I nod, letting the silence settle for a beat. There’s something in her voice—honest, maybe a little bruised, but not bitter.
“Was he right?” I ask softly.
She shrugs. “Apparently. A few months later I got hired by Wonderworld Tours. Best thing that ever happened to me, even though…”
“Even though?”
She winces a little, tugging at a knot in the ribbon.
“At the end of every tour, everyone starts talking about being sad it’s over—but also ready to go home.” She smooths the ribbon over her knee, suddenly very focused on getting it to curl. “And sometimes, I wish…”
She trails off.
I don’t press. But I don’t fill the silence either.
As much as we’ve emailed back and forth, I don’t really know this woman.
But I like her. And I can see the weight behind her smile.
“Where’s home for you?” I ask.
Tay glances up. For a second, I catch something—haunted, flickering—before she masks it with a shrug.
“I don’t know.”
I want to ask about her family, where she grew up, but instead I look down and refocus on the garland, giving her space to circle back if she wants to.
A few minutes pass in quiet rhythm.
“Can you see yourself not living out of a suitcase? Like, is there some desk job—same company, fewer hotel rooms?”
Tay snorts. “God, I couldn’t do a desk job. I’d lose my mind. Tied to a chair, under fluorescent lighting, answering emails from Janet in accounting? No thank you.”
I laugh, and she grins.
“Whatwouldyou do?” I press.
She hesitates. Her eyes dart to the balloon arch, then back to the balloon in her hands. “I mean… I’ve sort of been thinking—just thinking, not planning—about opening a bookstore-slash-wine bar.”
I blink. “Wait, what?”
Tay shrugs like it’s nothing. “Somewhere quiet. Cozy. Books, wine, maybe some live music on Fridays. Nothing big.”
There’s a forced lightness to her voice, like she’s trying to play it off. But her hands have stopped moving. She’s not tying anything. Just holding the half-inflated balloon in her lap.
“And you’ve been saving?”
She nods, one shoulder lifting. “A little. You know. For when I’m ready.”
But a few minutes later, she shifts gears—sort of.
“You’re a business owner. Tell me how you got started. I want to know everything. Your whys, your hows… “
“Well,” I begin, reaching for the last strand of fairy lights, “it started with TikToks. Silly ones—organizing the boys’ room, labeling their LEGO bins. One year, I totally redid the kitchen, bought these cabinets from IKEA, reorganized everything.”
“You did it yourself?”
“Beckett wanted to help, but I insisted he videomedoing it.” God, my followers loved that. “At first, the whole thing felt like a hobby. Something to do during nap time that made me feel… competent. But then a few of the videos kind of took off. And the wild thing? The actual business part wasn’t even my idea.”
