Twelve: Harlow

TWELVE

HARLOW

One week later

S omething sharp and cold poked my stomach.

“Is that woman alive?” someone whispered.

“I think so. Poke her a little harder.”

“Owwww! I rolled over to see Sasha and a stranger standing over me. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Let me know if you need anything.” The guy patted her shoulder before walking away.

“You passed out at Happy Hour,” Sasha said. “You begged me to meet you here, and you haven’t even touched your drink.”

I sat up and looked around, noting the familiar leather booths of Whimstery Cafe.

“How long have I been knocked out?” I asked.

“A couple of hours.” She shrugged. “I had to convince the owner not to call an ambulance. On the plus side, congratulations on making it through your first week!”

“That’s not worth celebrating.”

“Why not?”

“Because tomorrow is my last day.” I was done. “I’m coming clean about my lie the moment I get back, alerting the hiring agency, and collecting what he owes me. Then I’m napping for the rest of the year.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I haven’t showered s ince I started this job, Sasha,” I said. “Because I don’t get more than five minutes to myself a day.”

“That’s more than enough time to take a shower.”

“Even though this man’s babies are cute as hell, they’re so needy.” I was near tears. “When one is sleeping the other is crying and vice versa, and I’m pretty sure his little devil niece is determined to?—”

I stopped talking once she held up the latest copy of Bon Appetit: Pastry Chef Edition .

“Are you seriously willing to kiss your lifelong dream away because you can’t deal with dirty diapers and spit up for two more years?”

“Mr. Dawson believing that he owns my time is the problem.”

“Don’t think about him,” she said. “Besides, he let you get a break today to meet up with me, right?”

I nodded, refusing to tell her that the only reason he’d allowed me to leave was so I could return to my apartment and pack up more clothes.

“I thought so.” She clasped my hand. “Give this job the full two years, one day at a time , and the next kitchen you work in will be yours .”

“A calendar with a negative day countdown would make this less daunting.”

“That’s why I’m your bestie.” She handed me a pastry themed calendar. “You’re welcome.”

“Thank you.” I pulled her into a hug, and she gasped—quickly pushing me back.

“What?”

“No offense,” she said, “But you really need to take a shower. Stat.”

“I don’t smell that bad.”

“I thought the garbage I’d been smelling this whole time was the homeless guy across from us, but it’s you .”

“Stop exaggerating, Sasha. It’s just a light musk and sweat—” I lifted my arms and immediately put them back down. “I’ll go shower now.”

“ Thank you .”