This Could Be Us (Skyland, #2)(42)
She inclines her head. “You know I’mma always look out for you, but it sounds like the expenses are outpacing the income.”
“A little bit.” I draw my knees up and wrap an arm around them. “I’ve gotten more orders for my pear preserves. Once Yas started selling them at Grits, a few other restaurants requested them. I got some personal orders too.”
“That’s great, Sol,” Hendrix says, giving me a little fist bump.
“Yeah, and Yasmen says I could always come work at Grits. Right now, I’m at least making through my side hustles as much as I would at the restaurant, and this way allows me to make my own schedule so I can be there for the girls. It’ll be fine.”
I have no idea if it will or not, or what it will cost me to make things “fine.” Whatever it is, I’ll do it.
“The influencer thing will take off. You’re starting to build an audience,” Hendrix says. “You know I be checking your socials.”
“It’s been a slow start.” I grimace. “But I did set up my storefront, so now when folks see things on my page and use my links to buy them, I get a cut.”
“You just keep sharing good content with your romanticizing your life, but still accessible aesthetic.”
“If by ‘accessible’ you mean broke.” I choke out a laugh. “That’s me. I try to stay consistent, posting my recipes and cleaning hacks and lifestyle stuff. I did a video earlier today making that vinaigrette you guys love so much.”
“And you got a million things like that people will love and spread the word about. It’s only a matter of time.”
My phone buzzes on the floor by my feet, and I glance down at the now-familiar dreaded number, groaning. “Not today, Satan.”
“Who is it?”
“My mortgage company.” I decline the call and reach for my glass again. The glass is not deep enough to drown all my sorrows, but I’m gonna try. “The night shift.”
“Past due?”
I shoot her a glance and take another sip, not wanting to answer. It’s shitty being broke, but being broke with rich friends is a different level of embarrassment. I know Hendrix and Yasmen don’t look down on me, and they know my full story, but it just gets awkward. I’ve found myself refusing to go out because they always want to cover my tab. A night in drinking or a meal at home I can swing. Anything else usually goes beyond my purse’s reach fast these days.
“I believe things will pick up on the influencer end,” she says. “I know you’ve gotten a few small-brand deals, and they were so pleased with the traction on the post. The cool thing these days is that you don’t have to have a huge following to get results for a brand. I think they’ll be back.”
“I agree, and it’s the kind of thing that feels most natural to me. Talking about my fave recipe or cleaning product or Dustbuster or whatever, but the bills keep piling up faster than the money comes in.”
“Let me help.”
My fingers tighten around the fragile stem of the glass. “Thanks, Hen, but you’ve done enough.”
She and Yasmen have helped so much without me having to ask. Groceries from Yasmen have shown up at the house several times. Hendrix has been going around me to sneakily investigate how much Lottie’s gym fees are and pay them. They’re my best friends, and I know I have nothing to be ashamed of, but a helpless rage claws at my heart when I think about how desperate things are getting as the last of my savings dwindles. I can’t just lean on my friends’ generosity indefinitely. I won’t. My eyes burn and I bite my lip to fight back a scream at the unfairness of the situation Edward has left us in.
“This drink is going right through me,” I say, forcing a smile and standing. “Bathroom break.”
I feel Hendrix’s perceptive stare on my back all the way down the hall to her gorgeously appointed powder room. The soft lights rimming the mirror over her sink expose the defeat in my eyes, the bitter set of my lips. I brace my hands on the vanity and stare back at a stranger, a woman who looks lost and let down, my expression belying the high pony tied atop my head this morning in hopes it would make me feel bouncy.
I’m not bouncy.
I’m not buoyant.
I’m sinking.
I’m so fucking tired of holding back my tears for the girls, for my friends, for the moms at Harrington whose judgmental stares noted when I had to trade my new Rover for a secondhand Honda. I had to avert my eyes when I saw someone wearing my favorite off-the-shoulder cashmere sweater. There was the tiniest irregularity in the pattern, so I recognized it immediately. That was my irregularity. I paid four hundred dollars for it and accepted a fraction of its worth at the consignment shop so I could cover the gas bill.
Every month I ask myself how much longer I can hold on to our house. I could sell it and make things easier on myself, but I don’t want easy. I want my home; I want the place in the world I carved out for my family. It holds all our memories, and I’m not ready to surrender it. On some level, I think I just can’t take another loss. The marriage I thought was this family’s anchor forever has dissolved, and even though I know Edward destroyed it, not me, the divorce still left me with an unreasonable sense of failure.
As I stare at that defeated stranger in the mirror, the weariness of just getting up every morning and keeping this ship afloat bends my will. My backbone feels like a Twizzler, and I can barely stand under the weight of impending doom.