4. Sunnys Neighborhood

four

Violet

You know those days when nothing is going well and everything is falling apart?

Yeah, I love those days. I feel like they really put me to the test. Force me to stay smiling in situations that feel impossible, some sort of twisted positivity game.

"Can you still stay happy with all this bullshit going down? Stay tuned to find out!"

Spoiler Alert: of course I can.

The problem is that, this time, things got a little too bizarre.

I had already dealt with one upset customer, one employee calling in due to COVID, and one little cut on a crazy corgi's paw pad when it came to my attention that I'd massively fucked up.

I don't need Adrian to introduce us, because the second Cam turns around, I realize exactly what had happened.

Cam. As in Cameron. As in Cameron Miller, the dog groomer that Avery hired.

I keep staring at the woman in front of me, hoping her face will distort itself into someone new. Someone different. Someone who wasn't pressed against my body in a bar bathroom last night. But that doesn't happen, of course. Cam blinks up at me with the same dark brown eyes and pretty little lips as she had last night.

I stare, tightening the muscles in my face to form the best smile I can manage under the circumstances. My hand reaches out in a professional gesture, and I thank the universe for programming that into me, because it wasn't a conscious decision.

"Cam," I say, nodding as I accentuate her nickname. Our eyes lock, Cam's widening into giant, terrified saucers. "I've heard a lot about you!"

Cam's hand slides weakly into mine, a montage of memories flooding into my brain from last night. Her smooth fingers gliding against my skin. Her warm breath heating up my neck. Soft sounds of desperation coming from the both of us. We give an awkward handshake before quickly pulling away.

Adrian shoots Cam a look, and at first, I'm terrified Cam might say something. But she stays silent.

When I ran into her, tipping that stupid margarita onto her dress, I wasn't planning on making a move. No, I didn't decide that until we sat down. Her hair was a tangled mess, her features soft and gentle. Despite her smudged mascara, her eyes were like shimmering espresso. When she looked at me the way she did, it felt like the only caffeine I'd ever need. Sweet coral lips and an adorable button nose, this woman looked like someone you'd see on the big screen.

But I didn't make a move on her because she was pretty. Even her exposed skin played no role.

The reason I decided to flirt with this woman was because of her foul-ass attitude.

I like to think of myself as an objectively pleasant person. Even when I don't want to be, I try my hardest to stay in a positive mood.

When I was a kid, I'd stay up and watch this cartoon that only aired at night as I waited for my parents to get home. Sometimes they'd get back at three in the morning, sometimes they wouldn't get back at all. Either way, I watched it. The show was called Sunny's Neighborhood, and it was about a smiley face with arms and legs that walked around his neighborhood and put smiles on everyone's faces, even when they were having a hard day.

Sometimes their dilemma would be simple, like their favorite toy breaking or their stomach hurting. Other times, it would be deeper, like family struggles or bullying. Think Sesame Street, only it's a slightly terrifying animated smiley face. Regardless, Sunny was my childhood mascot.

"Every day's a treat when there's smiles on your street!" he would say. It's kind of a stupid slogan, now that I'm thinking back on it, but for some reason, it stuck with me.

In hindsight, I don't think the show necessarily set the best example. Sunny would make kids smile even when crying or yelling would have been a more appropriate response. But I can't deny that it kind of works for me. It's easier somehow, to just keep smiling. So, because of that, because it's easier, I have the utmost respect for people who wear their emotions on their sleeves.

Respect, admiration, attraction. Whatever.

Yet, somewhere between feeling her tongue against mine and her barging out the bathroom door, I seemed to have made a mistake. What that mistake was, I have no idea. But now, I have to admit that it doesn't feel like a mistake at all. It feels like divine intervention.

I mean, if things had gone further…

"Well," Adrian says, locking their fingers between Cam's. "Cam has a lot to do today, so I'm gonna go get her set up in the salon."

I nod, stepping to the side and giving them both a smile. "Of course!" I say and then wince at how high-pitched my voice comes out. I clear my throat. "Let me know if you need anything."

I have a feeling that Cam will, in fact, not be letting me know.

I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingers and take a slow deep breath to force my body to calm down. Normally, I wouldn't think this was a big deal. Even though I might be slightly humiliated about running off one of the most jaw-dropping women I have ever seen, I can easily move past the awkwardness of things.

What I can't move past is the idea that both of our jobs are at risk if Angela finds out.

I'm so busy scouring the lobby for my misplaced coffee that when a loud melody fills the air around me, for a moment, I don't even realize it's my phone.

I pull it out of my pocket, and my stomach sinks when I read the name across the screen. Speak of the devil.

"Hello?" I say, pressing the cold glass screen to my ear. Where the fuck is my coffee?

"Hi, Violet. It's Angela."

Angela always makes phone calls and sends text messages like the option to program the contact into your phone hasn't been invented yet. She also tends to speak so loudly that it sounds like she's always on speakerphone. I tighten my vocal cords to force an excited and surprised tone, even though I am neither excited nor surprised about this phone call.

"Hi Angela! How's Thailand?"

The great thing about owning a highly profitable business instead of managing it is that you can always be on a cruise somewhere instead of working.

"It's fantastic!" Angela says, her voice nasally and tight. "I'm calling about the text you sent me."

The great thing about texts is that you can just send one back.

"Yes?"

"You want to hire an assistant manager?"

Her tone remains unpleasant but is now mixed with dissatisfaction.

I expected this. Yesterday, I sent Angela a text asking if I could promote one of our supervisors to assistant manager. Between making the schedule, working fifty-hour weeks (or more), handling upset customers, sick employees, injured dogs, and rotating staff, I'm starting to be stretched too thin.

Actually, I've always been stretched too thin at this job. This is just the first time I've stood my ground, demanding help. And for good reason. Despite the generous profit Furry Friends Pet Resort makes (I would know, I handle the communications with her accountant), Angela does not particularly like to fork out extra money. Every dollar is a dollar less she can spend on her next trip around the world.

"Yes," I say. I don't yet elaborate because I know I will just get cut off. I wait for her to snap or yell.

Typically, when I mention anything that involves spending extra money, that's what happens. My eyes scan the office one last time and I finally locate the white paper cup sitting on the front desk next to Martha, our receptionist. I grab it quickly and wave at her before ducking into the back of the facility. Martha loves to eavesdrop.

"And where is that money going to come from?"

Her condescending tone is a step up from the irate screaming I received when I asked if we could purchase new cots. I clear my throat.

"Well, I was thinking… Cam—" The name gets stuck in my throat, and I take a heavy swig of my coffee to wash it down. "The new dog groomer starts today, and she and Avery agreed on a 1099. So, she's paying us salon rent. I figured we could use that money to increase Avery's wage."

"Avery?"

I try not to make my sigh audible. I told her all of this. Four times.

"Yes. I think he's right for the job. He's already a supervisor, so he knows the ins and outs of everything. It wouldn't be a drastic change for him or the team, and the customers love him."

Angela's silence forces me to hold my breath and brace myself for whatever she's going to say next. Avery is by far the bestemployee we have, but Angela isn't a fan. She's only met him once, and she wanted me to fire him immediately after they spoke. Avery is reserved and comes off kind of aloof if you don't know him. But his understanding and genuine love for the dogs makes customers happier than other employees' peppy personalities. I had to show her the twenty-seven five-star reviews we've received specifically mentioning his name to cool her down.

"You'll have to cut labor," she says flatly. "And tell him to smile more. There's no reason someone who looks like thatshould have such a blank face all the time."

I feel my mouth stretch into a smile, but I try not to sound overly excited.

"Okay," I say. "Okay, I will. Thank you."

"Mhm."

My phone beeps, signaling the end of the call, and I quickly down the remainder of my lukewarm coffee before tossing the cup into the garbage can. A wave of relief crashes over me. I've been asking for an assistant manager for two years. Avery already does everything he can to help, but I only let him do so much because it isn't fair to him to not be paid his worth. Now, he can be the same amazing Avery and help me juggle it all. I have a feeling that everything is about to get a whole lot easier.