Page 42

Willa
As I was putting some boxes together, my phone pinged with a text message from Damien.
“It’s from Damien.” I looked at Matt.
“It’s probably an apology text.”
I opened the message and read it. “Shit. What time is the vendor show on Saturday?”
“It’s from ten a.m. to four p.m.,” Matt said. “Why?”
“I have to attend a gala with Damien. He’s picking me up at six o’clock. Shit. That is not going to give me enough time to get ready. What am I going to do?”
“Don’t you worry about that. We’ll figure it out. You know I got you, boo.” He hooked his arm around me.
I spent the rest of the week thinking about and making different boxes for Saturday. I never replied to Damien’s text because—well, I didn’t feel like it. The less contact I had with him, the better off I’d be. The problem was having to attend that gala with him on Saturday night and pretending to be happy.
My phone rang, startling me from my thoughts. Glancing at my phone, I saw it was Damien. Whatever he had to say, he could do it over voicemail. A few moments later, a voice message appeared on my phone. Pressing the button, I listened to it, my stomach clenching at the sound of his voice.
“I don’t appreciate the fact that you didn’t respond to my text message. I’ve waited all week to hear from you and heard nothing. We have a deal, Willa. You better be ready at six o’clock on Saturday night when I come to pick you up, or we’ll have a big problem.”
What he didn’t realize was that he was the big problem. I quickly typed him a message.
I’m very busy with work. I’ll be ready at six o’clock.
Too busy to respond to me?
Yes. You should know that running your own company takes ninety-nine percent of your time.
I’ll see you on Saturday.
“Yeah, asshole. See you on Saturday,” I spoke out loud.
It was Saturday morning. Matt, James, and I were up early and loaded the boxes into a rental truck Matt had reserved. We unloaded the boxes and set up everything at the mall.
“What if people hate what I have to offer?”
“Why do you say that? Your boxes have been a hit so far.”
Three younger women walked over to the table and looked at the boxes.
“What are these?” one of the women asked.
“They’re breakup boxes.” I smiled. “My motto is pack it up and move on.”
“Oh my God, I love this!” one of the other girls exclaimed.
“We have four different boxes.Thanks for the Trauma.The Ghosted Box.I Thought He Was the One Survival Kit. And this one is theActually, I’m Finebox.”
Before I knew it, people gathered around my space, buying up all the boxes I had and placing orders for more. Glancing at my watch, it was three-thirty.
“I have to go and get ready for the gala. Can you two stay and collect orders if anyone wants to place one over the next half an hour?”
“Of course, we can.” Matt grinned. “Today has been a monumental win, and I’m so proud of you.” He hugged me. “Now, go get dolled up for your husband. We got this.”
* * *
Damien