Chapter 6 Juliette
JULIETTE
“Juliette. I’m having a hard time seeing the issue here.” My mother’s voice is supposed to be soothing. It usually is. She’s been my voice of reason for as long as I can remember. However, today, it feels like betrayal.
“You don’t have a budget for marketing. You hate social media. Why is it that when the city of Alexandria shows up and hands you a solution to your problems, you decide what—that you should second-guess it?”
I wince, pacing my living room with the phone tucked between my ear and shoulder. The quiet is unfamiliar—no Theo narrating his Lego construction, no background noise of cartoons or questions shouted from the hallway.
“I’m not second-guessing,” I say quickly. “I’m being cautious. And inquisitive.”
“And you’re punching the gift horse in the mouth.”
“Pretty sure the saying is looking a gift horse—”
“Juliette Marie,” she warns. “Do not argue with your mother.”
I sigh, dropping onto the couch. I already know she’s right, which somehow makes this worse.
“Mom, you know I don’t want to sit down and do a full interview,” I say. “I don’t want cameras in my face. I don’t want all of the bells and whistles that come with this gig.”
“I know,” she says gently. “And I understand why. After everything that happened, of course you’re camera-shy. That didn’t feel good. Anyone would be nervous.”
I close my eyes, grateful for the way she says it without making me explain.
“But,” she continues, shifting into problem-solving mode, “a little plant tutorial video? That’s not an interview. That’s you doing what you already do.”
“That’s still…out there,” I say. “Online. Forever. It actually worries me that we could become even more popular than we already are.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line.
“Are you kidding me,” my mother says flatly.
“Mom.”
“Juliette. You are running a business, not a speakeasy. You want people to come into your store.”
“I want manageable people,” I mutter.
She ignores that. “And didn’t you tell me that a PR team suggested this idea?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then they obviously understand what they’re doing,” she says. “And if it gets more people through your door, that’s a good thing.”
I press my lips together. She’s absolutely right, which is deeply inconvenient. I’m being a brat. An introverted one with PTSD, but still a brat.
There’s another pause, and then she says, almost casually, “Why don’t you get Sawyer to do the plant tutorial you were talking about?”
She did not just say that. “What?”
“Make him do it,” she says, like this is the most obvious solution in the world. “He can hold the plant. Or point. Or smile. You can be the director, stand off-camera and tell him what to do.”
“That is—” I stop, because I don’t actually have a good argument. “That is…exactly what the PR team suggested.”
“See?” she says, pleased. “Delegation. Very mature.”
I groan, tipping my head back against the couch. “I know. I know. I’m doing this, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” she says cheerfully. “You can and you will. It’ll be fun. You can make a list of common plants, the most popular ones you sell at the shop, and have this guy do video care tips and tutorials for all of them.”
“Your ideas are wise.” I huff out a breath. “I’m still punching that horse in the mouth, though.”
“Yes, you are.” She laughs. “I know it all feels like it’s too much, but if you can find something to do that feels okay to you, then you can properly take advantage of this while it’s here.”
“Because it’s going to boost me,” I say.
“Because it’s going to boost you,” she confirms. “So ride it while you can. Now, I gotta run, my cooking class starts in an hour. Love you.”
“I love you, too.”
The call ends, and the quiet rushes back in.
I set my phone on the coffee table and sit here for a beat, staring at nothing.
The hum of the refrigerator is suddenly very loud and intrusive, like nails on a chalkboard, but not as edgy.
My mom’s right. I need to…no, I must take advantage of this opportunity while it’s here. I’d be a fool not to.
I grab my laptop, because this email I need to write to Carol won’t write itself. Only as I do, my phone rings and I see Vivian’s name flashing on the screen.
“You will never guess what I just won!”
I look at my watch. It’s almost eleven in the morning and Vivian sounds like she’s had at least two pots of coffee already. “No ‘hello, how are you?’”
She laughs in my ear. “Oh, whatever…hi, hi, how are you? Good. I won a cake!”
“A…cake?” I pause to think about how excited she is. Guess I never knew Vivan loved cake this much.
“Yes. A cake. A big one, too. That bakery that opened a block down from us had a contest and tossed my name in the hat last week. They stopped in today to tell me I won and to let them know when I need said cake.”
“So you called me?” I think about cake for a moment. I can’t be upset with it, I’m a fan really. Would I take pie over cake? Probably. But it’s not my prize.
“Are you daft, woman?” Vivian practically yells in my ear. “I want you to use it. To have my prize. For Theo’s party.”
“You…want to give away your cake?”
“Yes,” she says, like this is deeply obvious. “Because I don’t have a kid turning ten and you do.”
I shift on the couch, tucking my feet under me. “Viv, you don’t have to do that.”
“I absolutely do,” she says. “Because one, I love Theo. Two, I love free things. And three”—she pauses dramatically—“this cake is ridiculous.”
“That’s not actually selling it.”
“Oh no, it’s selling it perfectly,” she insists. “Three tiers. Buttercream frosting. Something described to me as ‘whimsical but bold.’ I don’t know what that means, but it sounds like a cake with opinions.”
I snort. “Theo would love that.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Also, before you say no, I already told them it was for a kid’s party, gave them your name and said you’d be in touch.”
I close my eyes. “Vivian.”
“What? It felt right.”
I hesitate, that familiar tightness creeping in. “I don’t want to be a burden,” I say quietly.
“You’re not,” she says immediately, her voice softening just enough to catch me off guard. “You’re my friend. This is me being excited that I get to contribute a giant cake to celebrate your kid.”
I let out a slow breath. Somewhere between the plant tutorial email waiting on my laptop and my mother’s voice telling me to stop punching metaphorical horses, something in me loosens.
“Cake does make things better,” I admit.
“Yes,” Vivian says triumphantly. “Yes, it does.”
“And it would save me money.”
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
I glance around my living room. I can’t let my pride be wounded over this, not when it’s such a generous and loving present from a friend.
“Okay,” I say finally. “Yes. We’ll take the cake.”
She whoops so loudly I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “Excellent. I’ll text you the bakery details.”
I smile, shaking my head. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” she says. “Now go back to whatever you were doing on your day off. I’ll talk to you later.”
The call ends, leaving the apartment still again—but this time, it feels different. I feel different. Lighter. Peaceful in the way that comes after talking to a good friend.
I stay where I am for a moment, phone still in my hand, letting the last hour replay in my head.
Somewhere between my mother’s tough love and Vivian’s aggressive generosity, I’ve agreed to two things I never would’ve said yes to this morning.
I let out a slow breath and shake my head, half amused, half overwhelmed.
Apparently, today is the day I stop hiding. Or at least pause it.
My laptop waits on the coffee table, Carol’s email draft still unwritten, its blinking cursor quietly judging me. I stare at it for a second longer, then close the lid instead.
“Not yet,” I murmur to the empty room. “We’re taking a minute.”
I stand, fill the kettle, and move through the familiar motions of making tea—something herbal and calming. I need floral notes to pretend they can solve all my problems from a steaming mug. When I settle back onto the couch, I turn on the television more for background noise than anything else.
The screen flickers to life mid-segment.
“…and all eyes are still on Alexandria’s newest NHL expansion team,” a bright, polished reporter says, standing rinkside with a microphone. “The Dominion have landed and they’re taking no prisoners in their inaugural year. Especially after last night’s win.”
My stomach gives a small, traitorous flip as the camera cuts to b-roll. Players streak across the ice in a blur of navy blue, gold, and white. Someone takes a shot, and the crowd erupts.
I squint at the screen, because I genuinely have no idea where the puck is.
It’s manic to watch, even if it’s considered to be controlled.
Sticks clashing, skates carving sharp lines into the ice, and not to mention the large bodies colliding with a kind of considered violence I will never fully understand. How does anyone follow this?
I don’t have too much time to reflect before the footage shifts. Now it’s Sawyer who appears on my screen, laughing as a teammate elbows him in the ribs. He ducks his head, grin wide and unguarded, then pushes off the boards and launches back onto the ice.
He’s focused and fast, but you can tell from a first glance that he is entirely in his element, and it’s a beautiful thing to witness firsthand.
My breath catches as I watch him moving on the screen.
The camera tracks him as he skates hard, shoulders squared, eyes locked forward.
Then, like he knows it’s watching him, he glances up at the lens.
Just for a second. Clearly caught off guard.
And then he smiles.
It’s not polished. It’s not a moment for the camera. It’s a quick, bashful grin that makes my chest tighten for no good reason at all.
I stare at the screen, my tea cooling in my hands. Inside my head? There’s screaming. Why does it feel like he’s looking right at me?
I shake my head, exhaling softly before I can stop myself. “Okay. No. Absolutely not.”
I drag my gaze away from the television. “I am not getting hypnotized through a screen by Sawyer flippin’ Stockton.”
Plants, I tell myself firmly. Plants, plants, plants. I love plants and I love paper.
If there’s one thing I can do, it’s focus. I don’t know if it’s as intense as the focus a hockey player needs. But it’s single-mom focus, which, well, is everything.
I grab the remote and turn the television off as I reach for my laptop and flip it open. Sawyer’s great for the camera, and judging by what I just witnessed for myself, he could probably talk an Eskimo into buying ice in Alaska.
Take advantage while the opportunity is here. Yes, Mother, I will.
I pull up Carol’s email, catching my reflection briefly flashing back at me in the darkened screen before the inbox loads. I really need to brush my hair before it’s afternoon, but I’ve got no time, at least not right now.
For once, there isn’t fear humming in my chest. There’s warmth and something softer.
Possibility, maybe? I don’t know, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything close to hope, but that’s what this has to be.
There’s a quiet certainty threading through it—a sense that if I don’t take this step now, I’ll regret it later.
I rest my fingers on the keys and smile to myself, small and private, as I begin to type.
Outside, this gorgeous city keeps moving. Somewhere across town, a hockey player is probably laughing with his teammates, unaware that his appearance in my life is about to set a few things in motion.
And for the first time in a long while, the thought doesn’t make me anxious.
But I am intrigued.