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“Crazy,” she says with an eye roll. “But it’s all good. Everyone got their booze so the world kept turning.”
“What more can you ask for?”
“A better boss,” she mutters under her breath, then sweeps her gaze from side to side and launches into a litany of how strict her boss is about the schedule, and how now he wants her to work every Friday.
“That sucks,” I say, sympathetically.
“You’re lucky you like your job.”
“Definitely,” I say.
After a pause, she asks quietly, “So, how was it?”
“It was fantastic,” I say in my job interview voice, and I don’t at all say what I feared I would. I rarely do. That doesn’t stop the thoughts from coming though. But I understand them now. I’ve learned how to handle them so they don’t have as much power over me as they once did. I know, too, that I’m in control of my words and my deeds.
I dip into my canvas bag, grab the lavender candle and set it on the bar. “Just a little thanks.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, but her upbeat tone tells me she likes the gift. It’s her signature scent, and I picked it especially for her.
“It was fun.” I draw a quiet, fueling breath. Here goes nothing…and everything. “And hey, I heard there’s another one in two weeks.” I keep it breezy, easy, and in a lower volume I add, “Any chance I can fill in? Especially with the way things are around here.” I gesture subtly to the crowded bar.
Her head tilts. “Really? But why?”
I shrug like it’s no big deal, when it’sall the deal. “It’s a Speakeasy theme. And you know me. I just really like looking at the costumes,” I say with a smile.
I’m not lying. Ilovedressing up.
Scarlett seems to consider it for a second. “Sure. I heard from the couple who runs it that you were really good on the piano.”
I was really good on my knees too.
“Thanks, babe,” I say, then leave, a smile blooming bright and wide once I’m out on the streets of Manhattan.
Too bad, Dad. Looks like Mom was right.
* * *
Another thing my dad says is there are no good reasons to be late, only excuses. So I’m early for poker night as I exit the subway twenty minutes after leaving Better Days then walk a block over to a sleek stretch of Madison Avenue lined with pricy boutiques and chichi cafés.
I spot Camden walking toward me. Like me, she’s carrying a canvas bag. She’s in charge of snacks tonight. I’m responsible for liquor, and my tote holds a boxed sauvignon because boxed wine is more fun. Also, wine openers suck.
I cross the street and stop to give her a hug. When I let go, I reach into my bag foranother bag—a purple one—then hand it to her.
She arches a brow in question but takes the bag with avid eyes. “What’s this?”
“Only the very thing you asked for,” I say with a grin.
Opening the purple sack, she gasps. “You didn’t.”
I shrug, pleased. “I did.”
She paws at the paint-it-on vegan leather pants, the faded black tee with the cut-up neckline, and the studded wristband—the rocker chick outfit she wanted for karaoke. “Seriously. You didn’t have to do that,” she says.
“I know. But it was so very you.” I don’t make a ton of money, but I like to spend my extra on my friends, and, well, on my OCD therapist, Shira.
“Then I will wear the fuck out of this,” Camden declares with a smoky purr, then squeezes my shoulder. “Now, gimme all the details,” she says as we continue to our mutual destination.
“I told you everything yesterday,” I remind her. We turn onto Harlow’s picturesque block, walking under a canopy of honey locust trees. “Or was it so good you want a repeat?”
