“You’ve worked what? Like twenty years to become a VP. That deserves a celebration. Plus”—I wink again—“jobs like this keep me in business.”
The anxiety bleeds from her face. “You’re right.” A beat. “On both accounts.”
“Darn right, I am. Now get out there and embrace your awesomeness, and if you do it without hiding in the kitchen for the rest of the night, I’ll make sure some extra quiches make their way into your freezer.”
Her eyes light up. “Really?”
“Consider it my gift, Ms. VP.”
She smiles wide. “You’re the best, Harper.” Then she exhales, smooths down her pretty turquoise dress that complements the bright blue of her eyes and marches back out there.
“Good girl,” I whisper, trailing after her and making the rounds. It’s inefficient to cook, plate, and serve, but despite Clara’s nerves, the party isn’t large—just a gathering of their close friends and family, everyone clearly excited for her.
Plus, no assistant means less overhead, which means more money in my bank account.
Running a small business is hard—my landlord just raised my rent and don’t even get me started on food costs rising (thanks, inflation), but the economy being what it is means that people aren’t throwing catered parties left and right.
I don’t blame them.
If times are tight and someone still wants to celebrate, people cut the extras.
I do too.
I can’t remember the last time I got my hair cut or my nails done.
Everything left over at the end of the month either goes to paying off my student loans and the debts left over from when my mom got sick or toward my business.
I would love to hire a permanent assistant, but the ovens need replacing first. And there are self-employment taxes, rising health care costs—the last being a nonnegotiable expense. Part of the reason things are so hard right now is because my mom lost her insurance. We paid out of pocket for a lot of things and…it still didn’t matter.
She died anyway.
So, on top of everything, I had to find the money for a funeral.
Who knew just burying someone was so expensive?
But I didn’t give up. And I’m slowly crawling my way out.
Because…hustling.
Because a woman always needs a backup plan, needs the ability to support herself, needs to always have a way out.
Even if, sometimes, it would be really nice to have a partner to share the load.
I can’t wait to see you again.
I pause my plating of the slices of delicious lemon torte, piled high with plenty of toasted meringue and breathe.
No shaky hands here as I carefully place the curls of crystallized lemon peel on top of that pillowy meringue.
Nope.
I will not let a man fuck this up for me.
Been there, done that. Got the souvenir heartbreak.
So did my mom.
Go us.
