“They’re having a tasting right now,” I said, nodding toward the front. “You could try the actual door. Like a normal person.”
Something crossed her face—shame, maybe. Or frustration. Hard to tell. But she straightened like she was bracing for a fight. “Guess I wasn’t in the mood for a crowd.”
She stepped forward, the building light catching the frizz haloed around her brunette ringlets. Savannah’s humidity had claimed her as its latest victim, curls plastered to her cheeks, dress rumpled like it had given up on the night long before she had. Her shoes dangled from her fingers, the way a girl holds aweapon she’s already surrendered, leaving her bare feet ready to crouch down and jimmy the lock.
She didn’t belong here. Not in this alley. Not fiddling with a locked door under flickering bulbs and the scent of sour wine and rotting wood. She looked like she should be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
She had the kind of face you remembered long after you’d walked away. Big hazel eyes. A mouth with just enough curve to suggest mischief. She looked like trouble pretending to have its shit together.
Before I could say anything, before I could ask why someone so beautiful was hiding in a back alley, no shoes and no shame, she opened her mouth.
“Look, like I said, my friend owns this place. I was just—”
And then something slammed into my shins like a rocket-powered throw pillow.
I stumbled back in time to watch her scrappy little poodle launch itself into a frantic figure-eight around my legs, nails skittering on the pavement, ears flapping like it was gunning for takeoff.
I took a step back, tripped into a precarious stack of barstools, and barely had time to wince before they clattered down like a drunk game of Jenga.
Somewhere between the crash and my muttered, “Oh, for—” she made a sound.
Then she crumpled forward, hands on her knees, and let loose the unmistakable soundtrack of a body staging a full-scale revolt. Directly into the open sculpture frame at my feet. My yearlong masterpiece. Perfect.
Ah, fuck.
It wasn’t the smell or the mess that got me. It was the sheer, unholy timing of it all.
It was a commissioned piece for one of Eunice Wilder’s friends. Lee’s momma had a whole network of them that loved to show off how well they could cut a check. And this one in particular had too much money and not enough taste, redecorating her alimony-funded penthouse after divorce number three. She’d seen one of my pieces at a gallery Magnolia had dragged me to, and next thing I knew, her assistant was sending me Pinterest boards labeled“Mixed Media Madness”and“Moody Metal That Says Healing.”
She wanted a bespoke piece. “Raw but elegant,” she’d said on the phone. “Something that whispers reinvention.” It was meant to sit between her champagne fridge and the antique mirror she swore came from a Tuscan palace. A showpiece for the entryway. A conversation starter. The kind of installation that would impress whoever she invited over next.
Thefuck youpiece she hoped he’d stumble across on Instagram and immediately regret losing all of his money in exchange for a younger woman. Her words. Not mine.
But for me, it had turned into an escape hatch. I kept working on it long after the check had cleared, and I wasn’t done yet. I kept adjusting the angles, smoothing the welds, staring at the shape until I didn’t know exactly what it was I was trying to fix.
It wasn’t just a job. It was the gateway to countless opportunities. If this went right, who knew how many other multi-divorced women would seek me out to decorate their new homes with metal and ungodly amounts of money. Now it was covered in whatever this stranger had eaten for dinner.
I stared, mute. Powerless. Like the universe had kicked me in the shins, too.
The back door ofCheese, Please!banged open and Lee stumbled out, beer in hand, laughter already bubbling from his throat.
“Oh my God,” he called out. “Someone’s hurling into your latest masterpiece.”
He sloshed beer onto his shoes like it was part of the bit. My stomach twisted.
It wasn’t the mess itself; it was the way she sank into it, like everything had finally caught up with her.
“Jesus,” I muttered, stepping forward. “What the hell?”
She lifted her gaze, her skin pale beneath the flush, her eyes glassy but clear enough to know something had gone wrong. Sweat-damp curls clung to her face, and for a second, I thought she might apologize again—but she blinked, unsteady, as if the world had tilted.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice barely audible. Then she bent again, her shoulders rounding as she fought to steady herself.
Lee was already moving. He came back with a stack of napkins and crouched beside her, his voice soft and steady. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, dabbing at her mouth with a cocktail napkin like it might erase the last thirty seconds.
“This is my poodle, Nancy Reagan,” she said, and that was truly the last thing I expected to come tumbling out of her mouth.
