“Maman, she’s a princess!” she screams as she runs back to her parents.
I look up and see the mom mouthing merci to me before they all move on.
Roxanne has this sappy look on her face when I get back to the bench. “That was adorable!”
“She was très mignon,” I agree.
“You should have hair dyeing business cards,” Roxanne jokes. “You could have scored yourself a new client there.”
“Hmm.” I tap my chin and pretend to think about it. “Seems like she wanted to steal my look, though.”
We watch the crowds pass by for a few minutes. I know she was only joking, but Roxanne has the wheels of my brain turning.
“Maybe this is a weird thing to say,” she announces, “but I just want you to know I’m really proud of you. I know it all seems hard and maybe even a little pointless right now, and not that you need my affirmation, but I think you made the right choice. I’m really excited to see where you go from here, and I’ll be here to cheer you on.”
I lean in and throw my arms around her.
“Merci, ma belle.” I pull back, grinning ear to ear as I think of the little girl’s face lighting up when she saw my hair. “I’m excited too.”
Twenty-Three
Zach
FROST: the act of freezing a glass to create a layer of frost before pouring a drink inside
Six thousand dollars.
I made just over six thousand dollars off my business in the month of May. That’s gross profits, not net, but still, I’ve never made anywhere close to that amount in a single month before.
My sales skyrocketed after taking the online marketing job at Taverne Toulouse. Some of the terms I set before taking it weren’t ideal for Monroe, but I didn’t back down on what I needed, and we reached an agreement that works for both of us. I rearranged my whole schedule to make ecommerce my top priority the way I should have done months ago, and the results are, quite literally, paying off.
I stare at the number in my bank account as I figure out who to call first. This feels like the kind of achievement that requires triumphant phone calls.
I know who I want to call. I can practically hear her stream of excited French swear words echoing through the phone. I can feel the weight of her leaping into my arms after rushing over here to congratulate me. I can smell the flowery shampoo scent of her hair. I can taste her tongue in my mouth, imagine her curves under my hands as I’d carry her to bed.
It’s enough to make me feel like the wind has been knocked out of my chest. I grip the edge of my desk, shaking my head. The effect is minimal. The clarity dulls, but the picture is still there. All my senses are reeling from the impact.
It’s been like this for weeks. I lock her up in the back of my head, but she always slips out, like sunlight through the gap beneath a door.
I consider calling my parents, but it’s the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, and they’ll both be at work. I try Hope and don’t get an answer. She texts me a few minutes later and asks if something’s wrong. After telling her I’m fine and have some news about my business, we agree to call tonight.
I head into the kitchen. I’m not even sure if Paige is home, but I rifle around in the freezer, thinking the sound might lure her out to protect her beloved ice cream sandwiches. Her door stays firmly closed. In the end, I settle on calling Dylan. He’s in town for some kind of poetry festival. He and Renee are big in the poetry slam scene, and I’m going to see their features this weekend. I figure he might be free for a celebratory drink in my honor tonight.
“Zacharyyyy,” he drawls into the receiver. “How are you, man?”
“I am...prosperous.”
I hear him chuckle. “Are you running low on words of the day?”
“No, that’s actually accurate. I’m calling to invite you to drinks on me tonight because I am officially a rich bitch.”
“Did you win the lottery?” he demands.
“No, I broke the six K mark on my monthly business income.”
I feel like a kid holding up a painting he’s really proud of, but I have to share this with someone, or I’ll just sit in my apartment all day wishing I could share it with DeeDee.
“No shit!” Dylan exclaims. “Dude, that’s awesome!”
“Not bad for a farm boy,” I joke. “Renee is welcome to come too, of course, if you guys are free. I just thought a little happy hour might be in order.”
“That actually works out perfectly. Renee and I are seeing a movie with one of her friends from school tonight, and we thought we might get drinks beforehand. You should come along! And buy us beer!”
“I feel used.”
“You’re a rich bitch now,” he reminds me. “Get used to it. Renee is going to be really happy—to see you, obviously, but also because her friend felt very awkward about being a third wheel, and now we’ll have a little double date thing going on.”
“Oh.”
The line goes silent for a second.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it would be an actual date. I know you’re not...I know it’s only been a month...”
Dylan took one look at me after I walked back into the bar on May Flowers night and demanded to know what the hell was going on. I just wanted to get through my shift and blew him off with a few excuses. I only made it a half an hour into the night before I was so worked up I dropped an entire tray of glassware, tripped on the pieces, and sliced my hand open after landing on the floor. Dylan got most of the story out of me while patching me up in Monroe’s office.
“It’s fine. It’s just...hard.”
“You doing okay?”
“I’m fine.”
I’m not.
“Well maybe tonight will be good for you. It’ll be nice to get out of the house, blow some of that six grand...”
“I still feel used,” I joke.
“Like I said, get used to it.”
He gives me the details for tonight before hanging up.
I put an upbeat playlist on and crack down on my work for the day, doing my best to feel as psyched as I should be. Paige emerges from her lair while I’m making pasta for dinner a couple hours later, and she accepts my invitation to have some. She seems genuinely excited when our small talk leads to me telling her about the six grand, and my mouth nearly falls off my face in shock when she gets up after we’ve finished our pasta and asks if I’d like an ice cream sandwich.
“Do I really deserve that honor? It’s only six grand.”
She treats her ice cream like it’s worth double that.
“I’m not giving you an ice cream sandwich because of your accomplishments,” she says like it should be obvious. She pushes up the sleeves of her hoodie and pulls the box out of the freezer. “I’m giving it to you because you just made more money than you’ve ever made before, and you still look so fucking sad.”
Well then.
“So this is a pity offering?”
“It’s a ‘get on with your life’ offering.”
I make a show out of wincing. “Wow. Ouch, Paige”