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“Did you hear Shayla got engaged?” Charlene mentions since I didn’t.
“Congratulations,” Mom says, not realizing this conversation makes me want to crawl into a hole.
“Thank you. Isn’t it stunning?” Shayla happily holds out her hand, practically shoving the rock in my face.
My mom is overly polite, and her frivolous compliments make me cringe, but I keep the small smile planted on my face. “Yep, it’s gorgeous.”
“Leon proposed at the lake. It was so romantic,” she offers, though I’ve already read all about it and even saw the stupid video she posted. It looked staged, and it might’ve been, considering they’ve only been dating for a year. Any time they’re together at these meetings, Shayla’s treated him like an intern. Even made him hold her oversized Louis Vuitton that cost thousands and snapped at him to get her a skinny latte. What’s even more annoying is how she calls him Leon even though he’s introduced himself more than once as Leonard.
Charlene straightens her stance. “It was such a beautiful day. I think they’re planning a spring wedding. Aren’t you, dear?”
“Yes.” Shayla flashes her overly bright white veneers. “The plan is to be pregnant by next summer. Now that the business has consistently made over six figures, and we’re hovering close to the seven-figure mark, I think it’s time.”
“Plus, you’re not gettin’ any younger. If you want three kids, y’all better start right away,” Charlene adds, then glances at me.
“See, Harper,” Mom butts in. “You could be just like Shayla in a few years.”
I almost die inside but keep my grin planted. Mom thinks Shayla and I are friends, but we’re more rivals than anything. We offer similar products in our online shops, but she’s constantly one-upping me as if we’re competing for the top spot.
“One day. I’d rather focus on growing my business at the moment. I have goals that don’t involve marriage and babies right now,” I add, and the daggers Shayla throws my way make me mentally high-five myself.
“That’s probably a good idea for you,” she offers with a smug expression. Shayla glances back at her ring, then checks her phone. “Anyway. It was so good seeing you, Harper. I’m sure we’ll run into each other online soon.”
“Yep, I’m sure we will,” I grind out between my teeth. Shayla turns on her heels and storms away, and I finally release a breath. I don’t know why I care what she thinks or why I feel the need to prove myself every time she’s around. I’m annoyed.
“They were nice!” Mom tells me, and I almost forgot that I haven’t filled her in on who she actually is, considering she hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting her yet.
“You think?” I ask, sipping my coffee, trying not to smash my cup with my grip.
“Oh yeah. What does she do again?”
“She runs Goat Soap Suds.”
Mom’s eyes widen. “Wait. Shayla’s the owner?”
I nod, wishing we could talk about something else. Anything else.
Mom shakes her head. “Sorry, sweetie. I didn’t realize that was her.”
My mom knows that company tries to steal our customers on a daily basis. I’ve told her how they stalk my social media and consistently copy my ideas. Between ripping off my content and being able to ship their products within twenty-four hours of ordering, it’s hard to stay motivated to keep producing. Shayla has a team of fifteen people who work for her and can do everything faster than I can alone. She’s a bully in the soap community who takes ideas from small businesses, not just mine, and the moment anyone calls her out, her cult following comes for us. It’s disgusting how we have to stay silent to avoid backlash.
She deserves to be punched in the face for all the shit she’s pulled behind the scenes. Thankfully, I can control my true Southern attitude, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it.
“You hungry? Let’s go get something to eat. I heard there’s a great taco place down the street.” Mom quickly changes the subject, which I’m grateful for.
“Yeah, that sounds really good!”
Mom knows the way straight to my heart—tacos.
“Harper!” Mom calls from the back room where we keep the extra inventory for the shop. I finish adjusting my summer display of soaps. “Harper!”
“Okay, okay, coming!” I make my way to the back only to see a collapsed clothes rack with Mom trying to hold it up so the hangers don’t crash to the floor.
I rush forward and lift one end.
“Thank you,” she huffs. “I’m gonna have to stop buying this brand. They’re cheap!”
“Or you could stop putting so much weight on them. Jesus. How many shirts did you have hanging on here?” We lean it against a folding table so we can take off the clothes.
“I should get your father to build me something more sturdy that can handle holding twenty shirts.”
