Or worse. Maybe there was ajumboOregon tree snake.
“Not anymore,” Sullivan said mournfully.
Kia regretted her outburst of snake hate. There was no understanding Sullivan’s apparent grief at this fact, but she was grieving nonetheless. It was written on her face, in her posture. Even her chestnut curls looked sad.
“Eat your Rice Krispies treat,” Kia said gently.
No one had ever looked so deflated by taking a bite of a Rice Krispies treat.
“With the calvados,” Kia urged.
Sullivan took a small sip. There was that hint of grudging admiration behind her sadness, irritation, and defeat. Something in the way Sullivan rolled her eyes said she knew it was the best. They’d never needed a judge to tell them who’d won.
“I’m not going to marry you. That’s not how things work.”Sullivan swallowed a few times. Her jaw tightened. The world didn’t make sense when a brilliant, invincible woman like Sullivan looked so vulnerable.
“Please think about it. I told a lot of people to risk everything because I promised I could give them a better life.”
“But you couldn’t.” Sullivan sounded as sad as she looked. “I’ll drive you back to wherever you parked.”
After all the times Kia had tried to crush Sullivan in the kitchen, seeing her crushed in real life made Kia want to lie down on the floor and cry.
“There’s nothing I can say?” Kia asked.
“Absolutely nothing.”
chapter 8
Early the nextmorning, Sullivan arrived at Margino’s Coffee. The barista sat at the baby grand piano at the front of the coffee shop, plucking out a melody that might have been Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off.” There was no shake, shake, shaking it off for Sullivan. The barista jumped up with a wave. Sullivan ordered for herself and her friends, then dropped her messenger bag on a bay window seat. Margino’s usually cheered her up. The white walls and delicate potted ferns felt cozy in the winter and breezy in the summer. Now it felt like she was watching herself in a dream where everything looked normal, but a dream where you knew that something terrible was about to happen. She stared out the window. Outside, the denizens of Portland’s Pearl District were emerging to walk their purebred dogs, oblivious to the bizarre and depressing turns Sullivan’s life had taken.
Nina arrived a minute later dressed in a butternut squash–colored velour tracksuit.
“Damn, girl. You look some kinda way.” She rested her fists on her ample hips. “It’s not the end of the world.” She squeezed herself onto Sullivan’s window seat, pulled a lipstick out of her purse, and lunged for Sullivan’s face. Sullivan pulled away.
“You can’t face the world without some color on you.” Nina tipped Sullivan’s chin up. “It’ll make you feel better.”
“We don’t exactly wear the same colors.”
“You can make it work. Blot.” Nina handed her a cloth napkin.
Sullivan didn’t have the energy to tell Nina that a lipstick-stained napkin would probably be thrown away, adding to the massive waste produced by the restaurant industry.
Opal banged through the door with a rugby ball under one arm. She dropped the ball as she wrapped her thick arms around Sullivan.
“Were you up all night?” Opal sounded a little teary too. “It’s going to be okay.”
If Mirepoix closed, it’d hurt Opal too. Sullivan felt like an ass for forgetting.
“I’ll make it right, Opal. Maybe this is your chance to open your own place.”
“Oh, honey. I don’t want to open my own place. I want you to have Mirepoix. I wantusto have Mirepoix.”
Opal pulled up a chair in front of the window seat table, nodding her thanks for the triple Americano Sullivan had ordered for her. There was no cause for thanks. The coffee was under-roasted. The foam on Sullivan’s cappuccino clogged her throat.
“Who’re we going to sue?” Nina dropped the lipstick back in her bag.
“There’s no one to sue.” Sullivan stared into her unsatisfying cup.
“There’s always someone to sue.” Nina cradled her London Fog, careful to keep the steam away from her mane of curly hair.
