“Perfect,” I say, dropping it into the plastic basket.
I’m moving through the aisles with efficiency. Meanwhile, Lily stops at a rack of designer leftovers, her eyes lighting up with a dangerous glint. “Oh, look at this. It’s a silk shell. Cream-colored. It’s practically a Thompson uniform. Even has the tags still on it. Some poor debutant probably realized it didn’t hide her misery well enough and dumped it here.”
She holds it up to my chest. “It’s your size, Harl. It’s actually nice.”
Lily’s type of humor is the kind that confronts things like a bull.
“No,” I say.
Lily nods, her expression turning serious. She drops the silk back onto the rack like it’s contaminated. “Message received. We’re going for the ‘I fight for kids and I don’t give a damn about your stock portfolio’ look.”
She piles items into my basket with reckless abandon—a corduroy jacket the color of rust, a flannel shirt that smells like someone’s grandfather’s attic, and a collection of chunky, colorful necklaces made of wooden beads and mismatched glass.
Maria finds me a nice pair of heels and flats, and I pick out three plain blouses—gray, black, and pink. Anything but silver or navy.
I’ve been rubbing the base of my ring finger with my thumb for twenty minutes—a habit I didn’t know I’d formed. There’s a pale, thin band of skin where my engagement ring used to sit. It’s a ghost of a mark, a tan line of a mistake. In the harsh fluorescent light of the thrift store, it looks like a scar that hasn’t quite faded.
We reach the counter. The register is an old mechanical kind that pings with every entry. I love it—so much character and history.
The cashier rings up the items. Six dollars. Four dollars. Eight dollars. The most expensive item is a cardigan at fourteen.
The cashier’s gaze flickers to my hand as I count out the twenty-dollar bills. She lingers on the pale circle on my finger. She doesn’t say anything at first, but then she slows down, her movements becoming more deliberate.
“Going through a transition, honey?” she asks, her voice a soft rasp.
Gotta admit, small towns love gossip.
“You could say that.”
“Good for you,” she says, a small, knowing smile touching her lips.
She reaches under the counter and pulls out a small ‘sale’ sign. “Tell you what. We’ve got a ‘New Chapter’ discount today. Let’s knock thirty percent off the total.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—” I start.
“I do,” she says, her eyes crinkling. “I know that look. Wore it myself about twenty years ago.”
I feel a lump in my throat that has nothing to do with Skyler. It’s the unexpected weight of community, of women who recognize the battlefield because they’ve stood on it themselves.
I pay the thirty-two dollars. It’s the best investment I’ve made in a year.
Lily grabs the plastic bags, swinging them with a triumphant flourish. “Next stop: coffee. Real coffee. No offense, Maria.”
Maria chuckles. Her tea is divine, but her coffee always tastes burnt and way too strong.
Dinner isn’t poached salmon on a bed of green beans; it’s lasagna, a heavy, bubbling masterpiece with three kinds of cheese and Maria’s spicy marinara. It smells like a kitchen that’s seen thousands of hours of actual cooking, and the heat rising from the plate is a physical comfort.
We’re sitting around the oak table—the one Dad built with his own hands, the one that’s seen every birthday and every heartbreak. It feels solid under my elbows, a structural certainty in a week that’s been nothing but seismic shifts.
“I’m not doing it,” I say, cutting into the lasagna with more force than the pasta requires. The fork clicks against the ceramic plate. “I refuse to stay in the blue room at the mansion and stare at the wall until I wither away. I’d rather return to work on Monday.” Needing professional clothes was my only setback, but with that out of the way—thanks to thrift shopping—I’m ready.
Lily looks up from her plate, a string of mozzarella hanging from her fork. “Harl, you just had a nervous breakdown on a national stage—well, a Lake Forest stage, which is basically the same thing but with more sequins. Don’t you think you should take a beat? Go to the beach? Drink something with an umbrella in it?”
“Work is the beat, Lil,” I say, and I mean it. I think of the county office. I think of the fluorescent lights and the smell of industrial coffee and the stacks of folders that represent real human crises—crises that don’t care about seating charts. “I’ve spent months being a ‘Thompson-in-training.’ I’ve spent months being managed. I need to be a social worker again. Mrs. Delgadohas a hearing in two weeks. Her husband is trying to use her lack of stable housing against her. I need to make sure that the Thompson grant money is sitting in the right account so her attorneys can bury him in paperwork.”
I take a bite of the lasagna. It’s rich and salty and tastes like home.
“And Skyler?” Maria asks softly. She’s watching me, her eyes observant. “He’s been calling the house every hour. He left a message for your father, too.”
