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“I sell candles,” I say finally. “Handmade. Soy wax and essential oils.”
Aria’s eyes light up, surprising me. “Really? That sounds amazing. What kind of scents do you use?”
I warm up to the topic despite my best efforts. “Lavender for peace, cinnamon for warmth, eucalyptus for clarity. Each one has a purpose, you know? It’s not just about smelling nice.”
“That’s incredible,” Aria says, and genuine admiration colors her voice. Her words catch me off guard. “I wish I could do something like that. Something that’s—mine, you know?”
“I suppose.”
She doesn’t get it. She sees creativity and freedom, while I see survival. Each candle isn’t freedom to create—it’s a way to keepthe darkness at bay, to carve out a sliver of control in a world that’s taken almost everything from me.
“I was rude to you.” She ducks her head. “I’m sorry for that.”
“Don’t be. I’m used to people passing me by.”
“Really? That’s so…” She pauses as if choosing her words carefully.
I already know what she’s going to say.
“It’s sad how people treat each other, and it’s no excuse for rudeness. I really am sorry.” Aria smiles, a real smile this time. “When this is all over, remind me to buy a few of your candles. I could use some peace and clarity in my life.”
The sincerity in her voice throws me. I’m not used to people being interested in my work.
“Sure,” I respond with a non-committal shrug.
“How do you make them?” Aria asks, leaning forward. “With the oils and everything?”
As I explain the process, I relax for the first time since this nightmare began. Talking about my candles, about the care and passion I put into each one, feels like a lifeline to what used to be normal.
Aria, to my continued surprise, listens with rapt attention. This moment of connection with someone I thought I’d hate on principle is strange, but as we talk, we’re not so different after all.
We’re both trapped in our own ways, both longing for something more.
I feel a sudden urge to break the tension, to say something ridiculous and see what happens.
“If this whole socialite thing doesn’t work out, you could always be my assistant. I’ll teach you the fine art of dumpster diving for supplies.”
“I can learn the swan dive or cannonball.” She snorts, and suddenly, we’re both laughing—hard, bordering on maniacallaughter that has more to do with stress relief than actual humor.
The image of Aria, in her designer clothes, rooting through trash for supplies is so absurd it sets off another round of giggles.
When we finally catch our breath, Aria looks at me with something close to respect. “You know what? I might take you up on that. Anything’s got to be better than another charity auction. Not to mention, the look on their faces when I tell them about dumpster diving will be worth it.”
“Deal.” I wipe tears from my eyes. “But fair warning: the health benefits package is basically ‘try not to die.’ ”
This sets us off again, our laughter echoing in the too-quiet room. It’s not quite friendship, not yet. But it’s—something; a tiny spark of understanding during chaos.
Right now, I’ll take whatever light I can get.
“Thanks,” she says softly, her voice thick with emotion. “For what you did back there. In the warehouse. And—and on the street. When no one else looked twice, you tried to help me. I don’t think I would have made it without you.”
“Tried being the operative word. I wish I had helped. Instead, they took me with you.”
“And for that, I will always be in your debt. I’m so very sorry all this happened to you. I’ll never be able to repay what you tried to do.”
The sincerity in her voice makes me uncomfortable. I’m not used to gratitude, especially not from people like her. There’s respect in her eyes that I’ve never seen directed at me before. It’s—unsettling.
“Yeah, well…” I shrug, trying to brush it off. “We girls gotta stick together, right? Even if some of us shop at Gucci and others at Goodwill.”