A Slippery Slope

by Tanya Gallagher

  Jackson sets his hands on the top of the case and when I look up I catch a flash of skin between his T-shirt and his jeans, the tiniest bit tan. “We need to talk, Nat.”

  “I’m busy now, Jackson.” Please go away. Please don’t let me break down in front of you.

  “I’m not leaving.” Great.

  Heavy footsteps echo behind me and the back of my neck prickles. “Miss Bloom, you are dismissed for the day.” Spence’s voice is thick with condescension.

  “What?” The shock stings like a slap and the wind goes out of me.

  “Get yourself together and I’ll see you back here for your next shift.”

  I want to sink into the floor. Can I please have an earthquake or a tornado or something else hit so there’s a reason for the way the room starts shaking?

  I stand stiffly and grab my purse from the back room, then stomp toward my car. Jackson intercepts me just outside the front door of the shop.

  “Come on, Nat. We need to make a plan for packing our inventory.”

  I set my jaw and keep walking. “Don’t even with me right now. Thanks to you I just lost two hours of my paycheck today.”

  He opens and closes his fists. “I sent you a message. I told you I was coming.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t see it.” I step around him and reach for the door handle on my car. I slip inside, and before I can protest, Jackson slides into the front seat next to me. I wheel toward him. “What are you doing?”

  He shakes his head at me. “I get that you’re pissed. But we need to be professional here. For the business.”

  I breathe in and out, trying to calm down. I hate that he’s right. Why does he have to press on my weak spots? Why does he have to use this business against me? He doesn’t even want it.

  “Fine,” I huff out. “Buckle your seat belt.”

  “What?” Jackson asks and I turn the ignition. There’s no way I’m having this conversation in a tiny car with him. I need nice, neutral territory. I need some room to breathe.

  “We’re going for a drive.”

  Luckily it’s only five minutes from the Holy Grounds plaza to our destination.

  “Papa Gino’s?” Jackson crosses his arms over his chest.

  “Yes.” It’s the one place I’m sure Mrs. Keaton won’t venture. I can’t have her talking about me anymore. “Just don’t trust the pepperoni.”

  “Good to know.”

  Jackson and I sit at a tiny red-topped table, the smell of cheese leaching into my pores. I nurse a can of Diet Coke, the metallic tang of it cold on my tongue, while Jackson inhales two slices of cheese pizza.

  “So what’s your plan, Jackson?” I frown, worrying the tab on my soda can. The sharp edge of the tab bites into the pad of my thumb.

  “We need to pack the bottles into retail boxes, right?” I nod. “So since they’re going to be delivered to my apartment, I figured we should probably just pack them there.”

  We. I cringe. How do I sit in a room with him and do that? Why does he even want me there with him?

  Jackson wipes a smudge of sauce from the corner of his delicious mouth. “And then we can send everything in to Amazon.”

  I shake my head. “We need to hold at least some of the boxes back for the party and for sales through our website.”

  “Right. We can do that, too.”

  I sigh. “So what did you need to see me for?”

  “We need to figure out when we’re packing.” Again with the we. “Does Tuesday work for you?”

  I curl my toes into the ground. “I’m only free at night.” It’s a lie. I know full well he’s got a shift at Hooligans but I cannot pack lube with him. Not without cracking. And I won’t let him see me cry.

  “I’d really like to work together. We should come up with a consistent QC process.”

  God, why does he have to be right about everything? Why can’t he just let this go?

  “I can’t, Jackson. But we can document everything if you need us to.”

  His face falls like he was holding out hope that I’d magically change my mind or something. “Another impasse, huh?”

  “Looks that way.”

  Jackson closes his eyes and when he opens them again they’re glassy with unshed tears. His voice goes thick. “How do we fix this, Nat?” My heart squeezes in my chest and my throat constricts. “I feel like I lost my business partner and my best friend.”

  “I know,” I whisper, because I feel that way too. But I can’t back down from this. I blink at the neon open sign buzzing in the front window. Think about pizza. Pepperoni, sausage, mushroom, cheese. It doesn’t help. I swipe a hand over my eyes.

  Jackson gives me another sad look and pushes his chair back from the table. “Okay. You can pack on Tuesday.” He bobs his head and reaches into his pocket. Without hesitating he places something silver on the table. “I trust you,” he says and slides me a key.

  Chapter 44

  My future arrives on a Tuesday on a wooden pallet shipped from California, or so Jackson tells me. The text from him pings through as I’m putting together a vendor list for Honey, and when I see Jackson’s name on my phone, my heart seizes up.

  Bottles are here. Want to pack together?

  My answer is yes. But also, no.

  I know Jackson’s offer is a white flag, but I’m not ready to accept it. If I see Jackson we’re just going to go back to the way things were during our fight: we’re going to talk or argue or kiss when we need to work and I’m not ready to go there yet, not with so much on the line.

  My fingers tremble over the keypad of my phone. I’ve got it. I hate feeling like I’m tied to him in this business, and I wish for another desperate moment that my dad had actually stood up for me and that I could just hide out in the safety of the guesthouse until this launch. But the reality is, Jackson is part of everything now. I’d needed him and wanted him. Now I just have to deal with it.

  Fine, comes his tense message. I’m still working tonight. You can use your key.

  Thanks, I send back, but he doesn’t respond again.

  I’m so caught up in the awkwardness of the moment that I almost forget how important his message is. My products. Are here. Something lightens in my chest, ever so slightly. This is real and after all these weeks of dreaming and planning, I’m making it happen. Penchant personal lubricant is an actual product. And in a few short hours I’ll get to hold it in my hands.

  The future’s rushing at me and it feels like a breeze on my face. For the first time in three days, I smile. It’s only later, standing in front of Jackson’s empty apartment, that my smile drops.

  I’m not ready, I’m not ready, I’m not ready. I need to start anyway. I fish the key to Jackson’s apartment out of the pocket of my shorts and take a deep breath before unlocking the door.

  Here is the table, where I ate food I couldn’t taste because all I wanted was him. Here is the kitchen, where we had sex on the floor. And here is the desk, with Jackson’s traitorous computer. Each stupid, everyday object is important in the story of us, and a knife slides between my ribs.

  I squeeze my eyes closed for a second, and when I open them I focus on the reason I’m here. A stack of cardboard shipping boxes sits in the middle of Jackson’s living room, piled nearly chest-high. My supplier sent them on a pallet but I don’t see one anywhere. Did Jackson or the delivery person have to hand-carry each box just to get them inside? I squirm. I should have been here to help. But I’m glad I wasn’t.

  A note with my name on it sits on the coffee table, wedged between a stack of Hooligan’s coasters and a cardboard box. I scan the paper quickly and read Jackson’s scrawl, “Congratulations. Open the box.”

  I use my fingernails to pry the packing tape off the cardboard box and lift out a hot pink box cutter with Penchant monogrammed on it. I laugh when I see the second note: “Don’t you wish you had this two minutes ago?” Yeah, Jackson, I do. Why do you still have to be so nice to me?

  My laugh threatens to turn into
a sob so I step around the coffee table and use my handy new box cutter to slice open a box of lube. I lift out a bottle of Penchant personal lubricant and my heart catches. The bottle is everything I’d hoped—streamlined and classy, with a satisfying weight in my hands. I run my thumb over the fig leaf logo and I can’t help but smile again, doing a little victory dance in the empty apartment.

  I did this. We did. Me and Jackson or Delilah and Skippy, however you want to put it. I have a product to sell and a path to a job that I really, really want. This is my life now.

  I fold one of the retail boxes and slip the bottle inside, then step back and snap a picture of it with my cell phone. One down, two thousand four hundred and ninety-nine bottles left to go. Guess I better get started.

  An hour later, I have about one hundred bottles boxed up and a familiar panic creeps into my chest. I’m not going nearly fast enough. I don’t have twenty-five hours’ worth of time to sit in Jackson’s apartment and pack these up. I want this to be mine so much that I’m strangling it. I’m going to make this fail if I don’t ask for help.

  I send a text to Abby, hoping she’s free. What are you doing right now?

  Chilling with Nico, she answers. What’s up?

  Any chance you want to come to Jackson’s house and pack lube with me? I’m glad she can’t see how close to tears I am.

  With Nico? It’s almost bedtime for him.

  Shoot. I love Nico, but she has a point. He’d probably cause more delays than anything, and it would feel weird to have Nico over at Jackson’s place. Jackson and I are barely talking right now. I don’t know that he’d appreciate a five-year-old bouncing around his things.

  I do the only thing I can think of, picking up the phone to call my dad. “Can you watch Nico for me?” I ask once I get him on the line. “Or, for Abby? So she can help me?”

  I swipe at renegade tear with the edge of my sleeve. He’s going to say no. He’s going to tell me I earned all this stress the second I decided to lie to him. And I do deserve it. I’ve let him down time and again—with school, with coming home, and now with this business that I can’t even handle on my own. I bite the inside of my cheek and taste blood.

  “Slow down, kiddo. What’s wrong?” My dad uses his calmest voice when he responds, the one he used over and over with me after his divorce. The one he used on every bad day, for every scraped knee. A sob constricts my throat and the whole thing spills out of me—how I fought with Jackson and how I can’t count on him right now. How I need to get all of these bottles packed up in the next few days, thanks to Gayle’s deadline. How I have a party to plan and how I need everything ready before then. How I’m sitting alone in Jackson’s living room, freaking the fuck out.

  “I wish I’d known how much you were struggling,” my dad says finally. Instead of making me feel ashamed, for the first time in a while with him, I feel seen. It’s not forgiveness, but it’s a start. “Of course I’ll help.” I hear the sound of car keys clinking. “Tell Abigail I’m on my way.”

  Chapter 45

  Forty minutes and about eighty bottles of lube later, Abby shows up on Jackson’s doorstep wearing a slinky camisole. She’s twisted her hair into two French braids, making her look like a sexy Lolita.

  “You are an angel.” I squish her into a hug. “Thank you.” I am so lucky to have her—my friend who doesn’t question things when I ask her to show up and pack lube. Who only ever supported me from the moment I first dreamed up this crazy business.

  “Thank your dad for watching Nico.” She frowns. “Although he arrived with lollipops and if Nico is up all night, I know who to blame.” Abigail peers over my shoulder, assessing the room. “Swank place.” Then she sees the cardboard tower of doom. “Holy shit, that’s a lot of lube.”

  It absolutely is—enough to fill at least a few inflatable kiddie pools, by my calculations. How many babies will be conceived because of me? Maybe Penchant babies can be the stars of my future marketing campaigns. Ha.

  Abigail and I sit down on the floor, a stack of boxes between us, and soon enough we get a rhythm going. For some reason, having her help pack the bottles into their retail boxes more than doubles my speed.

  “So how are you doing?” she asks a few minutes in.

  “Fine,” I say, too brightly. “Better now that you’re here.”

  “Okay.” She gives me a long look. “Not that I’m not flattered by your invitation to pack lube, but why isn’t Jackson doing this with you instead?” Her voice hardens. “He didn’t bail on you, did he?”

  I cringe. I’m the only one doing the bailing here. I suck in a breath to steady myself. “No, he didn’t bail. Jackson and I are no longer…thinging…so this is a little less messy for everyone.”

  “I’m sorry, babe.”

  I give her a sad smile. “Me too. But it’s better this way. Because, you know, it’s Jackson.”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “You don’t seem very happy. And when you were still, ahem, thinging, you looked like you were ready to take on the world.”

  I felt like it, too. I fold a fresh retail box. “Are you defending Jackson?” Sliding a bottle of lube into the box gives me an excuse not to look her in the eye. “That’s a first.”

  Abigail sighs, reaching for another bottle of lube. “I may not have been entirely fair to Jackson. It’s not that I don’t like him. I just hated seeing you orbit him.”

  “You know me. Just a little satellite.”

  She shakes her head. “No. That’s not what’s happening now. As far as I can tell, you got this business idea on your own, did your research, and found your suppliers. And when you hit a bump you kept going.” She holds up a bottle and a little thrill zings across my chest. It might just be the prettiest bottle of lube I’ve ever seen. “You’ve got an actual product with your company’s name on it,” Abigail says, and I nod in agreement. “You did that, Natalie, and you should be proud. I’m proud of you. Jackson may have helped, but none of this would have happened if not for you.”

  I chew on my bottom lip. “But he’s been part of this all.”

  “Sure,” she agrees. “I don’t think he’s held you back. You’ve been with him and kept going, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “And you’re here now, working your ass off, whether or not Jackson is too.” She presses her lips into a line. “How’d you get in here anyway?”

  “Jackson gave me a key.”

  Abby’s eyes widen. “Damn. That’s a big step.”

  I nod. “We’re supposed to be business partners.” If only I could trust him with anything else. Another tear sneaks out of my eye, rolling down my cheek to plop onto a box. I want to believe him but I can’t.

  “Don’t worry, babe.” Abigail breaks the rhythm of packing to give me a sideways hug. “Just put your time and love where it matters.”

  She’s absolutely right. Which is why the next day, after a late night packing lube, I head into Holy Grounds and track down Mr. Spence.

  He peers at me over the edge of his glasses, taking in the stack of clothes tucked under my arm. “Why aren’t you in your uniform?”

  “I’m putting in my notice.” Hmm, that doesn’t feel as satisfying as I’d hoped. “Actually, I’m quitting. As of today.” Much better.

  My boss eyes me over the pastry case, frowning. “Are you sure?” The crease between his eyes deepens. “Jess called in sick again and I’m going to need you to work. She’s got something really nasty. Spring flu or something.”

  I was only going to work another week until I went back to Boston, anyway, so it’s not like I’m bailing out on this job too early. But while a few extra days at the coffee shop won’t make a huge difference in my paycheck, it could make or break my business.

  “Yeah.” I place my Holy Grounds uniform on the counter. I tilt my chin up at him and smile. “I’m sure.”

  For the first time, quitting doesn’t feel like running away from something. I’m running toward my business, my future, wi
th my arms wide open. I’m pivoting toward something new. I’m Delilah Overbrook. I’m Natalie Bloom.

  I take a deep breath before walking away. The air smells like coffee and dessert, sweet and full of promise. I smile to myself and swing out the door.

  Chapter 46

  19.95.

  I blink at the number on my laptop screen for a minute, then blow out a breath of air and hit refresh again.

  You have one new order totaling $19.95.

  The back end of Penchant’s website doesn’t lie, no matter how many times I click refresh. It’s real. My very first order.

  Yes! It’s about fucking time.

  I push back my chair in the middle of the guesthouse kitchen and dance, a peppy combination of moves I haven’t busted out since middle school and that probably shouldn’t see the light of day. But, whatever. I’m happy.

  Last night I finally pulled the trigger, clicking Accept to make my Amazon listing go live, and then again to launch my lube on Penchant’s website. It felt sort of anticlimactic to watch the screen go from showing nothing to something. This morning, though, one of the bloggers I’d sent a review bottle to finally posted her review and linked to Penchant on Instagram. I wasted no time shouting that shit to the rafters.

  Somehow I’ve managed to get three thousand followers on Instagram, which is peanuts, I know. Still, it’s enough that people are asking about the lube, and when I was able to share the blogger’s review, I’d gotten three hundred likes on my post. And now, this.

  You have one new order totaling $19.95.

  I clutch my phone to my chest and squeal.

  Finally.

  It seems as if I’ve been working toward this forever, but all I can think is that it’s a good sign for the official launch party at the end of the week. Surely if I can sell lube to a stranger in Minnesota, I can sell lube in person to a room full of people who actually want to learn about it.