Someone knocks on my doorframe—it’s Shreya, smiling. “Gemma Flores posted about us again.”
I put my phone down, relieved. “Oh, a good post, right?”
She nods as she walks in. “Very good. She’s all in with Peter.”
We sit at my desk as she shows me the latest video Gemma posted—this time with both of them holding hands walking along the beach. She shouts out One & Only and tags us as well.
They look genuinely head over heels in the video and it makes me smile. “Bye to all the fuckboys, am I right?”
Shreya shakes her head. “Please don’t, Cassia.”
“Got it, got it. Did we get a ton more followers?” Our follower count topped out at twenty-two thousand after her first post.
“Beyond. And now we’re booked until the end of summer. The Instagram ads seem to be working well, too. So much traffic is directed from there.” She’s hesitant before she says, “Maybe it’s time to pull the trigger on higher pricing?”
I nod slowly, thinking about it. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
We high-five when there’s another rap on the door and a giant flower arrangement appears, held by Matteo. His face is obscured and his disembodied voice says, “A delivery for you, Cass.”
They both look at me with undisguised curiosity as I pluck out the card tucked into the flowers, taking in a heady whiff of the garden roses and peonies. The loopy cursive on it reads:See you at the Madonna Inn xx DNW
This little acknowledgment from Daniel—that the wedding won’t be easy for me—takes the tension out of my shoulders. His thoughtfulness steadies me.
“Send in the next client,” I say to Shreya.
“Where should I put the flowers?” Matteo complains, still staggering under the weight. I put them on my desk so that I can be reminded of Daniel all day as I find love for other people.
31
After a productive morning of clients and talking new price structures with the Park women, I feel I’ve earned myself an afternoon ride. It rained yesterday so today is basically the perfect L.A. day: crystal clear skies and sunshine for miles. I grab my stuff and try and duck out but Lila spots me first. “Do you have a doctor’s appointment?” She’s mentally going through our work calendar, trying to see if she missed something.
“Oh, no, just taking the afternoon off,” I say as I open the door.
“Huh? Why?” she asks. Matteo sidles up, sensing something mildly dramatic in the air.
I put on my sunglasses with a groan. “Can’t a bitch just leave work early one day?”
“Yes, but notthisbitch,” Matteo says pointing at me.
“I know I’m a cool boss but watch it!” I say as I leave them in the dust. It’s true, I rarely ever duck out of work for any reason other than illness, and I’m sure everyone thinks I’m dying now. I dodge texts from my family and drive home. Between work, Daniel, and this upcoming wedding, I need to clear my head.
As soon as I get inside, I change into shorts and a tank and head to the garage.
The bike ride down the hill is invigorating and does the mental health work it needs to do. In this state, all that exists is me, the wind, the bike beneath me, and my legs moving my body through the world.
Ever since the wedding invite email a few days ago, I’ve been feeling unsettled and worried about seeing Ellis again. In that setting, surrounded by coworkers who last saw me when I was dating Ellis. And I never did send that text.
The best thing about getting older as a woman is that you truly stop caring so much about what other people think about you. My sense of self is pretty crystalized, but it’s not invincible. The idea of everyone thinking I’m some landscape-architect groupie picking through Watson and Associates makes me feel slightly ill.
I decide to ride to Highland Park, a neighborhood at the bottom of my hill where taco trucks bump up against tattoo parlors and fancy bagel shops. I park my bike outside a soft-serve spot, making sure I put a lock on it (learned that lesson the hard way) and feel a blast of air-conditioning as I step into the shop. I order a malt chocolate and vanilla twist with a heaping of rainbow sprinkles. While I watch the teenage girl behind the counter meticulously scoop my sprinkles, a gust of cold air hits the back of my neck as someone walks in.
Before I even see him, I can feel who it is.
Ellis looks at me with sweat dripping off his brow. He’s wearing running shorts and a sweat-soaked T-shirt.
“L.A. is the smallest big town in the world,” I say weakly.
He gives me this little grimace of a smile. “It’s really too much. But also, I live around here.”
