I don’t bother pulling out one of my sleek satin sets; I gave up on that months ago. Tripp won’t even bother to come up herewhen he gets home. He’ll come in, set down his things, shout ‘goodnight, love you, Jules!’ up the stairs and settle onto the couch for the rest of the night.
As I settle into the bed and pull the blankets up to my chest, Drumstick joins me. His small body curls around itself to tuck into the curve of my arm, and I give his rear end a gentle scratch to thank him for his company.
He’s really Tripp’s cat; they chose each other, and if anything ever happened to Drumstick, Tripp would be a wreck over it, but having him here with me feels like having a part of Tripp with me, and I’ll take any piece of him that I can get anymore.
The house smells like bacon and cheese and coffee - everything delicious in this world - when I wake to the sound of my alarm and throw my feet over the side of the bed. I follow the scent down to the kitchen, where Tripp is working on breakfast with two plates waiting at the table; something that hasn’t happened in a long time.
“You’re up early,” I comment as I settle into my usual seat.
An envelope rests between the plate and the empty glass, which, if he still knows me as well as I think he does, will be filled with orange juice in the next few minutes.
I pick up the envelope, opening it to find a check inside for eight thousand dollars. “What is this?”
“I sold one of the bikes,” he tells me. He brings a carton of orange juice toward the table and begins to fill my glass, and I smile softly at the gesture. “I told you I don’t want to fight with you.”
“This means a lot. This will keep our heads above water.”
My husband is a good man; the best man I’ve ever met, if I’m being truthful. We might fight like cats and dogs lately, and we may even hate each other some days, but his heart is good, andthe gesture of selling one of his motorcycles – one that he’s loved for a long time - is not lost on me.
If I were more comfortable on them, I would have thought about selling our SUV before I ever asked him to give up his shop – or anything else that he loves.
I’ve worried a lot over the last year that I might lose him, that our marriage is beyond saving, but this is one of those small moments which show me that maybe my fears are unwarranted. It shows me that, after everything, he still cares.
It shows me that there might still be even the smallest shred of hope for us.
His lips meet the top of my head before he sits down to join me for a breakfast that is more pleasant than most that we’ve had lately. The last time that we had a nice breakfast together was two months ago, when his brother visited us with his girlfriend and her daughter.
It felt performative then, in that restaurant, but this feels as close to real as possible.
I’m not sure exactly when we drifted away from each other or when we started caring as much as we do about our finances. Neither of us used to care about money at all; as long as we had each other and we could do the things that made us happy, we would be fine, but now…
Everything is a battle. Water pressure in the shower, the grocery list, what we’re having for dinner.
Every day feels more and more like we’re hanging on by a thread.
“I have two six-hours today,” he tells me, sticking a piece of bacon into his mouth. “I might not be home until late.”
Would I notice if he was?
“Okay.” I pick at my plate with my fork for a moment, turning too many thoughts over in my head. “I can bring you lunch.”
“I won’t have time,” he says. Standing, he pulls a deep drink from his glass and sets it on the table, leaning over to kiss the top of my head. “See you tonight. Love you.”
“Yeah,” I nod, my lips pulling into a tight smile. “Me too.”
I watch as he plucks his jacket and helmet from their seemingly-permanent resting place on a chair that sits near our front door, once again leaving me alone in the house.
After clearing the table, refilling Drumstick’s water bowl, and taking a quick shower, I stand in the bathroom, swiping mascara through my eyelashes. I paint my lips a warm cherry red and run a curling iron through my hair to give my locks a nice bouncy curl before tying back the top half with a ribbon, and then I’m out the door.
My salon, like Tripp’s studio, only exists because of my brother-in-law, who gave us the startup money that we needed, and who financially supported us for our first three years here, while we got ourselves established.
When we finally decided to tuck in our feet in Miami, we were down to our last hundred dollars. We were hungry and we were exhausted, but we had dreams, and this was as good a place as any to try to make them come true.
I pull in a breath as I flick the power switch to the overhead lighting, illuminating the flamingo-pink walls and crisp, white furniture waiting inside.
It took some time, but I finally managed to carve out an hour each morning, before everyone else arrives, that I can spend by myself here. I usually spend that hour updating our website and social media pages or balancing our accounts, but every few weeks, I’ll use that hour to put a quick glaze in my hair, especially if I need a pick-me-up.
Today, the hour is dedicated to posting on our social media pages that we’ll be hiring for someone to help work the front desk. It will be bittersweet to give up the job, but I’m grateful forthe need to; needing to leave the desk means that more clients have been filling our seats, and I can’t run both shows on my own, anymore.
