“Well said,” Hal agrees. “We should add that to the ceiling quotes at the Inn. You’re really on your A game tonight, EJ.”
“I’m always on my A game,” I say. “Except the days I don’t want to be, for risk of my brilliance becoming monotonous.”
“Here,” Tara says, handing us two cocktail glasses, the rims drowned in salt. “I made you the Redstocking.”
“Make one for yourself too,” Hal says. “Per our no-Redstocking-left-behind policy.”
“The only form of governance we tolerate,” I add.
And so, still looking a bit nervous that she might be caught drinking during her shift, Tara hastily conjures up one of her own.
“You gave yourself the worst one,” I observe, trading glasses with her before she can protest.
We raise our glasses and sip. It tastes like the beginning of summer, bright and spritzy with confidence that the best is just beyond the next bend.
“Where are you going?” Hal asks, as I hop off the barstool.
“Mango and Squid,” I explain. “They’ve been home alone for several hours now.” I don’t like the thought that they might feel abandoned. Or a bird might have pecked its way in through the grilled window, on the prowl. Implausible but not impossible.
“They’re goldfish,” Hal says with an exasperated sigh. “They don’t need to be babied.”
“As much as I appreciate your input on my pet parenting abilities,” I say with an upbeat salute as I head out, back toward the Inn, “I’ve got this covered.”
Chapter 16
As the spring days skid along, the guilt starts amping up about holding Mango and Squid hostage. I’m tempted to release them into the East River, but there’s zero chance they’d survive. So I use my Uber profits to buy a massive tank that takes up the entirety of our tiny kitchen counter at the Inn.
As carefully as I can, I transfer the wiggly little loves from the fishbowl into their new home. It takes them some time to realize they have more room to swim, but once they figure it out, they’re all jubilant, showing off how far they can swim and somersault without hitting the walls. Squid is the rascal of the two, playing hide-and-seek in the weeds, nipping at Mango’s tail. Mango doesn’t seem to mind. She likes keeping up.
After feeding them and measuring the pH level of the water, I wash out their old fishbowl and decide to repurpose it into a flower vase. Taking it with me into the back garden, I prepare to fill it with a bouquet of ivy and wildflowers.
Hal is out there in her egg chair, except she’s not alone. There’s someone else squished in next to her. A svelte figure with silky dark hair that falls to her tiny waist, the snatched kind of thing that looks shaped by a rib-crunching corset but seems to just be a by-product of unfair genetics.
“EJ,” Hal says, and it sounds like an accusation. “I didn’t think you were home.”
“Where else would I be?” I ask.
“At the coffee shop or with Chris or something,” she says.
“You know I never hang out with Chris.” It gets me all agitated because I wish this wasn’t the case, but I’m also not going to do anything to change it. “Who’s this?” I ask expectantly because we don’t invite visitors over to the Inn. Hal knows that.
“This is Astrid,” Hal says. “I put in the group chat that she was coming over. We met at a women-in-tech event a few days ago. She’s from Norway, a grad student at NYU’s school of social entrepreneurship.”
Astrid just sits there, looking like a supermodel as she lets Hal deliver her bio. I dislike her straightaway. There’s this stormy energy about her. Usually I’d enjoy that, the potential for thunder and lightning and fire, but not now.
“Very good to meet you,” Astrid says. Her accent is as angular as her cheekbones, and there’s a palpable danger to her beauty. She already seems to have Hal wrapped around her long, bony fingers.
“What’re you two up to?” I ask as caustically as I can so they get the message to relocate, vacate the grounds.
“Working on a pitch deck,” Hal says. “We came up with this idea together last night and we’ve been up all night honing it. It’s like all the others have led me to this one.”
It’s unclear if she’s talking about her failed businesses or failed relationships, and I’m unnerved that she could be referring to either.
I’m not worried because I know how Hal jumps from person to person as quickly as she jumps from start-up to start-up, but it’s still got me on edge a bit.
“Well, you know what they say about mixing business and pleasure,” I warn, hoping this will encourage them to put at least a few inches of separation between their bodies.
“What do they say?” Astrid asks, sounding genuinely curious. Perhaps the adage hasn’t yet reached Norway.
