FIFTEEN
Leilani
I tap at the keys on my laptop, hitting save on the final touches of the Chamber of Commerce project.
Let's hope we win. That ten grand would be a nice chunk of change. As it turns out, a million dollars doesn't go that far when opening a bar. I'm trying hard not to spend a ton of cash, but it's a lost cause. Even though the bar will survive without the money, winning the contest would be a personal triumph of sorts, something that would prove that I'm professional, that I'm an organized business owner, that I'm not just a cute girl who swims underwater.
Remy keeps reassuring me that we've got this, that my bar is that unique, and that our project is so well-done that we're a shoo-in to win the contest.
I'm skeptical, because our competition is stiff. There's a new brewery, an acupuncturist, and a place that sells tiny succulents in cute, little pots. They all seem to have their act together, marketing-wise. The brewer has an MBA. The succulent woman has a background in marketing. Any one of them could win the prize.
I even bought a growler of the beer — it was delicious — and a tiny succulent in a unicorn planter at the Cypress GroveFarmer's Market recently. I'm not sold on the acupuncture, even if Ginger Hastings said it can work miracles with stiff joints.
I look at the little succulent plant, which is sitting in my kitchen window, soaking up the final rays of the day. Actually, Remy had been the one to buy it for me two weeks ago; we'd gone to the market together because he loves the key lime donuts made by this one bakery.
While he'd inhaled three donuts, I'd cooed over the unicorn. And after giving me that grin of his, he'd whipped out a fifty and bought the pretty plant nestled in a plastic, blue, sparkly planter shaped like a unicorn.
"I want my unicorn to have a unicorn," he'd said.
The memory makes my stomach tighten, and not in a good way. I'm his unicorn because I'd agreed to our stupid arrangement. It seemed like a good idea at the time, two months ago.
I navigate over to my email and type Remy's address into the box.
Subject: Chamber Contest
Hey. Here's the final report we need. Talk soon.
Too cold. I erase the message and try again.
Remy-
I'm attaching the final report for the Chamber of Commerce Contest. Please give me your feedback.
-L.
Too formal. Erase. Erase. Erase. I jab the delete key several times.
Remy-
I miss you. Please come over right NOW.
Ugh. No. I can't send that. Anything but that. I'm specifically trying to distance myself from that.
Sighing, I close my laptop and rest my head on my forearms for ten long breaths. Why am I in such a rotten mood?
I sit up and take a sip of my coffee, looking around my kitchen table. It's strewn with notebooks, blueprints of the bar, pens of all colors, and printed spreadsheets. I've been working all day on the project, and have made several lists for the bar, too.
Remy was supposed to help me with this part of our project, but ever since that dinner at his parents' house three days ago, I'd told him that I could handle things on my own. That I'd prefer to write the final report myself.
It was my bar, after all. And I was too busy to hang out, I'd said firmly when he called on Monday.
With a heavy heart, I've buried myself in my work and haven't seen him once.
And I miss him. Maybe this little separation of my own making was unnecessary. I keep thinking of things that I want to talk to him about. Jokes. Stories. Questions about the town.
I miss the way he laughs into my hair when we fall asleep. I miss how we both like movies about aliens. I miss him making slightly burned nachos in my oven.
Grabbing my phone, I swipe to open a text message. Should I ask him over? He'd messaged earlier, asking if I wanted to get together, but I'd demurred, saying that I had too much to do.