Owning It

by Leah Marie Brown

  “Do it!” She waves the phone at me. “How are we going to be business partners if you are rotting away in debtors’ prison?”

  “Fine, but opening my eyes at the last second isn’t going to keep me from crashing in the valley of poverty.”

  I take her phone, tap the Safari app, and type “Wells Fargo” into the search bar. I enter my login information, close one eye, and hold my breath while the page loads.

  “Holy crap!” I say, opening my eye. “This can’t be right!”

  “How bad is it?”

  “It’s not bad,” I say, staring at Rigby with wide eyes. “It says I have fourteen thousand nine hundred and sixty-two dollars in my account.”

  “That’s great.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No!” I look at my friend. “Something is wrong, Rigby. Really wrong. I should have a lot less than that in my account.”

  “How much less?”

  I tilt my head and my glasses slip down my nose.

  “Like, fourteen thousand five hundred and twelve dollars less.” I say, shoving my glasses back up. “Give or take a dollar.”

  She holds out her hand.

  “Let me see.”

  I hand her the phone, and she slides her finger up the screen. Slide. Slide. Slide. Her eyes widen, and she looks at me, her long lashes curling against her pink skin.

  “It’s not a mistake.”

  “It’s not?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Look,” she says, holding the phone so we can both see the screen, “it says that iTunes deposited fourteen thousand and twenty-two dollars into your account on the first of this month.”

  “What?”

  I grab the phone from her hand and look at the screen. Sure enough. The bold black line halfway down the screen confirms it. On August 1, iTunes Payments deposited over fourteen thousand dollars into my account.

  “Fourteen thousand dollars divided by seventy cents . . .” I use my finger to do the math in the air. “That’s twenty thousand downloads! Are you telling me twenty thousand people downloaded me singing Waddaliacha and The Unicorn Song?”

  Rigby laughs. “I told you that your songs were topping the iTunes Children’s Chart.”

  “I know, but . . .” I shake my head. “This is crazy.”

  “Laney, everything about you is crazy. You’re the most crazy, wonderful person I have ever met.”

  Chapter 30

  Laney’s Life Playlist

  “Dare You to Move” by Switchfoot

  To: Delaney Brooks

  From: Theo Wilde, Wilde Rides

  Subj: Re: My path

  Dude! I can’t believe you are going to stay in Paris and open an art bike tour business. That’s such a super-badass, ballsy move. I am proud of you, Laney-Bo-Baney.

  What did the ’rents say? Is Mama E losing her brain? She will probably try to talk you off of this path. She will tell you the terrain is too steep and rocky. Don’t listen to her.

  Remember what I told you when we were going to do the Boulder Monster? I warned you that it was an epic, 50-mile butt-kicking ride with death-defying climbs. I told you that you needed to attack the hills with the ferocity of a demon, but once you reached the top, there would be awesome landscapes. Follow this path. Get in the Zone. You’re gonna shred this one.

  Theo

  P.S. Of course I will make the bikes for your new business. I can’t believe you thought you had to ask, Hoser. If you haven’t thought of a name for your company yet, how about Get Up and Van Gogh?

  To: Delaney Brooks

  From: Elisabet Brooks

  Subj: Re: My path

  I can’t pretend your decision to remain in Paris and open a bike tour business has filled me with confidence and happiness. Everything we spoke about before you left Colorado remains a pressing concern—your ability to provide for yourself while building a respectable career.

  However, the initiative and determination you have shown this last year have been refreshing. I am proud of you for completing the internship. Your father showed me the pictures you sent of the paintings you did during your internship. They really are very lovely, Laney. I know I haven’t said this to you very often, but I am proud of you. You are a talented, passionate artist. I still don’t believe you can make a career out of art, but I applaud your desire to try.

  I have purchased a ticket to Paris and will be visiting you over my winter break. I hope we can spend some time together and maybe even start our adult friendship over.

  Love,

  Mom

  Chapter 31

  Laney’s Life Playlist

  “Style” by Taylor Swift

  “Unconditionally” by Katy Perry

  “He said he has something he wants to ask you?” Fanny holds her phone closer so her face fills the screen. “That’s what he said?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he say it?”

  “What do you mean how did he say it?”

  “Was he casual or serious?” Fanny demands. “Did he say it like you were a bro he was asking to a football game, or did he say it in that deep, serious voice men use when they’re trying to get you to slip out of your Louboutins and into your La Perla?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, chuckling. “It was somewhere between bro and ho.”

  Fanny sighs. “Tell me exactly what he said.”

  “‘Ma fleur, would you meet me at Bâtard de Valadon tonight at seven? There is something important I need to ask you,’” I say, repeating the words Gabriel spoke to me less than five minutes before. “What do you think it could be?”

  “Are you serious? He said he has an important question to ask you and he is taking you to dinner at a chichi restaurant. What else could it be?” Fanny’s voice, usually calm and carefully modulated, sounds like air escaping from a balloon. “He’s going to ask you to marry him!”

  “No.”

  “Oui!” Fanny shifts her phone from one hand to the other.

  “You really think so?”

  “Abso-bloody-lutely, as my British pal Poppy would say!” Fanny laughs. “I am so happy for you! Promise you will Facetime me after he’s popped the big question? I want to be able to congratulate you both.”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay, let’s get to the serious issue at hand: what are you going to wear?”

  I shrug. “Dunno.”

  “Mon dieu!” Fanny mutters and shakes her head. “You’re killing me, Laney. Kill-ing me.”

  “What did you wear when Hottie McScottie asked you to marry him?”

  “He didn’t ask me. I asked him, remember?” She grins. “And for the record, I wore impeccably tailored Armani pants, a constructed jacket with leather panels, and Christian Louboutin boots. Of course, I didn’t know I was going to have to ride a horse over the Scottish countryside, or that I would be covered in mud and sheep shit when I asked him.”

  Fanny is drop-dead gorgeous and always, always fashionably dressed—even on Facetime! When I met her in Anchorage, she was about to climb out a hotel window to chase a couple of pill-popping jerries who had busted into her room and run off with her designer luggage. Some women would have cried and used their victim status as an excuse to dress down. Not Fanny. She marched to the nearest Nordstrom and pulled together a runway-worthy wardrobe from the ready-to-wear pieces hanging on the racks.

  “You’re the one who graduated from Parsons School of Design,” I say, smiling. “What do you think I should wear?”

  “Something timeless and feminine, so when you’re sixty years old with blue hair and a gaggle of grandchildren at your feet, you can pull out your engagement selfies and not be humiliated,” Fanny says, her tone serious. “Think Ava Gardner or Audrey Hepburn. Arched brows, flirty lashes, bold lips, and a classically tailored suit or dress. Heels are a must, but not too high. As Vivia would say, ‘No Amy Winehouse fuck-me pumps.’”

  “Got it,” I say, making mental notes of Fanny’
s pointers. “Channel Audrey, not Amy. There’s a boutique near the gallery. If I go now, I should catch them before they close.”

  “Bon chance, mon amie,” Fanny says.

  “Merci, Fanny!”

  “Oh, and Laney?” Fanny says, moving closer to the screen. “Remember what Christian said, ‘The tones of gray, pale turquoise, and pink will always prevail.’”

  I wrinkle my nose. Pink is not my color.

  “Wait!” Fanny says. “Before you go, what did your parents say about your decision to stay in Paris?”

  “My mom wrote me a nice e-mail.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, nice-ish. She said she thinks I am a talented artist, but she doesn’t think art is a real career.”

  “Ouch,” Fanny says. “How does that make you feel?”

  I scrunch my nose and stare up at the ceiling. Truthfully, I didn’t take the time to process how my mom’s e-mail made me feel. Not thinking about how things make me feel, really make me feel deep down, is a habit I formed many years ago. Eating lamb. Religion. Being an artist even if it means defying my parents. I have never focused long enough to figure out who I am, what I believe, and what I really want for my life. The non-processing habit formed neural pathways in my brain, pathways I have been reshaping since coming to Paris.

  “I am fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” I say, smiling at Fanny. “I have spent twenty-five years trying to reshape my image into something that was a little more pleasing to my mom. I have failed and made myself miserable in the process. It’s time I embrace my misshapen shape and stop worrying about how it makes my mom feel.”

  “It’s your life, mon amie.”

  “And I’m gonna live it!” I disconnect the call, but continue staring at my phone as if the answers to the questions bothering me will suddenly appear on the screen, like a guiding text message from the universe. Is Gabriel going to ask me to marry him tonight? And if he does, am I ready to clip the wings of my fledgling independence before I have truly tested their strength? Am I strong enough to follow the path I want to follow, even if it means disappointing and defying my parents? Even if it means I end up starving and mad, like poor old Vincent van Gogh?

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath, clear my mind of all chatter, and listen for that quiet inner voice that whispers wisdom. Thump. Thump. My pulse pounds in my ear. Bark. Bark. Bang. Beep. Outside a dog barks, a door slams, a car horn sounds. My inner voice is mute. Wisdom is eluding me.

  I grab my wallet, slip my feet into my ballet flats, and head down the stairs. Maybe I will find the perfect wisdom to go with my classic Audrey Hepburn–inspired dress at La Pâmoison, a consignment shop that promises swoon-worthy vintage clothes (Pâmoison is swoon in French).

  La Pâmoison closes at five o’clock. Prompt. Since it is already a quarter past four, I decide to run the five blocks to the shop. If my inner voice was trying to whisper a warning about running on uneven cobblestones in slick-bottomed ballet flats, I didn’t hear it. My shoe slips over a wet cobble, and I pitch forward like a comedian performing an absurd pratfall. Only it’s not very funny. It’s humiliating and painful. I land hard on my knees and palms, the gritty stones braising my skin like sandpaper.

  Blood trickles out of the cut on my knee and down my leg, turning my buttery-yellow leather flats an ugly rusty orange. If I had any sense, I would hobble back to my room, curl up in my bed, and lick my wounded pride like an animal in her den, but something is urging me on, a primal adrenaline. I can’t quit. I have to find a classic, feminine dress that will make Gabriel’s heart go ba-boomp, ba-boomp, ba-boomp and leap out of his chest like Jim Carrey’s did when he played Stanley Ipkiss in The Mask.

  My desperation to make it to La Pâmoison, to find the perfect dress, tells me more than a whispering inner voice ever could. Instinct is leading me to love. Who am I to argue?

  Chapter 32

  Laney’s Life Playlist

  “Marry You” by Bruno Mars

  “Complicated” by Avril Lavigne

  The Year of Learning Dangerously. If Rachelle makes good on her promise to write a fictional account of my life in Paris, she should seriously consider titling it The Year of Learning Dangerously. To say this has been a time of growth is an understatement.

  For instance, I have learned you shouldn’t operate a motor vehicle while wearing a unicorn costume, Sunny D and painkillers don’t mix, Frenchwomen don’t run through the streets of Paris and you shouldn’t either, yoga pants aren’t acceptable attire anywhere in Paris (even a yoga studio), a Parisian waiter will definitely give you a Spitter if you tell him his chakras are totally out of whack, and no matter how late you are, never, ever forget to put on underarm deodorant.

  I learned the last one, oh, about three seconds ago, when I lifted my arm to open the door to Bâtard de Valadon and saw a ginormous pit stain on my newly acquired dress reflected in the glass.

  True to their motto, La Pâmoison had the perfect swoon-worthy dress, a pink satin fit and flare gown with a light teal ruffled petticoat and matching elbow gloves. It’s what Audrey Hepburn would wear if she was asked to star in an indie music video with Zoey Deschanel and Joseph Gordon Levitt. The swingy skirt makes me happy—so happy I had to resist the urge to twirl all the way here.

  I step inside Bâtard de Valadon and discreetly flap my arms so the cool air will dry my damp satin pits.

  “There you are, cherie!” Robert suddenly appears at the end of the hallway. He greets me with kisses to my cheeks. “Monsieur Galliard is waiting. Follow me.”

  “Wait,” I say, grabbing his forearm with my gloved hand. “I need a minute to . . . to . . .”

  Robert smiles. “You are nervous? But why should you be nervous, cherie? You look magnifique. Monsieur Galliard is fortunate to have you as his date tonight.”

  I smooth my hair and then my skirts.

  “Merci, Monsieur Robert,” I say, lifting my chin. “Lead the way.”

  Robert walks through the velvet curtains into the dining room, which is already humming with the low, subdued conversation of elegantly clad Parisians. Soft jazz music plays in the background, and candles flicker at each table.

  Gabriel stands when he sees us. He’s wearing tailored slacks and a vest, his shirtsleeves casually rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms, his suit jacket tossed across the back of his chair. With his impeccably tailored suit, tall, solid physique, slicked-back hair, and closely trimmed beard, he could be a Dolce and Gabbana model posing on a yacht or beside a roadster. I look into his stormy blue eyes, and the bones in my legs turn into rubber. I am wobbly, weak-kneed. He steps out from behind the table and pulls me into his arms.

  “You look beautiful,” he whispers, kissing my neck.

  “So do you.”

  He chuckles and pulls my chair out. I sit and remove my gloves while Gabriel orders us a bottle of wine. You know how your stomach feels when you are riding a roller coaster and your car reaches the top of a climb, that split second of thrilling weightlessness before it plunges down, down? That’s how my stomach feels right now.

  “I missed you today,” Gabriel says, reaching for my hand.

  “You did?”

  “Bien sûr,” he says, smiling sweetly. “I always miss you when you are not with me. Did you miss me?”

  “A lot.”

  “Bon.” He lifts my hand and kisses my fingers. “What did you work on today? Did you finish Sunday Morning?”

  Sunday Morning is a painting I started a few weeks ago after I woke up in Gabriel’s arms and saw a golden, mote-filled shaft of morning light streaming through his bedroom window. I wanted to capture the warmth and wonder of that moment on canvas.

  “Yes,” I say, swallowing the lump of emotion clogging my throat. “I finished it this morning.”

  “That is wonderful, ma fleur,” he says, smiling. “Congratulations. What will you do with it? Sell it?”

  I plan to give Sunday Morning to Gabriel so he can always r
emember our special time together, but I don’t want him to know that now, so I just shrug.

  The sommelier returns with our wine. He removes the cork and pours a splash into Gabriel’s wineglass. Gabriel does the whole sniff, swirl, sip thing that always makes me feel like I am child playing grown-up with a big, sophisticated Frenchman.

  We are ordering our first and second courses when my iPhone rings. I pull it out of my purse and look at the screen. It’s Fanny. I send it to voice mail and slip it back into my purse.

  I ask Gabriel about his next assignment, and he tells me that in September he is headed to Cannes to cover the Yachting Festival. Our conversation flows as freely as the wine, so that by the time he reaches across the table and takes my hand, I am totally chill and my roller-coaster tummy has returned to earth.

  “I have something important to ask you, ma fleur.”

  I lean closer to him. “Yes.”

  I am ready to say yes-yes-yes, and I haven’t even heard his question yet.

  “The gallery will be closed for the next two weeks, which means you will be free of obligations. Yes?”

  Ohmygod. Is he going to ask me to elope?

  My iPhone rings again. I pull it out of my purse, push the button to decline the call, slide it to mute, and set it on the table.

  He grabs my hand again, looks into my eyes, and . . .

  . . . my phone rings again.

  “Would you like to answer your phone?”

  I shake my head. Bruno Mars is singing “Marry You” in my head, and I am having visions of beautiful nights spent doing stupid things, like sipping dancing juice and running off to a little chapel. I’ll wear a ’50s-inspired bridesmaid gown in cotton candy pink or seafoam green, and Gabriel will rent a convertible. I’ll throw my scarf out the window, and we’ll sing, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah” at the top of our lungs.