“Were y’all meeting about that thing you were doing for him? Your ‘trial?’” She asks using air quotes.
I nod, nudging a loose pebble along the brick with the toe of my shoe. “Yeah, I was. And it didn’t go swimmingly.”
“You’re going to have to give me more.”
“Iggy was weird, and I’m just not cut out for this, Del. I think at the end of the day, I’m just not cut out for this.”
“Duh,” she says dryly. “I could have told you that. What happened?”
“I didn’t do it,” I say. “Not all the way, anyway.”
Her brows lift. “Meaning?”
“I met Iggy. Sat with him for a minute and we talked.” I shrug, but the tension stays tight in my shoulders. “Something felt off, so I left.”
“Off how?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “He wasn’t nervous exactly. Just distracted. Like he was watching the room instead of listening to me. He kept glancing around, hands never still. I can’t explain it. Just off.”
“So you just left?”
“Yup,” I say. “With the money I was supposed to give him.”
Delphine stops walking.
“You’ve gotta be in or out, girl. You can’t just start making calls. That’s how people disappear into someone else’s mess.”
“Yeah, I guess now I realize that was a bold move,” I say, slower now. “I thought I was being careful.”
She studies my face for a second, then exhales. “Something tells me your father didn’t see it that way.”
“No.” I let out a quiet laugh that holds no humor. “Apparently, thinking is not part of the job description. He made it very clear this morning that I’m not supposed to make calls or decisions if I’m going to do this. I’m supposed to execute.”
“Not surprised. I’m shocked even you didn’t realize that wouldn’t go well,” she says gently.
“It’s so weird. It’s like I hate this stuff and want nothing to do with it. And then on the other hand, I want him to be proud of me, to see that I can bring a different vibe to it.”
We pass a street artist lining up bright canvases along the fence, colors splashed boldly against the iron. A musician tunes his guitar a few steps away, the strings humming softly as he tests the sound.
“Why do you keep trying so hard to please him?” Delphine asks. “You always said you were going to be a sommelier and travel through Italy and France, learning about wine. You don’t want to work with dockworkers, Coco.”
The question punches harder than I would have expected.
“I don’t know,” I say after a beat. “Because he’s my father. Because this is the family I was born into. I mean, people would kill for a silverplatter like this, a secure job in my city. If I can’t handle that, then I’m a failure.”
She nods, accepting the answer for what it is. “I don’t agree with you there. But I know you need to find your way. For what it’s worth, though, I don’t see you negotiatinglabor contracts and shaking hands and wink-winking at the shady shit that goes down in this town.”
“I don’t think I could even if I wanted to,” I say quietly. “I’ve spent my whole life feeling like I’m walking half a step out of rhythm. Like everyone else knows the dance, and I’m just trying not to trip.”
Delphine smiles. “Well, there’s your answer, then.”
“That’s not exactly comforting.”
“I’m just trying to keep it real. I’ll never hold back. You know that.”
We pass a couple arguing in low voices near the fountain, their words swallowed by the music drifting through the square. Kids chase pigeons across the path, laughing like nothing complicated exists beneath the surface of this city.
Delphine glances at me. “You said the same thing after Julian.”
