Chapter 2 #2
Left side: empty. Right side: a crumpled receipt for the drink I'd bought her at the party. Whiskey sour, extra cherry. The bartender had written "RIDGE" at the top with a smiley face because apparently everyone at that party thought my fake persona was charming.
Inside pocket: nothing.
I move to the pants I wore. They're hanging in the small closet I keep for emergency outfit changes, Colum's insisted on it ever since I spilled an entire pot of coffee on myself before an investor presentation.
Left pocket: lint and a button that came off the shirt I wore under the jacket.
Right pocket: more lint, a quarter, and—
My fingers catch on something soft. Paper. Small.
I pull it out carefully.
It's a cocktail napkin. Tiny, square, the kind they give you at bars with overpriced drinks and underpaid servers. White, or it was white before someone, before she pressed a kiss to it.
The lipstick stain is perfect. A full print of her lips, slightly parted, in that bright red shade she'd been wearing. Around it, like some sort of cosmetic crime scene, glitter catches the overhead fluorescent light. Gold, mostly, with flecks of copper and something that shimmers pink.
I turn it over.
Nothing. No number, no message, no name.
Just a kiss and glitter that's already transferring to my fingers.
Great.
I sit down hard in my chair, napkin balanced on my palm like it might disintegrate if I breathe wrong.
She'd been drinking the whiskey sour, laughing at something I said, something Ridge said, actually, some joke about Colum's tendency to turn every gathering into a TED talk. She'd leaned close, her shoulder brushing mine, and pulled a napkin from the stack on the bar.
"For luck," she'd said, pressing her lips to it deliberately, eyes locked on mine. Then she'd tucked it into my jacket pocket with a grin that promised trouble.
I'd forgotten entirely until now.
Sis.
Except that's not a name. That's a nickname. A placeholder. The kind of thing you say when you don't want someone looking you up on social media before the night's over.
I'd done the same thing. Ridge instead of Gunther. Mystery instead of truth.
And now I'm holding a napkin covered in glitter and regret.
Twenty minutes later, I'm at my computer with a browser open and the napkin carefully placed on a clean sheet of printer paper to contain the glitter fallout.
Cosmetic stores in this area.
I start there. Type it into the search bar and watch the results populate.
Four hundred thousand hits. Apparently "sparkle", "glitter", and "beauty" are extremely common words in the cosmetics industry. Who knew.
I narrow it down. Add "Poplar Springs" to the search.
Better. Down to three pages of results.
There's a Sparkle Nails on the north end of town. A Beauty Bar that seems to specialize in spray tans and questionable eyebrow threading. Something called Sparkle & Shine Auto Detailing that definitely isn't relevant but makes me wonder who thought that name was a good idea.
Nothing that matches.
I try variations. "Sparkle Beauty Poplar Springs Plaza." "Cosmetics Sparkle Beauty." "Glitter shop Poplar Springs."
Page three of Google results is where hope goes to die.
I lean back, rubbing my eyes under my glasses.
This is ridiculous. She's in the plaza. Colum said so.
Which means she's probably in the directory, listed with all the other retail tenants, right there in the building records that I have access to because I work for the company that manages half the commercial properties in this part of town.
Obviously.
I pull up the internal database and search "cosmetic stores in Poplar Springs."
Nothing.
I try "Beauty."
Seventeen results, none of them right. Beauty Bar (already found that one). Sleeping Beauty Mattress Co. A dermatology clinic called True Beauty Med Spa.
I try "Sparkle."
Two results. The auto detailing place and a children's party company that apparently specializes in "magical princess experiences."
Maybe she lied.
The thought lands like a stone in my mind. Maybe the whole thing was fiction. Maybe Sis wasn't even in cosmetics. Maybe she just liked glitter and I invented the rest based on a napkin and wishful thinking.
I pick up my phone. Put it down. Pick it up again.
This is stupid.
I dial the first number. Beauty Bar.
"Beauty Bar, this is Tiffany, how can I help you look gorgeous today?"
"Hi. Yes. I'm looking for someone named Sis? She works in cosmetics?"
A pause. "Like... Sis? As in sister?"
"I think so. Or maybe it's a nickname."
"Honey, I don't know anyone called Sis. We've got Amber, Dakota, and me. That's it."
"Right. Thank you."
I hang up before she can try to book me for a spray tan.
Next number. True Beauty Med Spa.
"True Beauty, where confidence meets science."
"Hi, I'm trying to reach someone named Sis. She mentioned she works in cosmetics in the Poplar Springs area."
"We don't have anyone by that name. Is she a patient?"
"No, an employee. Or owner, maybe."
"Sir, our staff directory is on our website. Feel free to check there."
I check. No Sis. Shocking.
I call four more places. A makeup counter at the department store.
A salon that swears they only do hair, not cosmetics, and I should know the difference.
A boutique that sells something called "clean beauty" and spends three minutes trying to explain what that means before I interrupt to ask about Sis.
Nothing.
By eight o'clock, I've called every cosmetics-adjacent business in a ten-mile radius and learned absolutely nothing except that apparently I'm terrible at detective work.
My desk is covered in notes. Scribbled names, phone numbers, dead ends. The napkin sits in the center like evidence I can't interpret.
You screwed up.
Colum's voice again, except this time it's my own. I screwed up by not asking her name. Her real name. By not getting her number before we left the party. Before we ended up in that motel room where I was too busy being Ridge to think about what came after.
I'd been so focused on the moment, on being spontaneous and confident and everything Gunther usually isn't, that I forgot the basics. And I wasn't about to involve Colum further by asking him her real name. He didn't need fodder to roast me more.
Names. Numbers. Details that matter when you wake up alone and realize the person you can't stop thinking about is functionally a stranger.
The glitter on my fingers catches the light.
She's real. The napkin proves it. The memory of her laugh, the way she'd looked at me like I was worth her time, the cherry taste of her lip gloss, all real.
But real doesn't help me find her.
I shut the browser. Fold the napkin carefully back into the printer paper and tuck it into my drawer next to the hair tie and Clarence.
Evidence of your poor life choices, I think. Start a collection.
The whole shop smells like my signature blend: heavy on the hibiscus with a hint of citrus and rose.
My phone lights up.
Colum, naturally. Status: still sulking?
I type back: Working.
Liar. Go home. Eat something. Preferably something that didn't come from a vending machine.
I'm fine.
You're spiraling. I know spiraling. You get that thing with your shoulders.
I don't have a thing with my shoulders.
You absolutely do. It's like you're trying to fold yourself into a human envelope.
Despite everything, I almost smile.
Go home, Gunther. She'll turn up.
I want to believe him. Colum's usually right about these things. He has an annoying habit of being correct about matters of human behavior, probably because he spends so much time manipulating it for his own entertainment.
But this feels different.
This feels like I had something good for exactly six hours and then watched it slip away because I was too afraid to be myself.
I pack up my desk. Tuck my laptop into my bag, straighten my pocket protector, and grab the leather jacket from the back of my chair.
On my way out, I pass the plaza directory mounted near the main entrance. It's one of those illuminated boards with little slides for each business name and suite number. I've walked past it a thousand times without really looking.
I look now.
Alphabetical order. Beauty Bar, suite 204. Fishborn Financial, suite 310. Sleeping Beauty Mattress Co., suite 118.
No Sparkle or Glitter or Sis Beauty.
But tucked near the bottom, in a slot that looks newer than the others, slightly crooked: Sparkle, suite 103.
Just Sparkle. No "Beauty." No description.
Suite 103.
Ground floor. East side of the building, if I'm remembering the layout correctly. Near the coffee shop and that weird candle store that always smells like someone's burning a Christmas tree.
I could walk past tomorrow. Just to check. Just to see if—
No.
I turn away from the directory and head for the exit.
If she wanted to be found, she would've left a number. A real name. Something other than a glitter-covered napkin and a nickname that tells me nothing.
She left, and I let her go.
That's the end of the story.
Except it doesn't feel like the end.
It feels like I'm missing half the data, trying to solve an equation without knowing all the variables.
And I hate unsolved equations.