This Could Be Us (Skyland, #2)(41)
“Definitely not.” She smiles dreamily. “Josiah is it for me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate when a man like that enters the chat.”
“And he was eating you up with his eyes,” Hendrix says. “I never knew that was a real thing, but he needed a bib to look at you the way he did. Invisible drool everywhere.”
“That makes no sense,” I giggle. “I admit there’s an attraction, but the last thing I need to be thinking about right now is a man.”
“Since you don’t want him,” Hendrix says with a smirk, “tell him I like long walks on the beach and my safe word is Popeyes.”
Who said I don’t want him?
I shut that voice down because what kind of woman thinks about a man romantically in the middle of a DEFCON crisis? When she’s still married to a lying, cheating scumbag of a criminal?
A woman who hasn’t been touched with any real passion in months. Years? How long has it been since things felt right between Edward and me? Now I just want him out of my life, which leaves a void I probably shouldn’t fill with another man right away. I have other things to focus on.
I let my gaze wander the high ceilings and hardwood floors of my foyer, of the house that is my little castle in the world. CalPot may not be taking it, but if I don’t find a way to pay my mortgage, the bank will. Realistically, how long will my savings carry us? Maybe I should be frightened that for the first time everything will fall on me, but the prospect exhilarates me. My whole life is now DIY… or rather DIM. Do it myself because there’s no one else who will.
“So, Hen,” I say, linking one arm through Hendrix’s elbow and the other through Yasmen’s. “You said the seeds of an empire are right here in my house, right?”
“For damn sure.” Hendrix squeezes my arm reassuringly.
I split a smile between my two best friends. “Then let’s grow it.”
PART II
“I am out with lanterns looking for myself.”
—Emily Dickinson, personal correspondence
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SOLEDAD
Eight Months Later
I needed this.” I release a pent-up breath and stretch out on the luxe white rug covering Hendrix’s living room floor. “A night out of my house where no one is calling me Mom or asking me for anything.”
“Honey, you just described my whole life.” Hendrix chuckles. “Welcome to Chez Single Bitch and Glad About It.”
When she passes me a drink, I prop myself up on my elbow to accept the glass with strawberries and lemons afloat in the slightly fizzy liquid. After one sip, I moan, bringing the glass back for another.
“Hen, this is incredible. What is it?”
“Strawberry-lemon prosecco sangria.” She settles on the sleek white couch that dominates her living room. “One of my clients made these at her birthday party last week. Love them so much, had to share.”
“Add this drink to the list of things I needed after the week I’ve had.” I scoot over and rest my back against the couch beside her legs, placing my glass on the coaster on the glass coffee table.
“That’s two of us.” She sets her drink down, too, crossing her legs in the blush-pink silk loungewear I’ve seen on several celebrity favorite things lists.
“You look like an ad for luxury lifestyle,” I tell her, resting my head on her knee.
“What can I say? I am the rich Black girl aesthetic.” She pats her braids, which are pulled into a casually elegant topknot. “Now catch me up on this hellacious week you’ve had.”
I let out a hollow laugh and reach for my drink again. “I’m too exhausted to even tell you how bad it is. You ever just get sick of hearing your own problems? Let’s talk about something else, like dinner. You got eggs? I could make that frittata you like.”
“Forget the frittata. I don’t want to talk about something else. Tell me what’s going on, Sol.”
I lift my head and implore her with a look. “Can we skip it? It’s the same shit you’ve been hearing the last nine months. I don’t have enough money. I may have to pull the girls out of Harrington. All their friends and teachers they love are there, but if it comes to that, I will do it. I’m barely keeping a roof over our heads.”
The same pathetic litany. I shove down the rising anxiety at the thought of the collectors calling, the teetering pile of bills stashed in my bedroom where the girls won’t see it, and my half-empty closet, stocked only with the remnants of my wardrobe I haven’t consigned yet. I’m on the verge of being house poor because I actually started selling furniture from spare bedrooms and other places I could find. One room is completely empty now. I go in there sometimes when I’m alone in the house, staring at the blank white walls as they close in on me.
“The savings running out fast, huh?” Hendrix asks.
“Yeah. CalPot unfroze our accounts, but that just gave me access to what was there. I had a nice little nest egg saved for emergencies, but nine months of emergencies? Not so much.”
“You get any catering jobs this month?”
“I did, a couple here and there, and a bit of interior design work for some of the moms at Harrington. I had my first few sponsored ads on my socials, so thanks for the connection, by the way.”