A Slippery Slope

by Tanya Gallagher

  In a week, my little two-bedroom in Coolidge Corner will be ready for me and Mandy to move in. It even has the perfect corner for Precious, who’s looking better every day. I have no idea how I’m going to get a pallet of lube inside, but that’s a problem for a different day. Hopefully by the time I move in, I’ll be making livable money off of Penchant and be back to a writing schedule. But with the heavy box in my arms, all I feel is empty. The $119.70 from earlier feels like pennies right now. Does every win have to be undercut by the sadness of losing Jackson? I’ve got what I came for but it still feels like a loss.

  I glance around the room one more time, saying goodbye to all the spaces I’ve come to know. Then I gently place his key on top of my check. After tonight I probably won’t be back in Jackson’s house, in his bed. A wave of emotion rips over me, everything stinging all at once. The feeling of nervousness for tomorrow, the feeling of saying goodbye to someone who isn’t here. It’s not a matter of whether or not I could have loved him, because I did. I do. It’s a matter of whether or not that’s good for me. And in my mind, I can’t make the math work.

  It was always going to come down to this—to Jackson and me going our separate ways—and even though it was my choice to walk away, it hurts more than I could have imagined. Why did I have to go past the point of no return with him and my fragile little heart? I should have stopped before I started, because now I know what it means to have lost him twice. It’s more than twice as bad.

  By the time I get home my muscles ache and I feel like I’m treading water. I set down the case of lube on my kitchen table, catching sight of my nails. Crap. The last week of packing has not been kind to my hands and, well, they look like I’ve packed a few thousand bottles of lube. I want to walk into Honey’s shop tomorrow looking like I deserve to be there. Maybe a little self-care in the form of painted nails is just the thing.

  I dig a bottle of pale pink polish from my toiletry bag and sit on the couch to apply it. If Gayle could see me now, an open bottle poised next to her precious furniture, she’d probably have a heart attack. All the more reason to enjoy this.

  I paint each nail and then glance around the living room. I should have turned on the TV or some music or something. Sitting alone with wet nails, the world feels quiet and huge, and I finally realize what I’m doing: Leaving Jackson’s life. Closing the door behind me.

  When it hits me, the ice I’ve formed to get me through the last few weeks melts all at once. I go straight past the numb stage to the point where the feeling floods back into my chest again. It feels like pain. It feels like sadness. It feels like something crushing and huge, like the biggest mistake I might have made and also the most important.

  I’m not surprised when I start to cry. I’m mostly surprised that I cannot stop.

  Chapter 49

  My phone rings as I’m elbow-deep in the trunk of my car, setting a stack of business cards on top of a sign bearing Penchant’s logo. Tonight the caterer is bringing all the plates and cutlery we’ll need, so the other party decorations in my Camry are minimal. I mean, how much can you decorate a sex shop? Between the butt plugs and pasties, customers are already getting an eyeful.

  The phone rings again, insistent. I curse and maneuver out of the trunk, dashing around the car to grab my cell off the driver’s seat. It’s a Boston number. I do the mental math in my head before I answer: there’s still plenty of time for me to shower, drive to Boston, and get everything set up before tonight’s event. As long as I keep it short, I can take the call. I wedge the phone between my shoulder and my ear while I shut the trunk.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Delilah? It’s Honey from Aphrodite’s Closet.” A bang sounds in the background, followed by a muffled noise like she’s talking to someone behind the scenes.

  “Hi Honey, I was just getting ready to make my way over. Did the caterer and bartender send over their business insurance forms like they’d promised?” I’m babbling, the words pouring out of me with so much energy that I almost miss Honey’s next sentence.

  “Actually, I’m calling with some bad news.”

  No. Everything has to be perfect. I blink at the driveway, at the asphalt heated from the sun. My eyes still feel gritty from last night’s tears. Tiny bits of gravel crunch under my flip-flop as I twist my toe into the ground.

  “What’s that?”

  “We had some pipes burst in the shop overnight and we’re knee-deep in leakage right now. We’re going to have to cancel tonight’s event.”

  I hear Honey, the low roll of her voice, but the words don’t make any sense. “We can’t cancel. I can get in the car right now and help you.”

  Honey sighs into the phone and then I definitely hear cursing coming from somewhere on her end of the line. Maybe the word “shit”? I’m hoping it’s metaphoric.

  “I’m sorry, Delilah. There’s just no way we can get this place cleaned up in time. We’ll still take the twenty units we ordered, but please don’t ship anything until we get all the water cleared out of here.”

  “Right.” I draw my arms around me like a shield. “Okay.” I mumble a thank you to Honey, my lips numb around the words. Everything’s suddenly off kilter, the sky filled with too many clouds.

  Breathe.

  I should feel bad for Honey, I really should, but I can’t even process this. I’ve been waiting to launch Penchant lube for months, dreaming it and planning it so I know every detail of tonight’s party by heart. Hell, I’ve got a binder stuffed with sample images of the Sex on the Beach drinks and Better than Sex cupcakes. I’ve got a mockup with the table display and an app on my phone so I can accept credit card payments tonight. This can’t be real. But Honey’s hung up on me, and it is.

  Oh my god. It’s over.

  What do I do? My heart pounds in my chest, my breath coming in panicky, tight bursts. I have to move. Now.

  Almost without thinking, my feet start to walk. I pace up the street and back, my flip-flops thwacking away on the sidewalk, the afternoon sunlight falling on my shoulders. It’s like Jackson’s rubbing off on me even when he’s not here, but somehow walking is the thing to do, the only way to quiet my thoughts.

  I must look like a crazy person, in all reality, in my cutoff shorts and baseball shirt, my hair piled in a messy bun. I don’t look like a business owner, I don’t look like someone who has things together. I don’t look like someone who can do this. But Jackson’s voice echoes in my ear, solid and true. Don’t give up, Natalie. You can do this. And I can.

  I set my shoulders and keep breathing. For the first time since I moved out of my apartment with Matthew, I’m not thinking about giving up. Jackson and I worked too hard for me to abandon this and I’m not going to. I remember how it felt to quit Holy Grounds, like I was pivoting instead of running away. That’s what I need to do now. I need to pivot. I just need a new plan.

  So I walk. I make my way up and down the street three times before I can breathe normally, past all the pretty houses and their blank faces and their wide, green lawns. This stupid town that I didn’t even want to come back to—it’s been the home for all my business ideas lately. It’s been the place where I came up with Penchant, the place where I kept going with it even when I got scammed. It’s not going to be the place that I fail. It’s also not going to be the place where I get stuck. This business is going to work or this whole summer will have been for nothing.

  Determined, I stride back into the guesthouse to grab a notebook and start planning. I literally cannot cancel the caterer and bartender—I’ve paid a huge deposit to them, so I might as well use them tonight. I just need to figure out how.

  My mind whirls, spitting out ideas. Do I try to get a last-minute permit for an event at the amphitheater? Try to rent out a private room at a restaurant? A high whine sounds in my ears. Something has to work.

  As I round the corner to my bedroom, I see the romance novel Abigail gave me, tossed carelessly on my bedside table. I haven’t cracked the cover yet, but whe
n I see it, I freeze.

  A romance novel. That’s it.

  I grab my phone out of the pocket of my shorts and dial my best friend’s number.

  “Abigail?” I say when she picks up the phone. “I’m going to need to borrow your shop.”

  Chapter 50

  I take a step back from the table full of Penchant lube bottles and wipe my arm over my forehead. Despite the air conditioning set to full-blast in McCafferty’s Books, the last hour of lifting boxes and arranging tables has turned me into a sweaty mess. Combined with my black cocktail dress, the sweat is not a pretty look, but it is what it is. I’ve been racing against the clock ever since my last-minute change of location, and now we’re less than an hour away from the official party start time I’d announced to my followers on social media.

  Abigail and I have transformed the romance section of the bookstore into an intimate party area, with a few raised cocktail tables dotting the perimeter. My caterer and bartender arrived a few minutes ago to cart in cups and plates from the parking lot. The crown jewel of the store, though, is the table displaying Penchant lube next to the latest and hottest romance novels Abby could pull together. Because what’s better than lube or romance alone? Lube and romance together. Some might say they go hand in hand. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge. Thank god Abby agreed.

  “I can’t believe you’re going to pull this off,” Abigail says with admiration. She sets a vase of flowers onto one of the cocktail tables and looks around the room. “I mean, I can believe it, because you’re brilliant. But I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

  I smile and squeeze her hand. “Couldn’t have done it without you.” Now we just need to get people to show up.

  I pull out my phone and send another tweet into the universe: Lube and Romance (Better & Wetter Together!) at McCafferty’s. 7 p.m. tonight. Don’t miss it!

  After tonight there will be no going back to the way things were before. Word’s already buzzing around the bookstore employees that Natalie Bloom is throwing a lube party, and as soon as we let people into the party area, the rest of the town is going to find out my secret.

  It’s everything I’ve been hiding the last few months—this totally racy business, this sex-positive, empowered side of the girl people knew from high school. Just a few months ago, I stood on the sidewalk in front of my dad’s house, mortified when Jackson caught me with a box full of lube. And now I’m letting the whole town know that not only do I know what lube is, I sell it, and I support them using it too.

  No matter what happens next, I can’t hide behind the Penchant brand and my Delilah Overbrook facade anymore. As much as I want to pack the bookstore with new customers, the truth is that most of the guests who would have come to Aphrodite’s Closet aren’t going to make it to a party in a tiny town an hour outside of Boston. It would cost more in gas money than it would to just order the damn lube online. Which means the people most likely to come to my event are people who are already in Swan’s Hollow. People who know that I’m Natalie Bloom, not Delilah. It’s terrifying, but also kind of okay. Even if this event doesn’t work out, I’ll land on my feet. I’m not the same girl who rolled into this town, and I need to stop thinking of myself as the college dropout barista so everyone else can, too.

  Actually, now that I think about it…

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I promise Abby, and she waves me off.

  I hurry through the parking lot until I can see through the front window of Holy Grounds. A bustling after-dinner crowd sits around the tables, enjoying pastries and coffee and the dubious scripture on the walls. Jess fixes orders behind the counter, her lips pulled into a frown, but as far as I can see she’s the only one there.

  Good.

  I push open the door and march inside. Jess’s eyes widen in surprise when she sees me in my cocktail dress and I can’t help but grin. Yes, I can wear something other than a coffee-stained work uniform. I can look like a grown-up. I can look good. And yes, this grown-up badass boss lady is going to use the goddamn message board without buying a thing. So sue me.

  I write a message on the chalkboard in the biggest script I can fit. Coffee and love are best served hot. Steamy event for lovers tonight. 7 p.m. at McCafferty’s Books.

  Jess’s voice rings over my shoulder. “Steamy event, huh? Want me to tweet about it?”

  I turn to smile at her. “Actually, yes.” Then I surprise us both by pulling her into a quick hug. “Thank you.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles, but when I pull away she’s smiling back at me. I hate to be wrong about people, but when it comes to Jess, I’m so, so glad I was.

  As I exit the store, I almost trip on Mrs. Keaton and her small, crapping dog, and I can’t believe my luck.

  “Watch where you’re going,” Mrs. Keaton says. Porkchop just stares up at me, his eyes bulging out of his head. Man, he really is an ugly dog.

  “Actually, I was hoping I’d find you.” I pull my eyes up to Mrs. Keaton’s face. “There’s an event happening tonight and I was hoping you’d help me spread the news. It’s a juicy one.”

  “Hmm.” Her mouth puckers. I can tell she wants to say no but this woman can’t resist gossip any more than she can resist those Frappuccinos. “Depends what it is.”

  I take a deep breath. Who cares what anyone thinks? This is who I am, and being afraid of what other people might say isn’t going to stop me.

  “We’re selling lube and romance novels together over at the bookstore to support a local business. Actually, it’s my business. I’d love to see you there.”

  Mrs. Keaton’s mouth falls open in shock. It might be the best effect I’ve ever had.

  I head back into the bookstore, feeling like I’ve done all I can.

  “Okay,” I say to myself, looking around the store. Everything’s in place but it still doesn’t feel right. Something big is missing.

  I straighten a stack of business cards for the fifth time, then arrange and rearrange the same spray of flowers on the table. Abby walks up next to me and I smell her honeysuckle perfume, sweet and familiar.

  “There’s still time, you know,” she says.

  “I know, right? Thirty minutes. I mean, we could just start the party early, if that’s easier for you.”

  Abby lays a hand on my arm. “That’s not what I meant.”

  I look into her face and she’s got that mama expression on again, the wise and caring one. She’s not talking about books at all.

  Oh.

  Because the thing that is missing from tonight, the thing that has always been missing, isn’t a thing at all. It’s Jackson. I’ve spent so much time telling myself that I don’t need him, but I never stopped to consider the fact that I wanted him. That I want him now. Standing in the bookstore, elbow to elbow with my best friend, I realize that I can be a strong, independent business woman and also love Jackson Wirth. Both things can be true. And nothing is ever going to make things right unless he’s here.

  Tears prick my eyes as I think about Jackson’s face, the morning of our first fight. He’d known exactly what to say to make me soften, to make me feel the connection sparking between us. Because you know me. Because you look beyond the pretty face and see me.

  I hadn’t wanted to hear it then, to acknowledge it. But now that I’m standing in front of a display of the lube we created together, I can’t help but think that maybe I’ve been wrong about him. Hell, I was wrong about Jess, wasn’t I? Maybe I fell into the same trap as everyone else, making assumptions about Jackson. Because while he may have been a player when I knew him in high school, he’s also one of the best men I know.

  Maybe part of protecting myself and my heart was choosing to ignore the truth of him. The Jackson Wirth who stayed out with me in my treehouse during my parents’ divorce, silent when I needed it, full of jokes when I needed to fill the space. The Jackson who drove me to school, who taught me to love coffee. Who thumbed the edges of my journals, wanting to read my stories, but who never pressed when I
wasn’t ready to share. The Jackson Wirth who stepped up to raise his brother, who stayed behind to take care of his mom. Who shouldered a legacy he didn’t want, all to be doing the right thing.

  That’s the Jackson most people don’t see, but he did show me. He did let me in. He’s taken risks with me through every step of this business, and he’s believed in me. He told me I see the real him, but the truth is, he sees me, too. Since the moment I came back to town he’s done nothing but protect me and support my dreams, and I’ve shut him out because I’ve been scared. Shame on me. Jackson’s shown me who he is and he’s not going to hurt me. At least, not on purpose.

  Suddenly I have to go. I can’t stay in this bookstore watching the clock tick down anymore. The air feels so thick I can’t breathe.

  “I’ll be back,” I tell Abby for the second time in an hour. Her eyes widen as I flash past, her fingers curled tight around a book. “If I’m late, start without me.”

  I walk toward the door, my legs solid for the first time today. I pulled off this whole damn party. I sure as hell can face the truth with Jackson Wirth.

  Chapter 51

  I rush out the front door of McCafferty’s, my high heels tapping out a quick rhythm as I race across the parking lot. My pulse sounds in my ears and my dress feels too tight when I try to gulp in air. Where are you, Jackson? I reach to text him but a search of my purse comes up empty. I must have left my phone in the store and it’s too late to go back.

  I arrive at my car in record time and fumble to open the locks. Come on, dammit.

  “Wait!”

  I spin and catch sight of Jackson striding across the pavement, a look on his face so determined and possessive that I freeze.