Chapter 16
Fern thinks about community.
On Thursday, Fern awoke in the arms of her sort-of boyfriend, dressed in his clothes.
She thought for sure she’d be up at some awful, dark hour, ready to extract herself and drive home before sunrise.
Either Elliott was too comfortable, or she was too tired, because it was nine when she looked at her phone, panicked, shimmied out from under his arm, and fled.
She sent him a text on the way out, apologizing for dashing, but she needed to open the salon in an hour.
At her apartment, she tossed on the tank top she’d worn kayaking, which caused a fashion crisis when she didn’t know what to pair it with.
But it smelled like him—or his detergent—and that was close enough to Elliott to make her smile.
A puff of blush and a dab of lip balm later, she rushed down to Reads the day was just getting started.
The Big Chop was alive, and Donna Summer blared through the open windows. Inside, Rosalind harmonized with the Keurig, scream-singing “Hot Stuff” and swaying her jean-clad butt.
“Morning!” Fern shouted, letting the door jangle closed behind her.
Ros danced over, the short strands of her gray pixie lifting in her self-created breeze. Standing in front of Fern, she narrowed her eyes, highlighting her smile lines. “Long night?”
“I’m not late. I don’t look that bad, right?
” Fern’s sneakers squeaked on the glossy wood floor as she positioned herself before a mirror.
She was fine—cute even. She’d neatly rebraided her hair and put a linen shirt over her tank—inspired by Elliott.
Her jeans were fresh and her sneakers... squeaky.
“You’re lookin’ like a foxy mama.”
“Jesus, Ros!”
Rosalind chuckled. “I’m just saying, if you have somewhere you need to be, I could cover for you today.”
Ros had shown up every day that week, even though she was only supposed to be there a few mornings and Saturdays. She couldn’t stay away, and as much as Fern liked her, her hackles were rising. “Is this because you wish you hadn’t hired me?”
“Baby, I didn’t hire you. I’m giving this place to you.” Ros spun, splashing coffee on the front of the desk. “Oh, shit. Let me fix that.”
Fern’s mouth fell open. “You’re giving it to me?”
Ros grinned. “That’s my plan. Was I not clear? Whoops.”
“I thought I was managing it.”
“You are, for a little while, until I’m ready to sign it over. I was thinking, a dollar for the property?” Her eyes darted around the room.
“A dollar? Ros, no.” This was nepotism at its finest, and she wasn’t even family. So, maybe it wasn’t nepotism… Charity? Was she a charity case?
“Don’t look like that, sweetie. I’ve been thinking about this a long time, and I didn’t have to know you long to know it’s the right choice.” An empathetic frown stretched her lips before it lifted into a soft smile.
Fern didn’t know how to feel: elated Ros wanted to give her the salon, thrilled at the prospect of owning a business, excited for the possibilities, the stability it would add to her life, the dreams she’d achieve, but terrified, all the same.
What would it make her? A businesswoman or an artist?
Could she balance both? Could she be both?
“You really can get out of here,” Ros offered again.
Snapped out of her ruminations, Fern scowled. “Why do you want me gone so badly? I thought you trusted me?”
“I don’t want you out of here, I’m telling you I can cover the day. Figured you might have better places to be.” She tapped her nose. “You smell like the Fitzpatrick boy and sex.”
Fern spit her coffee all over the salon chair. Turning, wide-eyed, she was met with an extended arm and a container of cleaning wipes. She snagged several. “I can work the day.”
Rosalind chuckled. “Just let me know when you need time off. I’m always happy to cover for you, even after you own the place.”
Lifting her hand to her forehead in salute, Fern said, “Got it, boss.”
“I’m not your boss.” Ros scowled. “You’re the boss now.”
Fern made it through four haircuts and a nail appointment with Ros’s daughter-in-law, one of the pack’s betas.
By the end of that one, which Ros pulled up a chair for, Fern knew way more than she needed to about the pack and was completely caught up on “the kids,” Ros’s grandbabies.
The town was like one big family. In the case of this group, literally.
In the case of the others, it was a vibe.
Her day was overwhelmingly wholesome—minus Rosalind’s whole, “you smell like sex” thing.
With fifty dollars in tips in her pocket, Fern locked up at four, stopped by Reads she’d even gotten him to admit it.
With a small smile pulling at her closed lips, she unwrapped her chicken salad on a croissant and positioned herself to take a bite.
But what if Elliott was waiting on his true mate?
He’d originally said he wasn’t interested in a relationship and later admitted they were potential mates. Holy fuck. Had she been hearing him wrong the whole time? Was potential all they’d ever have—because he wasn’t interested in anything more?
On one hand, he said he was done running; on the other, he hadn’t confessed anything, she’d had to ask about their status. Oh, shit.
Blowing out a heavy breath, Fern dropped her sandwich and sat up. She was staring, unfocused, at her dresser, feet tapping the floor, freaking out about the true meaning of the word potential when her phone rang.
For the first time in... forever?... she lunged to answer her mom’s incoming call.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Roaches?”
Sighing, Fern said, “No roaches. How are you doing?”
“Oh, you know.” She could practically hear her mother swaying her spindly fingers in the air. “I talked to your aunt the other day.”
“How is she?” Fern took a bite of her sandwich, expecting a long-winded response, which she got.
In sum, her aunt’s dog ate ten pairs of underwear and needed a visit to the vet to sort things out. “She asked about you,” Mom continued. “I won’t lie, it was hard for me.”
Pinching her brows, Fern asked, “What was?”
“Facing the embarrassment, having to admit you’d run off to the middle of nowhere to ‘seek happiness.’” Mom scoffed, and Fern’s mouth fell open, the rest of her sandwich forgotten. “She didn’t blame me, thank god. We both understand, you young people need to make your own mistakes and—”
“What the hell, Mom? I’m nearly thirty. Let me live my life. I didn’t want to stay in the city, so I followed an opportunity. What’s shameful about that? I love managing this salon and being an artist.”
It was a smidge early for Fern to announce she liked the Big Chop, but Ros wanted to give the place to her.
Knowing she would make it her own one day melted some of the ice her mom had shoved in her chest. She was going to be a business owner and an artist—eventually.
Petulantly, she decided not to tell her mom about the opportunity.
“An artist?” Mom laughed, and Fern’s heart pinched. “You cut hair. You could’ve gotten an art degree and had some claim to that title, but you decided to be a dropout instead.”
Blinking gormlessly, feeling stupid for testing her unearned label, it took a second for those words to sink in. “Are you kidding me? You forced me into accounting or business!”
“And you dropped out. That was your choice, sweetie, not mine. You should have changed majors again if you wanted to be an artist so badly. At least a degree would tell people you can follow through on things.”
Fern wanted to puke. With shaking hands and shaking words, she re-wrapped her sandwich and said, “Mom, you’re being cruel for no reason.
I don’t know if you’re jealous that I’m finding happiness or if you just hate me, but I like it here.
Olivia and my new friends are wonderful, I’m creating things, business is good, and I don’t need you to bring me down. Either support me or leave me alone.”
“I’m not— Fern. The economy! You need a 401k!”
“Thanks, Mom. I need to get going. I’ll talk to you soon.” She hung up and promptly went to shower with an audiobook blaring. It was easier to imagine hockey sticks could voluntarily provide orgasms than deal with her mom being such a fucking bitch.
Cleaned and conditioned, Fern felt far less frazzled than before—externally—and tossed on some spandex shorts with Elliott’s T-shirt... which was technically dirty, but she wanted the comfort.