Page 80 of Six Month Wife

“Why can’t I get this right?” I mutter to myself, leaning back and glaring at the screen.

The wellness logo, a delicate script ofCitrine Botanicals, stares back at me. I erase it and try blocky, modern lettering instead. It looks cold and sterile. Evelyn’s voice echoes in my head.

I shut my laptop with a snap and toss the pillow aside, letting my head fall into my hands.Knockoff.That word burrows deep under my skin, poking at the insecurities I’ve tried so hard to ignore.

I grab my sketchpad and pencil from the coffee table, determined to map out a new concept by hand. If the digital designs aren’t working, maybe this will. I draw a sprig of lavender, thinking it could tie into a natural, calming aesthetic. But it’s lopsided, and the shading is all wrong.

I crumple the page and toss it onto the growing pile on the floor.

“Why can’t I get this right?” I mutter, glaring at the screen.

I grab another piece of paper, my pencil tremblingslightly as I start sketching again. I try a circular design with intertwining flowers, imagining it on a jar of face cream or a bottle of bath oil. For a moment, a flicker of hope shoots through me.

Then I step back and see it. It looks amateurish, like something I would’ve drawn in high school.

The paper joins the pile on the floor.

Tears well up in my eyes, but I blink them away, refusing to let them fall. I’ve cried enough this week. I’ve cried enough this year.

I slam the laptop shut again and throw the sketchpad on top of it.

Nothing is working. Not Citrine, not the branding, not the means-to-an-end marriage. Everything I touch turns into a slow-burning pile of shit.

The deposits from Parker are helping. Two installments in, fifteen total. It's enough to keep the doors open, restock supplies, and pay off the worst of the late invoices. But it’s not enough to solve the problem. It won’t save Citrine.

Still, it buys me time. A little breathing room, a few more weeks to figure out how to make this work—or at least pretend I can.

I’ve thought about it, just handing the whole thing over to Bets. I could let her gut it, rebrand it, sell the name to a wellness chain in Miami, and walk away with a clean break and no more calls about overhead and growth projections.

But the thought of surrendering it to her makes my stomach turn.

I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them as I stare at the pile of crumpled sketches on the floor.

There has to be a way to fix this, to hold on to what I built.

But what if there isn’t?

What if this mess, this sick feeling in my gut, is the part no one comes back from?

22

Parker

The rideto the airport is mercifully short, but Leeland makes it seem infinitely longer.

He’s recounting the dinner with Paul for the third time in two days. It's almost like I'm on the witness stand and he's waiting for a minute detail to change so he can hone in on that.

At least I kept him away from the actual meeting. He insisted on staying in town until it was done "in case I needed him," and we spent the entire afternoon after my shift yesterday poring over every word.

“Had a call with Paul this morning,” he says, like he’s talking about the weather.

My eyes flick over to him. “Why?”

“Just tying up loose ends. Making sure your ducks are in a row. I wanted to help smooth things along.”

“Smooth things?” I echo, suspicion already blooming. "Everything was fine, Dad. I told you that. Why would you do that?"

“Son.” He sighs. “You’re smart, but green. This wholesituation is delicate. One bad step and the board will call it all into question. So I asked Paul for a debrief, that's all.”