Her expression is all determination as she pushes her sleeves up her forearms and plants herself across from me like an official guide to the world of journals. “Say less, sis. Let’s check this one off your list.”
I love this woman’s take-charge energy.
She’s still nodding as she gathers her wispy braids and twists them into a massive bun atop her head. After plucking a pencil from behind her ear, she fixes her hair in place, as if she needs more room to think. “I’ve only got a few more options to narrow it down.”
Syd, I learn, is her name, and she turns out to be a godsend. After a thorough process of elimination—based on color, prefilled options, and inspirational highlights—I finally select a gorgeous lavender leather journal. The cover is engraved with the wordsReclaim Your Joyin a shimmery gold metallic.
“It’s perfect!” I squeal, genuinely happy.
She winks and dusts off her shoulder. “It really is, friend.Andthere’s a buy-one-get-one-free sale right now. You’re sure I can’t get you a romance journal, in case you have a little summer fling going on?”
A full belly laugh rumbles out of me, and I can’t fault the girl for trying. But also, why is she so hellbent on selling me a love journal? Is she…flirting with me?
I flash her a nervous smile. “Thank you, but I’m good.”
Dipping her chin, she screws her deep burgundy lips to the side, reading my expression for truth. “I’m being so real.The Storyof Us.Love Letters to My Future Husband…” She lifts the deep red one in her left hand and twists the pink one in her right. “You look like a woman who has a new boo in her life. Just out here on a Tuesday, glowing with all that melanin.”
I’m holding my side, gasping for air and grateful I won’t have to turn this sweet girl down. “You are too much!”
“And really great at reading folks.” She tilts her head, fixing me with an intense gaze. “You’re really telling me that’s not ‘new love’ written all over your face? You weren’t just over here daydreaming?” Syd deepens her stare like she will pry an answer out of me if she has to. “No lie, you’ve got this soft red aura.”
“Yeah?”
Another customer enters the boutique, and I do my best to recompose myself, but I’m still breathless as I grab a project-based journal and follow Syd over to the counter to ring up my purchase. I feel giddy and accomplished, like I’m making real progress with Savannah’s homework. But also, like a higher power ensured Syd’s and my paths crossed today.
I needed her lightness.
“Ooh,chile.” I lean on the counter, my breathing finally starting to even out as I ignore the umpteenth call from Mom. She’s eager to discuss my “new boo’s” threat to a chance of my reuniting with Julian, no doubt. After his “I won’t give up” spiel, I’m sure the whisper network has reached her.
Leave amessage after the tone, please.
I’m all smiles, browsing small trinkets and magnetic bookmarks, thinking about what a great self-care decision it was coming here before my hair appointment and making my first journal entry at the salon a few blocks away. But then Syd moves in my periphery, stealing my attention.
What the…
A cold sensation washes over me as I lock eyes with her. She’s still holding her phone.
“Did you…just take my picture?” My mouth falls open, confusion drawing my eyebrows together as I watch Syd—the same woman I was just so grateful to for helping me pick out a journal, for being so kind to me—freeze, guilty as all get-out.
And that’s when I see it.
Nestled among the collage of stickers plastered inside her clear phone case, in the bottom-right corner, Pepto Bismol-pink and glittery, is #TeamNora.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
My heartplummetsstraight into my stomach.
“Sorry, I just…” She falters, perhaps realizing how stupid she sounds trying to deny it when Iwatchedher, right here, focus, aim, and snap an unsolicited photo of me—pre-salon appointment, no less—that’s probably going to end up on the gossip blogs, or worse, as some viral meme for Azalea and Yvette to dissect onThe Morning Tea.
She shoves her phone into her pocket, rushes to the cash register, and scans the barcodes like she’s praying I didn’t just catch her in the act.
I track her every move as she bags the journals, silently daring her to forget my BOGO discount and find out.
“These are great choices.” She tosses me an awkward smile. “I hope you really love them.”
Oh, I’ll bet you do.
The initial shock starts to wear off, giving way to a fiery heat creeping up my neck. I’m pissed now, standing here in disbelief. This woman—this undercover, low-class, trifling Internet troll—had the audacity to snap photos of me at herplace of employment?
