safe House,” I say.
“To Safe House,” Alex echoes, clinking her mug to mine.
We drink, and I exhale, leaning back in my chair.
Alex eyes me over her rim. “You haven’t looked this happy in a long time.”
I pause. The moment shifts, just slightly. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I say it.
“I met someone.”
Alex’s eyes go wide. “Shut the hell up.”
“It’s… new,” I say carefully, twirling my mug between my fingers. “And I’m cautious, because I’ve learned to be. I’m never making a mistake like that again.”
Alex’s brows furrow, softening. She knows. She remembers. And having her in my life is one reason I survived. “But?”
“But…” I take a slow sip, then admit, “It feels good. Really, really good.”
Alex sets down her mug and pulls me into a hug so warm and genuine that it tugs at something deep inside me. “I’m so happy for you,” she says, her voice full of the friendship that never judges, the kind that knows all the ugly parts and loves you, anyway.
I hug her back, letting myself feel it. Letting myself believe, even if it’s just for tonight, that something good can be real.
Then I yawn so loudly that Alex bursts out laughing.
