“We’re not in the salon.”
“The exercises aren’t location-dependent.” She pulls out her phone, opens what I’m now recognizing as her Bingo tracking app. “You’ve got three squares completed. Time to work on a fourth.”
“Right now?”
“Why not? We’re in a diner an hour from anyone who knows us. Lower stakes than Sorrowville.”
She has a point, which is annoying.
“Which one?”
“Your choice.” She angles the phone so I can see the card. “Pick something that feels doable in this setting.”
I scan the options. Most of them are too intimate for a public space—things that require vulnerability I’m not ready to display in front of Carol and the three other diners currently working on their own pancake mountains.
Then my eyes land on one near the bottom: “Admit you were wrong about something.”
“That one.”
Gisele’s eyebrows rise. “Really?”
“You said pick something doable. I’ve been wrong about plenty of things.”
“Name one.”
The challenge in her voice makes something competitive flare in my chest. “I was wrong about you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Five years ago.” I lean back in the booth, forcing myself to hold her gaze. “When you first opened the salon. I thought it was a bad idea.”
Her expression shifts. “You never said that.”
“Of course I didn’t. It wasn’t my place.” I trace a pattern on the Formica table. “But I thought you were making a mistake. Sinking all your savings into a small-town business when you could have gone somewhere bigger. Done something more impressive.”
“And now?”
“Now I think I was an idiot.” The words come easier than I expected. “You built something that matters. Not just the business—the community around it. People trust you. They come to you with their problems and their celebrations and everything in between. You matter to this town. You matter to—” I stop myself. “You matter.”
“That’s not admitting you were wrong,” she says softly. “That’s complimenting me.”
“It’s both.” I meet her eyes. “I was wrong to doubt you. Wrong to think I knew better. Wrong to assume that success only looks one way.”
The silence that follows is heavy with something I can’t name. Gisele opens her mouth to respond, but Carol chooses that moment to arrive with two plates of pancakes roughly the size of hubcaps.
“Enjoy, sweethearts.” She’s gone before either of us can react.
Gisele stares at her plate. “This is an aggressive amount of food.”
“I warned you about the pancakes.”
“You did not warn me about the pancakes.” She picks up her fork, pokes at the stack experimentally. “This is a punishment disguised as breakfast.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“I’m a dramatic person.” She takes a bite, and her expression shifts. “Oh. Oh, these are actually incredible.”
“Told you.”
