ChapterOne
“Beautiful.”
Iturned my head and smiled at my best friend since fourth grade. “She is, isn’tshe?”
Mollypushed her dark curtain of bangs back from her eyes, revealing her heart-shapedface and determined expression. “She better be after everything I’ve done forher.”
Myheart stuttered in my chest, my pulse sped up and hammered excitedly beneath myskin. This was my baby.My life. Andafter today I was one step closer to opening. “You’vedone for her?”
Molly turned and her bright blueeyes widened, twinkling with humor. She waved her still wet paintbrush in theair. “Toher. I meanttoher.” Ignoring my glare, she broughther paintbrush back to her messy palette and swiped the tip in the gloopypaint. “You’d be nothing without me, babe. Who cares what kind of magic you cando inside theShaggin’ Wagon? Nobody would be able tofind you without my perfect signage.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. MollyMaverick was a ridiculous person, and the only reason I still had my sanityafter the past year.
“Can we not refer to my truck as theShaggin’ Wagon? It makes me sound like a hooker.”
Molly’s sideways glance revealed herthoughts. “You could use somehookin’.”
I turned back to the fresh paintglinting in the sunlight, my whole body shivery with anticipation. “The smell.”
She snorted indelicately and pausedher paintbrush midair. “What?”
“They’d find me by the delicious smell.Like little cartoon characters. They would follow their noses right here.” Ipointed at the ground beneath my feet.
She tossed her head back, her longblack hair dancing across her back, and laughed. “If you’re planning on alsohooking, you might not want to advertise the delicious smells.”
I poked her arm. “You’re a pervert,Molly Maverick.”
“But you love me, VeraDelane.”
We shared a conspiratorial grinacknowledging both truths until the bright red lettering Molly had justfinished painting on the side of my truck captured my attention once again. Icouldn’t turn away from it. Or at least not for long. There was finality innaming something. And hope. Something burrowed in the action, pulled from thedecision and conviction that said, “This is mine. I claim you.”
The fresh paint glistened againstthe silver siding. Most of the aluminum sparkled in the afternoon sun, exceptfor the shaded part where my brand new black and white striped awning stretchedalong the row of windows, the frilly edges danced in the stifled summer breeze.The sliding line of windows were all clean corners and modern efficiency, butthe rest of my newly acquired “wagon” winked with a kitschy vintage vibe that Iliked to think mirrored my style.
She really was beautiful. Only mademore perfect by the bright splash of fresh red paint. My insanely talented friendwas an artist by nature and a graphic designer by trade, but her true passion waspainting. And she was absolutely incredible at it.
Which was why I felt no shameexploiting our friendship. Not that Molly had taken much convincing. She wasthe first person I’d shared my crazy food truck idea with, and she was also thefirst person to offer her help when I’d returned home.
Now her retro-inspired design on theside of my truck would attract customers from all over the plaza. My mostoptimistic fantasy pictured them stumbling drunkenly in droves from the barsand clubs that dotted the trendy part of downtown.
Hungry droves.
Probably wishful thinking, but Ididn’t have much to hope for these days. My endeavor withFoodiethe food truck was my last ditch effort to salvage theremnants of my career that had gone terribly wrong in the last few years. Infact, my truck—my very own food truck!—waspretty much all of my dwindled goals and remaining aspirations and savings alltied up into one final push.
If Foodie didn’t make it, I failedtoo.
Which meant what?
I stared at the name I’d carefullypicked after months of planning and dreaming and hoping and tried to picture arealistic future if this desperate venture fizzled—or worse, if it went up inflames just like everything else I’d built my life on.
I couldn’t see anything beyond thistruck. I couldn’t imagine anything butFoodieworking out for me. And it wasn’t for lack of trying.
I thought about this all the time.Concerns, anxiety and the fear of failure kept me awake at night constantly. Mostnights I couldn’t stop staring up at my dark ceiling, trying to reimagine mylife without food or cooking or creating.
And I honestly couldn’t.
This was who I was.
Life could take everything else fromme—my stable future, my expectations, my dream of becoming a noteworthy,decorated chef before I hit thirty, my last dollar… all of it.
