Six thousand dollars.
I made just over six thousand dollars off my business in the month of May. That’s gross profits, not net, but still, I’ve never made anywhere close to that amount in a single month before.
My sales skyrocketed after taking the online marketing job at Taverne Toulouse. Some of the terms I set before taking it weren’t ideal for Monroe, but I didn’t back down on what I needed, and we reached an agreement that works for both of us. I rearranged my whole schedule to make ecommerce my top priority the way I should have done months ago, and the results are, quite literally, paying off.
I stare at the number in my bank account as I figure out who to call first. This feels like the kind of achievement that requires triumphant phone calls.
I know who Iwantto call. I can practically hear her stream of excited French swear words echoing through the phone. I can feel the weight of her leaping into my arms after rushing over here to congratulate me. I can smell the flowery shampoo scent of her hair. I can taste her tongue in my mouth, imagine her curves under my hands as I’d carry her to bed.
It’s enough to make me feel like the wind has been knocked out of my chest. I grip the edge of my desk, shaking my head. The effect is minimal. The clarity dulls, but the picture is still there. All my senses are reeling from the impact.
It’s been like this for weeks. I lock her up in the back of my head, but she always slips out, like sunlight through the gap beneath a door.
I consider calling my parents, but it’s the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, and they’ll both be at work. I try Hope and don’t get an answer. She texts me a few minutes later and asks if something’s wrong. After telling her I’m fine and have some news about my business, we agree to call tonight.
I head into the kitchen. I’m not even sure if Paige is home, but I rifle around in the freezer, thinking the sound might lure her out to protect her beloved ice cream sandwiches. Her door stays firmly closed. In the end, I settle on calling Dylan. He’s in town for some kind of poetry festival. He and Renee are big in the poetry slam scene, and I’m going to see their features this weekend. I figure he might be free for a celebratory drink in my honor tonight.
“Zacharyyyy,” he drawls into the receiver. “How are you, man?”
“I am...prosperous.”
I hear him chuckle. “Are you running low on words of the day?”
“No, that’s actually accurate. I’m calling to invite you to drinks on me tonight because I am officially a rich bitch.”
“Did you win the lottery?” he demands.
“No, I broke the six K mark on my monthly business income.”
I feel like a kid holding up a painting he’s really proud of, but I have to share this with someone, or I’ll just sit in my apartment all day wishing I could share it with DeeDee.
“No shit!” Dylan exclaims. “Dude, that’s awesome!”
“Not bad for a farm boy,” I joke. “Renee is welcome to come too, of course, if you guys are free. I just thought a little happy hour might be in order.”
“That actually works out perfectly. Renee and I are seeing a movie with one of her friends from school tonight, and we thought we might get drinks beforehand. You should come along! And buy us beer!”
“I feel used.”
“You’re a rich bitch now,” he reminds me. “Get used to it. Renee is going to be really happy—to see you, obviously, but also because her friend felt very awkward about being a third wheel, and now we’ll have a little double date thing going on.”
“Oh.”
The line goes silent for a second.
“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it would be an actual date. I know you’re not...I know it’s only been a month...”
Dylan took one look at me after I walked back into the bar on May Flowers night and demanded to know what the hell was going on. I just wanted to get through my shift and blew him off with a few excuses. I only made it a half an hour into the night before I was so worked up I dropped an entire tray of glassware, tripped on the pieces, and sliced my hand open after landing on the floor. Dylan got most of the story out of me while patching me up in Monroe’s office.
“It’s fine. It’s just...hard.”
“You doing okay?”
“I’m fine.”
I’m not.
“Well maybe tonight will be good for you. It’ll be nice to get out of the house, blow some of that six grand...”
