“I will get started right away, my dear.Don’t you worry about a thing,” he reassures me, pressing the papers to his chest.
“Thanks, Lou, you’re the best,” I reply, meaning every word.
“Yeah, yeah, he’s the best because he’s a man,” Helen says, grabbing her pile with a scowl.“Men don’t give a shit about romance.”
“That’s because, unlike business, romance always has a way of taking care of itself,” Lou counters easily.
“Sure, whatever you say,” she draws out.
“You,” I warn, my tone playful.“I need you to divide that pile in two.One you attach to a clipboard and leave by the cash register, and the other is for you to take home for your neighbors.”
“Don’t you worry, Ames, I’ll make sure you and Matthew come on, come on top, how do you say…?”Helen struggles.
“Please leave.”I groan, bracing my palms on my desk to lean forward, pointing dramatically at the door.“Please have mercy on me and leave.”
“Let’s go, Helen, time’s a-wasting,” Lou coaxes, holding the door open.
“Yeah, I’ll tell you what’s wasting, and it ain’t time,” she retorts, following him out.“Come with me.I’ll give you an envelope for those papers.”
Her voice fades down the hallway as I fall back into my chair.
I let out a long sigh.
The silence in the office no longer feels oppressive.It is charged with purpose.
A plan.
Helpers.
Hope.
It’s a start.
A proper start.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of productivity.Buoyed by the petition and the unwavering support of Lou and Helen, I manage the café with a focus I haven’t felt in weeks.For the first time since the fallout with James, since the threat from Bancroft began, I feel less like a victim backed into a corner and more like a fighter preparing for the ring.
By five-thirty, the pre-dinner lull settles over the café.
Time to go.
Time for my other fight: facing James at The Sterling.
And for that, I need to change.These functional jeans and sweater won’t do.
Leaving Helen in charge, I lock my office, grab my purse, and head out.
I let myself into the apartment.The silence feels different.
A pre-confrontation quiet.
I ignore the lingering evidence of James’s brief, disruptive presence: his empty mug on the coffee table, a blazer hanging haphazardly on a dining chair, a pair of stray socks on the floor.
We haven’t crossed paths since yesterday morning.
Shaking off the faint trace of disgust, I walk into the bedroom.Standing before the closet, the contrast is unavoidable.Wednesday night, getting ready for Matthew, was a whirlwind.A rush of outfits, nervous energy, a confusing flutter of anticipation…
Tonight, preparing to meet James, feels utterly different.There’s no turmoil.My hand moves decisively, bypassing the silks and sequins James prefers, settling instead on a simple, comfortable olive-green knit sweater dress.
