Chapter Two
CHAPTER TWO
I have this rule.
(I have a lot of rules.)
But I’ve got this one specific rule about how my workday begins. It’s ritualistic, refined over time, and nonnegotiable.
If I break the rule, chaos ensues.
The rule is: I have to start the day with an iced caramel oat milk latte. Doesn’t matter if I’m traveling, at the office, or working from home. ICOML (pronounced EYE-com-ul ) has to be involved or I break down due to inconsistency.
The other nonnegotiable start to my morning is Camila Sanchez, my best friend. She’s also Revenant’s chief brand officer and the only person besides me who has been with this company from almost the very start.
When I walk into the office, Cami approaches with an ICOML in hand, her luscious dark hair pulled into a low pony wrapped in a Revenant bow, eyes heavily lined in a muted purple color. She passes the iced coffee from her palm to mine and unleashes her monologue.
“Asset Protection is swearing up and down we’ve got a case of organized crime on our hands, and Hailey Bieber wore this bow”—she points at the back of her head—“in a YouTube video that came out yesterday. So, obviously, we’re out of stock online. Also, the college interns start in five days, don’t forget. Did you approve the samples yet for the new men’s line?”
“Organized crime,” I say. “Why does that feel like an impressive achievement?”
“Oh, I agree,” Cami says. “I acted upset when they told me about it, but secretly I was thinking we’ve made it.”
“The Hailey Bieber thing scares me,” I admit, shuddering as we pass by the retail team’s desk area. “You know how much I hate—”
“Trending,” Cami finishes. “Yep, I know.”
Revenant’s office space is open-floor concept, its windows swallowing the walls to showcase views of the city. Our desks stand, sit, even hover near the floor if you feel like getting horizontal. Visually, the space is neutral and clean-cut, much like the clothes we sell. On one wall, a string of gray letter decals spells out our tagline: Fill your closet once.
“I haven’t forgotten about the interns,” I say. “I blocked off that whole Monday morning for a get-to-know-you breakfast. And about the samples—”
Most other companies would have green-lit those samples by now, but that’s not how Revenant operates. We mean what we say about filling your closet once. That’s Revenant’s whole thing: a well-made capsule wardrobe you build over time.
My mind careens back to Will. I picture him buttoning the sample shirt across his chest with his scraped-up, calloused fingers in a nearby Starbucks bathroom, then heading for the elevators while he drinks something surly, like a drip coffee with no cream or sugar. Should I ask him his opinion on the samples when he finds me, somehow ?
It’s not like I have other men in my life to poll. I haven’t dated in more than four years, and my older brother, Robbie—who lives in North Carolina—shops exclusively on Amazon. My dad supports Revenant, but he lives back home in Nashville. We usually pool feedback from the men in the office, but something about getting Will’s opinion has my stomach somersaulting.
“I need two days to gather my thoughts,” I tell Cami.
“Great!” We land in front of her office, and Cami halts, turning to face me straight on. “Now that all the boring stuff is out of the way—”
“Nice try—”
“Maybe you could give me a status update on—”
“No.” I’m already shaking my head when I say it. We’ve done this every morning for two weeks. “Cami, don’t you trust me?”
Her hands clench into tiny, dramatic fists between our faces. “To run a fashion brand? Sure, Josie. To plan my bachelorette party? Less and less by the day.”
“ Don’t let me get involved, even when I start begging. Remember saying that? Remember telling me those exact words after you got so wrapped up in David’s proposal plan that you found the ring”—I gesture down to her left hand, where her princess-cut engagement ring sparkles—“in his parents’ house with your spare key?”
Cami rolls her eyes. “You act like they’d hidden it well.”
“It was in his mother’s underwear drawer!”
“Which is weird !” Cami exclaims, pointing an accusatory finger in the air as she backs toward her office. Behind her, I catch a glimpse of her messy desk littered with trinkets, empty cups, six or seven lipsticks. “That’s fucking weird, right?”
I laugh despite myself. It is pretty weird, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of admitting it. “Could’ve gone your whole life never knowing. But you meddled.”
“I had to bathe it in jewelry cleaner for hours after the proposal.”
“Which you had on hand because you meddled.”
“Just give me one hint about the bachelorette.”
“It’s in Nashville.”
Cami groans. She’s only five-two, but when she gets worked up, her personality feels big enough to fill our whole office. “I already knew that, asshole!”
It was one of the only things she picked: the location. I’m not thrilled about it, considering Nashville is where I’m from and I typically avoid it apart from family holidays. But as any good bridesmaid knows and recites to herself on repeat throughout the wedding festivities—when the gown looks horrible on their body type, when there’s nothing vegetarian on the rehearsal dinner menu, when the bride asks them to take out every orange flower from the bouquets because they’re not really orange they’re peach, and I hate peach! —“It’s not about me.”
Cami kerplunks into her chair, and I smirk as I keep walking, heading to my own office four doors down. It’s neat and organized, with pastel highlighters jammed in a cup and Revenant’s first designs framed in white birchwood on the wall. Beneath my desk is a walking pad, and in one corner is a Zen garden I sometimes play with when I need to think.
I’ve barely sat down when Derrick appears in my doorway.
Derrick Lovell: a Dennis Quaid look-alike in his late fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a grandfatherly voice, who’s known for having a Midas-like business touch, as well as dozens of plaid shirts from the nineties prep craze. He’s Revenant’s biggest investor, and not a bad guy, as far as I can tell, but I’d wager he didn’t become the CEO of five (five!) retail giants by only being nice.
“Josie.” He nods in greeting. Today he’s wearing a flimsy blue-and-yellow plaid shirt tucked into plain khakis, and old shoes with literal holes. This outfit, from a bona fide billionaire.
“Derrick.”
“I heard a rumor from security you were here until two in the morning.”
I wince. “Yeah, well, I came in late today, didn’t I?”
“It’s eight forty-five.”
I stare at him. He stares at me. Sometimes, I swear I catch glimpses of fatherly care on Derrick’s face when he looks at me. I know he’s got a daughter around my age. She’s twenty-three, maybe?
“Can you email me that presentation?” he asks.
“You bet.”
His hand doesn’t unclench from the door handle. “Can you also give me an overview?”
I recline in my chair, grabbing a highlighter to fiddle with. “Sustainable”—Derrick winces—“sourcing,” I finish.
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“It gets worse.”
Derrick’s face pales. “How.”
“I want to get B Corp Certified.”
I may as well have told him I’m interested in flushing money down the toilet. Still, Derrick’s expression is a little dramatic right now.
He points it skyward, releases a weary sigh. “You are bleeding me dry, Davis.”
“That’s simply untrue.”
“Remind me of the point of a B Corp Certification?” he asks.
“It basically means our company has been verified to have high standards.”
Derrick glowers. “So, you would like to raise this company’s standards?”
I smirk. “I’d like everyone to raise their standards, but yes, I’ll start with Revenant.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “And what standards are we raising?”
“Accountability, transparency, charitable giving, and supply-chain best practices.”
Derrick nods, staring sideways. “High standards are expensive, no doubt.”
I stand up, coming around the corner of my desk to face him. “This is a good thing, Derrick. I promise.”
He points a finger at me. “You’d better make us believe it today, Josie. If the consultant isn’t on board, neither am I.”
I nod and say, “I’m not worried.”
I am so worried.
I am constantly worried.
I work myself into spirals, worrying. I pace my kitchen at four a.m., worrying. Every time Revenant hits a goal, outperforms a plan, trends on social media, I worry, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because it feels inevitable. Nothing this good can last. The tide of public opinion will turn; the customers will revolt.
They will take their final measure of me and determine I’m unworthy.
Still, amidst these fears, I desperately want everything about the little business I started in my dorm room with my grandmother’s old sewing machine to stay absolutely perfect.
Unlike me, I hope Revenant never needs a second wind.