Page 44 of Silver Linings

twenty-six

. . .

It’s been four weeks of near perfect bliss.

Four weeks of Hendrix taking me on dates, unbelievable nights lost in each other’s bodies, and my personal favorite—waking up next to him.

Every time I opened my eyes to see him asleep next to me, chest rising and falling peacefully, I felt the fears and anxieties settle within me. I never want to sleep alone again.

During the day, I work at the bookstore, still yet to be given a new name but with new floorboards, thanks to the damage, and Hendrix works at The Langham.

At night, he meets me to finish up the last few things we have to do before the soft reopening, and we almost always get distracted.

Sometimes, it’s just talking to each other, discovering new things to fall for, and sometimes, we’re distracted by other, more tantalizing things…

Either way, the store is just nearly there.

Today is the only day I have off before the big day on Saturday, and I’m trying my best to actually relax some, but my body feels like it’s twisted up in knots.

I’ve been running on autopilot for weeks now, working to get everything done and avoiding thinking about what happens when it’s actually finished.

Namely, the scope of work I’ll have to do just to keep the shop afloat so we all keep our jobs and I don’t let everyone down.

All the responsibility falls to my shoulders.

But as the philosophers say, I made my bed, or some bullshit to that effect.

For the last week, we’ve been getting word out about the re-opening so we can have a good turnout, mostly by hanging up fliers in cafes and on street lamps around the city.

But it’s hard to really market yourself when things still feel incomplete.

Holly and Carmen have been hounding me to decide on a new name for the store, but it feels like too big of a decision, too much pressure, and it’s psyching me out.

Nothing feels right. A new name will set the tone for who we are, who I am.

I’m terrified I’m going to get it wrong before it has a chance to go right.

Or maybe that’s my avoidant attachment rising to the surface.

Almost like when you find a stray animal and don’t want to give it a name, because then you’ll love it too much before having to give it up.

And the cherry on top of the chaos sundae that is my reckless decisions: I’ve been trying to bring the store into this century by upgrading all of our tech—new phones, point of sale systems, and website—but getting appointments has been a struggle.

I’ve managed to get the POS systems installed, and we’ve been uploading inventory and training on it before Saturday comes, but the phone and website still aren’t done.

It’s looking like I won’t be able to get someone out until after the party.

Convincing myself it’s not a big deal, that it won’t make or break our success, has been hard when there’s a small, persistent voice in the back of my head, screaming, not enough. Your efforts are not enough. You are not enough . That voice sounds disturbingly like my mother.

But then there’s another voice, one that comes in quietly at first, tentative and unsure before it rises in volume, louder than the other, telling me I can do this.

That voice…it sounds a little like me. It’s me with a choir of my friends behind me, echoing my words.

That’s what is keeping me going. The money has run out, my body is tired, and it’s not going to be perfect, but I’m happy.

I’m proud —even while I’m scared of screwing it all up.

I’ve lived my life keeping everything an arm’s length away from my heart, not committing to anything or anyone, but the store changed that in an instant. It’s mine, for better or worse.

But today is my day off, and I’ve been ordered by pretty much everyone to rest and recharge, since the rest of the week would be so hectic.

So far, I have not listened to their advice.

In my defense, my apartment is a wreck and in serious need of a deep clean.

I’d been spending most of my time either at the store or at Hendrix’s, and as a result, my place has fallen to the wayside.

I now have a pile of laundry taller than The Statue of Liberty that I have to tackle in the tenant laundry room today.

I put on my headphones and click play on my latest audiobook, a dark romance, to keep me company as I dart around my modest apartment and get my life sorted out. Clear mind, clear life—or whatever all the lifestyle gurus keep trying to convince me of when I’m doom scrolling at night.

Two hours, a sink full of dishes, a spotless bathroom, and a pristine bedroom later, I’m sorting my mammoth-sized pile of laundry into different categories, when my phone rings, pausing my audiobook.

My heart leaps, hoping it’s Hendrix so I can hear his voice.

I don’t know when I became a person who looks forward to hearing from a man, but every time he texts me, and I see the picture of me force-feeding him a churro, my own face stuffed full, my heart does a little dance.

I race to the other side of the room to retrieve my phone, expecting to see Hendrix’s exasperated smile looking down at my chipmunk cheeks. Instead, my stomach drops.

A charcoal background with the word Mom lights up the screen.

I stare at the phone until it goes silent once more, screen darkening to black, my face a blurry reflection in the glass with a frown marring my mouth.

A few seconds later, a voicemail notification pops onto the screen. My body reacts instinctively, opening my phone and deleting the message. Whatever she has to say, I’m not interested.

Why haven’t I blocked her? Why does the thought make me queasy?

I reopen my audiobook app and hit play again, letting the narrator’s voice sweep me away as I grab my laundry and head down to the basement.

Silver

What are you wearing?

Hot Handyman

Lederhosen and cowboy boots.

Silver

Stop. The visual image is too sexy. I’m getting turned on.

Hot Handyman

Then I shouldn’t mention I’ve got the hat to match the shoes to wear later?

Silver

Now you’re just teasing me.

Hot Handyman

I’d never joke about your pleasure, Sunshine.

Well. Now I actually am a little flustered.

I’ve been in the building basement, doing laundry, for an hour now, and not a single person has come in here.

Logically, I know I could go back upstairs, wait out the cycle, and come back down, but I just…

I don’t want to be in there right now. After the phone call came in, I needed to put some distance between myself and the place where my good day collapsed, at least for now.

Silver

What are you doing?

Hot Handyman

Snaking a drain in 9F.

Silver

I know another drain you could snake.

Hot Handyman

Are you trying to give me a semi next to sweet old Mrs. Reinbeck?

Silver

I don’t kink shame.

Hot Handyman

You’re insane.

Silver

Do you have a full day?

Hot Handyman

This is my last scheduled work order. I’ll just hang around until my shift is up.

Silver

Or…

Hot Handyman

Why does that ‘or’ make me nervous?

Silver

You could come hang out with me in the laundry room.

Hot Handyman

I don’t know if that’s a great idea, since I’m not actually supposed to talk to you.

Silver

Seems a moot point when you were screaming my name last night.

Hot Handyman

Fuck.

Silver

C’mon. Break the rules and come hang out with me. I’ll behave.

Hot Handyman

Somehow, I doubt that’s true.

I’ll be there in 15 minutes.

I’m giggling as I put a finished load in the dryer then replace the now-empty washer with another load of colors.

This room is far from luxurious. If even a single light went out, it would be quite creepy in here, with its low ceilings, dark stone walls, and singular metal table in the middle of the small room—not to mention the ominous chill from the lack of a radiator.

As we creep further into November, it gets more and more drafty down here.

The door creaks open, and my heart jumps, but as I turn around, my heart sinks when I see Mrs. Evans walk in, wicker laundry basket in hand.

She gives me a derisive sneer as she ambles toward an open machine, taking her time transferring her clothes.

I pray to whoever will listen that she doesn’t linger.

The door creaks open for the second time in minutes, and both me and Mrs. Evans look to the door to see Hendrix stepping through. He sees me and smiles, and then he sees Joyce in the room and freezes for a second, unsure of what to do.

He coughs into his hand to hide his smile, nodding his head at us both. “Just here to check on some…things.”

“No one cares,” Mrs. Evans chides, now aggressively tossing the last of her clothes into the machine and slamming the door shut.

Hendrix starts tinkering around with random objects, tapping on machines with his hammer, checking coils behind the dryers, anything he can think of to bring validity to his story. I have to turn around to hide my silent laughter at his lackluster attempt at a ruse.

Mrs. Evans decides to leave, but not before eyeing my outfit head to toe, her features screwing up in disgust. I inch my way over towards where he’s standing, and the second the door clicks shut, I’m throwing my arms around his neck in an aggressive hug, his strong arms winding around my waist and squeezing tightly.

“I missed you too,” he huffs into my neck.

I pull back and kiss him sweetly before untangling myself. He leans with his back on one of the unused machines, and I hop on the metal folding table across from it so we’re facing each other.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” My voice comes out too high, and his stare says he’s unconvinced.

“You never have to hide from me. I want all of you, good and bad. There’s nothing you can say that will scare me away from you, Sunshine. I’m not going anywhere.”

I suck in a deep breath. “My mom called…just before I came down here.”