Chapter 34 Lily
“He bought you a studio?” Porsche screeches in my ear. Charisse tries to answer, but one of the twins starts crying in the background.
“Yes.” I sigh.
“And you’re not happy?”
“Not at all.”
“Can you explain?” Porsche asks. There’s a hint of humor in her voice, and it grates on my nerves a little.
“Because he made a huge choice for me without consulting me. He leased it for a year.”
“Didn’t you make that list though?”
“Nowhere on the list was a studio.”
“But you said you needed help with Lit with Lily.”
“I did need help. I do need help. But he didn’t ask what kind. He just decided.”
Porsche gets quiet for a second.
That’s how I know she’s starting to understand.
“He’s solving the problem he decided I had,” I say, pacing my living room. “And that’s what keeps messing me up. The space was beautiful, P. It really was. The light was good, there was storage, and he even had a place cleaned up for my paint water. He listened. That’s what makes this worse.”
“How does him listening make it worse?”
“Because he listened just long enough to build his own idea.”
Porsche exhales. “Oh.”
I stop near the window and look out at nothing. He has called twice and texted three times, and I can’t answer him yet. I know if I hear his voice, I’ll either soften too fast or say something I can’t take back.
Neither one helps me.
“It felt good for half a second,” I admit. “When I walked in, I wanted to be happy. I wanted to be the kind of woman who could just accept this beautiful, expensive thing and cry and fall into his arms.”
“But you’re not that woman.”
“No.” I swallow. “And I don’t think he knows that yet.”
Porsche hums. “I think he knows parts of you. The soft parts. The creative parts. The parts that light up when he gives you something pretty. But maybe he still hasn’t figured out the part of you that needs to be asked.”
That’s so true.
I sit on the arm of the couch and press my fingers against my forehead.
“I don’t want to sound ungrateful.”
“You’re allowed to not want a year-long lease you didn’t agree to.”
“I know.”
“And you’re allowed to be mad that he did a nice thing in the wrong way.”
I close my eyes.
That’s it. He did a nice thing in the wrong way, and that’s why I feel so twisted up about it. If he had done something cruel, this would be easier. If he had dismissed me or embarrassed me or acted like the old Javonte in some obvious way, I could put my hurt in the right box and leave it there.
But he looked so proud and hopeful, like he had finally figured out how to love me out loud, and I still had to leave.
Porsche’s voice softens. “Have you talked to him?”
“No.”
“Are you going to?”
“I have to.”
“But not yet?”
“Not yet.”
Charisse comes back on the line, breathless. “Sorry. Sky tried to feed Naya a marker. What did I miss?”
“Javonte leased Lily a studio without asking her,” Porsche says.
Charisse goes quiet.
I wait for her to give me the softer answer. The balanced answer. The one that makes me feel less certain and more guilty.
Instead, she says, “Oh, Lily.”
My throat tightens.
“I know.”
“That probably felt like him choosing a future for you.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“And after everything, you needed him to choose you, not choose for you.”
I sit all the way down on the couch and nod into the camera.
Porsche clears her throat. “I mean, I was going to say that too. I just like to get to things in my own way.”
Charisse laughs softly. “Sure.”
“I did.”
I wipe under my eye before a tear can fall. “I don’t want to break up with him again.”
“Then don’t make the decision tonight,” Charisse says. “But don’t swallow it either.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t let him make this about whether the studio is beautiful,” Porsche adds. “That is not the issue.”
“No. It’s not,” Charisse cosigns.
“The issue is he skipped you.”
I stare at the screen.
He jumped from seeing me stressed to building a whole solution, and somewhere in the middle, he forgot to bring me with him.
I pick up my phone after we end the video call, and Javonte’s name is still sitting there on my screen.
Three missed calls.
Four texts.
The latest one says:
Javonte: I’m sorry if I overwhelmed you. I thought you’d love it.
I stare at that message for a long time with my thumb hovering over the screen. He still doesn’t understand, and that hurts more than the studio.
I type one sentence before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: I don’t want to talk tonight.
He responds almost immediately.
Javonte: Okay.
Then another message comes through.
Javonte: I’ll give you space.
I put the phone down and let out a breath that shakes on the way out.
Jacquetta is standing at my office door when I get to work, holding a folder thick enough to ruin my morning.
“Good, you’re here,” she says.
She makes no attempt to treat me like a person. Not did you sleep well after your personal life fell apart in a beautifully renovated studio space?
Just ‘Good, you’re here’.
I set my bag down slowly. “Morning.”
“We’ve got a packed day. I want you shadowing me in the leadership escalation at nine, then you’ll sit in on the complaint review at ten-thirty. After lunch, I need you to draft the mediation summary from yesterday, and at four we’ll prep for the supervisor coaching session.”
I stare at her.
She smiles her HR smile. “Exciting, right?”
That is one word for it.
My phone buzzes in my purse, and I know it’s not Javonte because he said he would give me space. Somehow, that makes my chest ache more.
“Very exciting,” I say.
Jacquetta nods like I passed the test. “This is what leadership looks like. The higher you go, the more people need you.”
That sounds terrible.
She hands me the folder. “Read through this before nine. There are some interpersonal dynamics at play.”
Interpersonal dynamics means somebody has been acting a fool, and now everyone has to use professional language around it.
“Got it.”
Jacquetta walks away, and I sit down at my desk, staring at the folder for a few seconds before I open it. There are witness statements, screenshots of emails, a timeline, and a summary page with so many acronyms I briefly consider quitting right then and there.
This is what I’ve been promoted into. I’m dealing with higher stakes and longer hours and fewer clean endings.
I open my laptop and pull up my calendar. It’s covered in blocks. Meetings stacked on meetings. A lunch that is not lunch. Four o’clock prep that will absolutely run until five-thirty because people with power love starting serious conversations at the end of the day.
My Lit with Lily email notification pops up in the corner.
Birthday party inquiry.
I click it.
A woman wants to book twelve girls for a painting party next month.
She says her daughter loves bright colors and wants something fun, not too babyish.
I smile for half a second, already picturing the canvas.
Maybe a neon butterfly. Maybe sneakers with paint splatter.
Maybe little canvases with their names in bubble letters and colors that don’t have to make sense because twelve-year-olds understand joy better than adults.
Then Jacquetta appears in my doorway again and clears her throat.
I close the email.
My smile goes with it.
“Ready?” she asks.
I grab the folder. “Ready.”
I am not ready.
For the next three hours, I sit in rooms where people use words like accountable and communicate while doing neither.
I take notes while two department heads argue without raising their voices, which is worse somehow.
I watch Jacquetta nod and redirect and summarize feelings back to people who do not want their feelings summarized.
I understand why she thinks I’ll be good at this.
I can hear what people aren’t saying. I can find the real issue beneath the petty one. I can keep my face neutral when somebody says something ridiculous with their whole chest. I can sit in the middle of a mess and help people find the cleanest way out.
But being good at a thing does not mean I want to give it more of my life.
By the time I get back to my office, I have fifteen minutes before the next meeting. My stomach growls, and I realize I never ate breakfast. My lunch is in the fridge down the hall, but that feels far away, and I don’t have the energy to stand up again.
I check my phone.
No missed calls or texts.
Javonte is giving me space, exactly like he said he would.
I should appreciate that, but I hate it a little.
I consider sending a quick hello. I miss him, but I lock the screen and set the phone facedown. I’m the one who said I didn’t want to talk. He’s doing what I asked. I can’t get mad that he’s listening.
I turn back to my laptop and open the Lit with Lily email again.
The birthday party mom sent three possible dates.
One of them could work if I move a class.
Another could work if I skip the leadership shadowing session Jacquetta already put on my calendar.
The third could work if I give up the only Saturday morning I have free next month.
I open my notebook and start making a list.
● Birthday inquiry.
● Supply inventory.
● Post Bahamas reel.
● Confirm venue deposit.
● Send refund for canceled class.
● Order more brushes.
● Follow up with the woman who asked about a private event for her church group.
The list keeps going and going and going. I stare at it until the words blur.
This is what Javonte saw.
He saw enough to know I was overwhelmed. Enough to know art had started living only in the leftover parts of my life.
He wasn’t wrong about the problem; he was wrong for deciding the answer without me.
A knock sounds at my door, and Edie steps in. She’s holding a granola bar and a bottle of water.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She tosses the granola bar onto my desk. “Eat that before you start levitating from low blood sugar and rage.”
“I’m not raging.”
“You have quiet rage. It’s worse.”
I pick up the granola bar and tear it open. “I’m tired.”
“Mm-hmm.” She sits in the chair across from me and looks at my open notebook. “That Lit with Lily?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes scan the list. “This looks like a second job.”
“It is a second job.”
“No, this looks like a second job that needs a staff.”
I take a bite and chew slowly.
Edie leans forward. “Uh-oh. I found the truth.”
“I don’t have a staff.”
“I see that. That’s why you look like this.”
“I look fine.”
“You look like your bed fought you all night.”
I laugh even though I don’t want to. “Stop it. My bed and I get along just fine.”
I take another bite of the granola bar, then look down at the list again. “Javonte leased me a studio.”
Edie’s eyes widen. “He did what?”
“A studio. For Lit with Lily.”
She sits back. “That’s big.”
“Yeah.”
“And judging by your face, not big in the fun way.”
I press the granola wrapper flat on my desk. “It was beautiful. He made sure it had everything I would need.”
Edie’s mouth opens.
“I know.”
“That sounds thoughtful.”
“It was.”
“But?”
“But he didn’t ask me.”
Edie nods slowly.
“He saw I needed help, and he decided what the help should be. He signed a year lease. In his name. Then he took me there like I was supposed to walk in and be grateful.”
“Were you?”
“For half a second,” I admit. “Then I felt trapped.”
Edie doesn’t say anything right away. That makes me nervous because Edie always has something to say.
Finally, she points at my notebook. “What help do you actually need?”
I look down.
The question feels simple enough.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
I shake my head. “No, I know what needs to be done. I made a list of what stresses me, but I don’t know what kind of help I’m allowed to ask for.”
Edie’s face softens a little. “Allowed?”
I hate that word now that it’s out.
“I’ve been doing it myself for so long. It feels weird to say I need somebody else.”
“Needing help is not a character flaw.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.
She reaches for my notebook and turns it toward herself. “Okay. Let’s do this. If you had someone helping you, what would you hand over first?”
I don’t even have to think.
“Emails.”
Edie writes it down.
“Booking requests. Scheduling. Confirming payments. Sending reminders. Answering the same five questions over and over again when the answers are already on the website.”
She keeps writing. “Good. What else?”
“Social media. Not the creative part entirely, but posting. Drafting captions. Making sure I actually share the content I record instead of letting it sit in my phone until it’s useless.”
“What else?”
“Supply inventory. I always think I have more brushes than I do. And cups. And paper towels. And table covers.”
“What else?”
“Event setup. Not even all of it. Just another person who knows where things go so I’m not directing everybody and carrying everything at the same time.”
Edie writes fast.
“And someone to make sure I eat before events,” I say, quieter.
She looks up.
I shrug. “I forget sometimes.”
“I know.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“I’m saying it with love and judgment.”
“That’s your brand.”
“It is.”
I look at the list she’s made, and something settles in me.
● Emails.
● Social media.
● Inventory.
● Setup.
● Food.
None of that says studio with a one-year lease. None of that says a building I now have to figure out how to fill, afford, manage, decorate, insure, and not resent.
I do need help..the kind that gives me more room in my life, not the kind that hands me a bigger life to manage.
Edie pushes the notebook back to me. “There. That’s what you need.”
I stare at the list.
It looks so obvious now.
“I can’t believe I didn’t know how to say this.”
“You’re tired. Tired people don’t always know what they need. They just know they can’t keep going how they’re going.”
I think about Javonte standing in that studio, proud and hopeful, waiting for me to light up.
My stomach twists.
“He was trying,” I say.
“I believe that.”
“But he skipped me.”
Edie nods. “Then when you talk to him, say that.”
I let out a breath. “I don’t want to hurt him.”
“You’re not hurting him by telling the truth. You’re giving him a chance to understand you.”
My phone buzzes on the desk.
Javonte: I’m still giving you space. I just wanted you to know I’m here when you’re ready.
My eyes burn, and I blink hard because I do not have time to cry before a complaint review.
Edie stands. “That man is trying not to be a fool.”
I laugh. “He has a history.”
“Don’t we all?”
I pick up the phone and read the message again. I know what I need to say.
I turn back to my notebook and write one more line under Edie’s list:
Ask me before you build my future.
Then I close the notebook and stand, because apparently I have a complaint review to survive before I can go home and figure out what my actual life is supposed to look like.