I look down at the long black skirt I found at a thrift store in California, black tank top with a hole at the bottom, and the flip-flops I bought in every color at the Dollar General. Mary London is in a pink dress with more lace and ruffles than a Laura Ashley bed set.
“Uh, well. I guess I just wear what a lot of women in cities wear. We dress to avoid attention. No one loves a mugging on their way to work.” I attempt a joke, but they all look at me with pity.
Then a memory hits me and I find myself reliving it out loud. “Actually, I remember this one time when I was, like, eight, my dad picked me up for our scheduled dinner and instead of food, he took me to one of his gigs at a bar. I dressed up all pretty in the best Mom could afford. A frilly dress, black Mary Janes that weren’t even that scuffed up, and my favorite necklace I’d made at school during art class. One of his bandmates kept talking about what I was wearing. Said since I liked dresses, they should put me in a miniskirt to work the crowd at their next gig.” Mary London gasps and Palmer lurches forward in her chair like she’s about to go find my father and beat his ass.
I find that my eyes are a bit misty. “I didn’t even know what a miniskirt was, but I knew it wasn’t good. I never did wear a dress after that.”
Anna Claire gets up and crouches down next to me on the couch. “Betsy, sweetie. You’re living your life playing by other people’s rules. You didn’t have safety when you were younger, so it makes sense that you’d want to placate and keep everyone happy, but you’re not a child any longer. You’re a grown woman who is perfectly safe to wear dresses if she wants. You’re old enough to choose good men to date, or a hottie for a one-night stand! None of those choices need to go through the filter of the shitty behavior of the people before you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I should wear a slutty dress, take home a random guy, and flip off the world? I’m really good at that last part.”
The girls chuckle. I guess my reputation for flipping people off has expanded beyond just Silas.
“I think you should do whatever your heart wants without fear from old scripts you didn’t sign up for in the first place.”
There’s silence for a bit while we all absorb that advice. Dang, Anna Claire is a genius. In my hopes of not being like my mother, I went about dating Silas exactly as my mother would! No commitment, just temporary pleasure while it lasted.
Darby Kate downs the last of her sweet tea and clanks the glass on the coffee table. “Tell us what you want, girlie, and we’ll help you make a plan to get it.”
I look around at these ladies I call friends. I think about the man who loves me and is willing to let me go just so I can be happy. The one who puts me before money or reputation. I realize I’m happy. I mean, I miss Silas and want to make things right, but I’m content with the life I’ve built here in Heaven. I have friends. I have a job I’m good at. I have Nana.
And if I get my shit together, maybe I can have Silas too.
I shoot to my feet. “I want to be courted by Silas. For real. For all to see. For me to experience. I want to go on dates and textyou all with how it went and smile up at my ceiling reliving the date after he drops me off.”
Mary London squeals, stands up, and hugs me until I can’t breathe. All of a sudden she pulls back, a gleam in her eye that strikes fear in my heart.
“You need a debutante introduction to the dating world of Heaven, darlin’!”
Oh dear God.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Silas
If miserable had a look,it would be my face. Or perhaps my entire body. I’ve been so down in the doldrums this week, I put on a purple polo with turquoise paisley shorts yesterday, headed for the boutique, and didn’t realize what I was wearing until Darby Kate came in to help for the day and gave me a once-over that curled her lip.
That’s the one thing that’s kept my hope alive this week: the helpers. Someone—and I highly suspect it’s Betsy—has arranged for one person to come in every day this week that Betsy’s called in sick. Monday was my sister. Tuesday was Palmer. Wednesday was Anna Claire. I’m pretty sure Betsy’s out of friends though, so perhaps it’ll be Nana who helps me today.
Why would Betsy send me helpers? Out of guilt? Because I wrote her that check and she feels some sort of misplaced sense of responsibility to make sure the boutique thrives without her? Or because she still cares for me?
My entire state of being at the moment relies on that last assumption being the correct one.
The bell above the door rings out and I turn around, feeling exhausted down to my bones but pasting on a smile anyway. Sales have been amazing this week. We’ve been slammed with customers from the moment we open until after our closing hours. Honestly, without the help Betsy arranged, I’m not sure I would have been able to keep up.
“I’ll fold clothes, but I’m not smiling at anyone and you can’t make me,” Mr. Barrett growls from the doorway, one gnarled hand still on the doorknob like my response might dictate if he stays or leaves.
My smile slides right off my face. Fucking great. Not Nana.Mr. Barrettis my helper today. If I didn’t love her so much, I might kill Betsy for assigning the grumpiest man in Heaven to my boutique.
“You know what, I’m not going to smile either,” I reply, which is apparently the right thing to say. His hand releases the doorknob and he lets the door swing shut as he enters, cane smacking against the polished wood floors with each step.
“I know why I’m unhappy, but what’syourissue?” he asks, stopping on the other side of the counter from me to catch his breath. His lungs wheeze a dangerous tune and he’s squinting through his thick glasses to see me. I’m not sure how much help Mr. Barrett will be…
I run a hand over my chin, surprised to find a week’s worth of whiskers there. Damn. I’ve kind of let myself go, a fact Deuce will pounce on if I happen to see him today. Note to self: avoid Deuce.
“I’ve decided love is best reserved for the youth. Being rejected stings, sure, but it’s also exhausting when you’re older.” Case in point: I’m too tired to come up with a lie and instead spill my guts to a man who doesn’t give one shit about my love life.
Mr. Barrett grunts. He rests his cane against the counter, pulls off his glasses and wipes them down with the tail of hisuntucked denim button-up shirt. I’ve never understood how old people can wear long sleeves in this heat.
