Chapter 6 Henri
Henri
Yes, I completely understand. I’ll process the refund of your initial deposit as soon as we’re done with this call,” I say, massaging my temples as I try my best not to lose my shit.
It’s been a week since Liam came over and two days since the article went live.
It was an instant hit, and had been reposted everywhere within twenty-four hours.
When I went to get coffee, the girls in line in front of me had it pulled up on their phone.
Mom sent me an essay in the form of five separate texts about how well he captured what I do.
I’ve been tempted to read the piece myself, but after the other night, it’s for the best if I avoid anything that will draw me closer to Liam.
Everyone else though? They’ve read the piece spawning a tidal wave of online commentary. Millions of hits. Great for him.
For me? Well, the article’s widespread success is the reason I’m currently lying on the slightly warped hardwood floor of our living room, legs pressed up against the wall in a pose that promises to be relaxing and restorative, dealing with my third cancellation of the day.
“Thank you for understanding. My sister, she’s the type to dig—swears she could be in the FBI—and I don’t want to risk her finding out we’re not actually together,” Terrence explains, sounding genuinely apologetic.
This is a concern I’ve had to deal with in the past, but have managed to work through it by making sure my clients have a few pictures with me as well as a text history.
My personal social media is private, has my real name, and the profile picture is a stupid hand-drawn cat on a wine bar napkin, courtesy of Iris.
“Of course. No problem,” I reassure him even as I cringe, mentally deducting money from my bank account.
Terrence was going to be my big holiday client.
Four days over Christmas with his family at their lake house in Michigan.
For the last three years, I’ve been saving so I can cover all the costs for grad school, and though I was guaranteed to freeze my ass off during this job, the money from it was exactly what I needed to reach my goal.
I was so close and now I’m three steps behind.
Refusing to let myself waste the day wallowing, I finish my call with Terrence and check my waitlist and incoming emails.
In my personal email, there’s yet another notice that my admission status has been updated, which I promptly ignore the same way I do every day when the automated message pops up.
Even if I am accepted for my master’s program, at this rate I might as well defer another semester to make sure I have enough saved.
Work wise, I find yet another cancellation. A majority of the dates on the waitlist requests have passed, but I send out a few follow-ups for late December and New Years.
Once cleared, the top email is from Liam. Or more precisely, L. Hughes at Spitfire.