Deuce: You look like the King. Not in his glory days. Toward the end.
I grimace,but that makes my head pound harder, so I smooth out my facial muscles.
Me: You haven’t even seen me, dumbass.
Deuce: I saw how much bubbly you drank last night. You have to be looking rough this morning. I’ll stop by with a Bloody Mary.
I catch a glance of myself in the various mirrors hanging in the boutique, the bright lighting overhead spotlighting just how terrible I feel. The sight of my bloodshot eyes and sallow skin has me turning away in horror. For a second, I wish I didn’t own this boutique and could call in sick like Betsy did.
That was a fun message to wake up to.
Me: I hate you.
Obviously, that was to Deuce. Not Betsy. I don’t hate her at all, not even after she ran out of the restaurant crying because I told her I loved her. I should have known that wouldn’t go over well. Should have listened to my instincts about her behavior the last week.
But no, I had to barrel ahead, pushing for what I wanted to have happen instead of reading her better. I told myself I was giving her what her ex never did, but really, I wasn’t much better than her ex. I told her whatIneeded to hear, which doesn’t really serve her at all, now does it?
Now she can’t stand to see me, and I’ve lost not only the woman I love, but the best damn employee that I’ve ever had. One that’s been integral to our recent success.
I shove my phone under the register and rest my elbows on the counter, face in my hands. “Fuck.”
I could probably fall asleep standing up. Probably would be better than the pounding headache and the twisting stomach I have right now. I get exactly three seconds of peace before there’s a knock at the door. Lifting my fuzzy head, I see a woman waving through the glass with a smile on her face.
Shit.
I have a boutique to run.
I straighten up and plaster on a smile to match hers. My feet move and limbs swing in a coordinated manner until I’m at the door, unlocking it and flipping over the sign toopen. The little bell over the door rings out, the sound piercing this morning.
“Good morning!” the woman trills. “I saw your shop on Instagram and wanted to check it out. Do you still have those cute cuffed wide-leg jeans?”
I nod, but vow to not do that again when my brain sloshes around my skull. Probably swimming in leftover champagne. “We do,” I manage to croak. I show her the rack of jeans and leave her be to shop.
The bell rings over and over again. Women fill my shop, all rabid for clothing we weren’t sure would sell. Fitting rooms are constantly full and go-backs aren’t happening. The ladies are having to manage the fitting room themselves while I man the register. Questions about sizing and colors and fabrics are thrown over the heads of the customers and I have to answer in a shout from behind the counter. It’s mayhem. Chaos. Exhausting. Literally the worst day ever to be hung over and not have Betsy to help out at the boutique.
But I’m pretty sure I deserve it.
I don’t take a lunch. By two my stomach is growling and not in anI’m going to pukekind of way, thank God. I shove a protein bar in my mouth and keep going. Pretty sure my sweat smells a bit like champagne. I’m never drinking that vile stuff again.
Five o’clock hits and there’s a lull in the traffic. I make a beeline for the door and flip the sign toclosed, locking the deadbolt. I know I’m closing an hour early, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I look around at the half-empty racks, the stacks of go-backs waiting for me outside the fitting rooms, and I have a realization that Mama would be so proud of me.
No, not the hangover or the way I’ve run Betsy away.
But of this boutique. And the fact that I stood strong in the face of the hurricane called my father. I kept making the boutique work even as most people would have expected me to go to work for Dad.
Sadly, though, Mama’s pride in me is overshadowed by everything going on with Betsy. Great, I’ve got a successfulboutique, but does that really matter if I don’t have the woman I love in my life any longer?
Because I’m not an idiot. Betsy didn’t just call in sick for today. How can she come back to work for me when I’ve gone and messed everything up? I don’t even blame her for dropping my ass. She asked for no-strings-attached sex and I went and fell in love with her.
There’s a bang on the door while I’m still elbows deep in hanging up go-backs. I crane my neck to see my father on the other side of the glass.
“Really, God?” I grumble toward the ceiling.
Dad sees me and knocks on the glass again, nodding toward the lock. I suck in a fortifying breath and head over there. I let him in, but don’t invite him back. My arms cross over my chest. I’m dead tired and not in the mood to deal with his shit.
“I can’t deal with you today, Dad.”
He’s got that line between his eyebrows, the one that says he’s upset about something I did. I remember growing up learning to watch for that line. If it was present, I knew to steer clear. He holds up both hands, shaking his head.
