Brittany whips her head toward me so fast it gives me whiplash. “You must be Skylar,” she says, eyes wide and smile bright.
Wait. She knows who I am?
“Yes, I am,” I say, trying to keep it cool, but I’m definitely thrown off. The mother-charity opening line wasn’t her real intention?
“I’m actually starting a new line of upcycled furniture, and I thought it would be such a fun thing for us to talk about!”
Ford scoffs. “You’re here to suck up to my girlfriend?”
I love his protective side—truly, I do. But I’m also so damn curious about her furniture I can’t help myself. Nosy by nature wins. “I’d love to hear about it,” I say.
Ford shoots me awhat the helllook. But I give him one right back that saysTrust me.
“I was really hoping we could chat,” Brittany says, offering her hand.
I take it. Her handshake is limp. I bet her ideas will be too.
“I’m already envisioning ways we can potentially partner, since we’re both in the sustainability space. I just absolutely love what you’re doing,” she says, sounding exactly like the kind of fake-bubbly person who would do…exactly what she’s doing.
“Oh, right. Of course. Because we have so much in common,” I say, egging her on.
“Exactly! When I heard you two were a couple, I immediately thought we could work together. Women supporting women, eco-friendly entrepreneurship—it’s soimportant. That’s why I thought it’d be great if I could develop a partnership with you.”
“Tell me more,” I say, dripping with faux enthusiasm. “Tell me all about what you’re designing.”
She rolls her lips like she’s holding in all her excitement. “I’m designing a line of furniture made from old suitcases!”
Did she really just say that? “Suitcases?” I blink. “Like...actual luggage?”
“Isn’t it brilliant? Just think about it—so many suitcases wind up in landfills. But instead of throwing them away, we can turn them into furniture. Can’t you just imagine an entire house full of couches that used to be suitcases? And we’d be saving the planet together.”
“That’s...incredible to envision,” I say, smiling like I mean it.
“I’m so glad you’re excited! Maybe we could set a time to meet and talk more?”
“Why don’t you have your people call my people?”
She claps like an overeager cheerleader. “I’m totally going to do that! Would you give me your number?”
“Of course, of course,” I say, then shrug apologetically. “I don’t have my phone with me right now, but go ahead and take my number and text me. I’ll answer it later.”
Ford knits his brow. Then I rattle off a number that Ford will instantly know is fake. He snickers as Brittany taps it into her phone.
“I can’t wait to talk more, Skylar,” she says.
“I can’t wait for you to roll out your line of suitcase furniture,” I add with a sugary smile.
“Yay! Me too.” She turns to Ford. “You look different,” she says, tilting her head. “But I can’t quite figure out what it is.”
Ford doesn’t even pause. “I’m happier, Brittany.” Then once more, for good measure, he says, “I’m happier.”
My heart soars. Last week, I’m pretty sure I started letting go of my worries about getting involved with a client and a neighbor. Now, with that lovely word—happier—I can feel myself letting go of the bigger one.
The one that has lived inside me.
Without a second look at his ex, Ford drops a kiss on my cheek and says, “Let’s go, sweetheart.”
I wave goodbye. “Can’t wait to see the chairs made out of carry-ons.”
