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“You fixed Fiona’s closet.”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d say ‘fixed,’ but I helped her, yes.”
Agnes studies me for a moment, face unreadable. It’s only been a week since I announced I’d start trying to strike out as my own stylist. I’ve had a logo made, a simple, one-page website built, and I’ve started all-new social media business pages. I had no idea how good Simone was at her job until I started working with her. She’s coached me on all types of social media strategies, and even created a framework of a business plan for me to fill out.
I’ve started doing a series of videos on my social media pages where I break down celebrity street-style outfits that work and don’t work, and my following has already grown to a thousand people on all platforms. It’s crazy.
And…I’m having fun. It’s the first thing I’ve done that’s been entirely for me—well, that’s if you don’t count my short tryst with Mac Blair, of course.
But styling—that’s my thing. It’s not related to mom duties, it has nothing to do with art or my ex-husband, and it’s unashamedly girly. Like me. Plus, I get to use my business brain. I remember when Kevin was starting out and I was helping him with bookkeeping and managerial duties. I loved it. It felt like we were building something together.
And now…I get to build something for me.
So when Agnes tilts her head to the side and tells me she wants to hire me, it comes as a shock and a delight all at once.
“I have short, stumpy legs, and I’m sick of looking frumpy,” she tells me.
“Have a seat.” I smile at her, and even though the grumpy older woman doesn’t smile back, her expression softens.
Clothing has the ability to make people feel powerful, confident, or vulnerable and self-conscious. A woman like Agnes, who’s usually hard as nails on the exterior, is exactly the type of client I’d love to help.
I take her through my new intake questionnaire, ask her questions about budget and style, and plan to meet her to go through her closet in a few days. When she gets up to leave, there’s a buzzing in my blood, an excitement I haven’t felt in a long, long time.
I’m doing it. I’m freaking doing it! I have my second client already!
So when Agnes exits the café, I have a broad smile on my face, and it doesn’t even completely fade when my phone rings with Kevin’s name on the screen. Taking a deep breath, I swipe to answer. “Yes?”
“I want to come see another one of Toby’s soccer games, and Katie told me she had a piano recital coming up,” my ex-husband says without preamble. “Can you send me their schedules? If I can make it the same weekend as my gallery opening, even better.”
Let me just get right on that, Mr. Demanding. I’m sure my children’s activities will be happy to reschedule around you.
“One sec. I’m on my laptop right now.” With a few clicks, I’ve got the schedule sent. Then I pause, letting my frustration ebb as I try to find the right words. “The kids will appreciate you showing up again, Kevin.”
What I really want to say is, I’m proud of you for trying. But is that really something that needs praise? For a father to have the slightest bit of interest in his kids’ activities?
Not to mention he’s trying to make it coincide with his own event. So is that even really something that needs to be praised?
He lets out a breath. “Yeah. Okay, well, I’ll let you know when I’m in town. We might need to juggle my weekend around.”
Then he hangs up before I can answer, and I send out a silent thank you that I’m not still married to that man. Life is a lot easier when I don’t have to be his assistant, his mother, and his maid.
Sure, he might have some redeeming qualities, but some other woman can appreciate them from now on.
It’s like a switch flicked in my mind that night of the soccer game. I saw these two men who demanded so much from me, and I realized I didn’t want to carry them on my shoulders. Now, I feel lighter than ever.
Fiona walks into the café in one of her new outfits. It’s nearly November now, and there’s a definite chill in the air. She’s wearing a cropped bomber jacket with a silky scarf, jeans, and cute suede booties. She sheds her jacket to reveal a simple, elegant cardigan-cami combo. I grin when I see the way she tucked the cami just like I showed her.
Seeing me across the café, she spreads her arms and gives me a twirl. “What do you think?”
“Two thumbs up,” I tell her.
Fiona smiles at me, all confidence and swagger, and moves to the till to order her coffee and talk to Sven.
I shut down my computer, pack up, and say goodbye to the girls. And I realize as I’m hugging Fiona goodbye that I no longer think of her as my sister’s friend—she’s my friend too now.
My steps are light as I walk outside, inhaling the crisp scent of autumn, then my heart jags at the sound of a motorcycle.
Damn it.
