She doesn’t answer. Just kisses my chest, soft and noncommittal. And I already know.
Even though we spend the rest of the afternoon and evening tangled in each other, until Hartford is swallowed by night, until we’re both spent and don't have the energy to make up lies or tell the truth, I wake up to an empty bed in the morning.
There’s no note, no number, no last name or way to find out more. Just the imprint of her head on the pillow beside me and the faint smell of her still lingering in the sheets.
And I fear that I was right.
I’m never going to get over how good she makes me feel.
Chapter 9 – Rhiannon
One month later…
???
My email notifications ping as another partnership deal hits my inbox. This time it’s from a company that makes socks.
Socks. Really?
Who knew even socks could be controversial given the right spin.
I laugh as I tab back to my anonymous social media account, now boasting two hundred thousand followers and thirty colorful videos tackling just about every topic you could think of.
My latest post is in indirect response to theLive Like an Influencer’snewest blog entry. The one where they dive into underwear,“We should all be replacing our underwear every six months and only buying ones made of organic cotton material,”it reads.
Sure, that might be a nice luxury if you’ve got the budget to treat underwear like it’s disposable. But for most of us, that kind of upkeep just isn’t practical, or financially realistic, especially when organic cotton comes with a premium price tag.
Plus, who can afford to throw out their underwear twice a year?
My mind drifts to Cain’s boxers that I’m currently wearing at my desk. They’re worn and soft from me sleeping in them constantly the past few months. I guarantee these things aren’t only six months old especially since our one night stand had been almost a year ago.
My rebuttal to their article is a cheeky post offering practical alternatives to the great underwear toss-out debate. My top recommendation: keep wearing the pairs you already have until you can afford to replace them.
I even got a well-known gynecologist, an old friend whom I’ve collaborated with through my therapy practice to make a cameo and say,“Yeah, it’s not a requirement to toss your underwear every six months.”
I hit upload, satisfied with the mix of humor and grounded advice. Before closing my laptop, I switch tabs to our family thrift store’s page. Fitting, really, since both are about giving good things a longer life before tossing them to the dumps.
I’ve just listed a newly refurbished pair of bedside tables, donated by Mrs. Dayton, one of our neighbors, in exchange for Gabriel fixing her kitchen sink. And, of course, Gabriel delivered.
Sanding them smooth, staining the wood a deep walnut, adding new brass hardware that makes them look twice as expensive.
As I scroll through the photos, I wonder if Dad and Mom would be proud of the ways that we’re sacrificing to keep the business alive. I really hope so. Keeping the thrift store running since our parents passed hasn’t been easy, but it’s something the three of us have clung to fiercely. It’s our way of honoring their memory.
If the doors ever close, it’ll be because we made that choice together as a family, not because we let it fall apart due to neglect.
I skim through the latest invoices sent over by Natasha who somehow juggles the roles of operations manager, sales associate, and assistant manager at Brookhaven’s only bar and restaurant,Brookhaven Brews.
According to the September close report, we sold twenty pieces of furniture last month.
It’s not bad for a small town like Brookhaven, but also not great. Especially since a few of those pieces were minor items like light fixtures and door handles. To keep the shop afloat without dipping into our own savings, we need to sell closer to forty pieces.
I rub my temples, trying to figure out where we’re going to get the difference from and decide it’s a discussion I’ll have with Gabriel in the morning.
I like to call these things,future Rhiannon problems.She’ll be better equipped to handle them than the current, completely exhausted and overwhelmed version of me today.
With a sigh, I move to close my laptop when a new email notification pops up on the screen. The subject line catches my eye immediately:“CEASE AND DESIST”—bold andaggressive, courtesy of theLaw Offices of Prescott & Associates, New York City, New York.
I can already tell this isn’t another glowing partnership offer praising my quick wit and hilarious humor online.
