Fresh Air
a closed-door, friends to lovers mystery
JULIA
Car visor mirrors should be a felony. A crime against all humanity, to be sure, but especially for innocent, thirty-year-old women simply trying to get to work on time. The September morning sun is blinding through my windshield, illuminating every single imperfection across my face.
I swear, my pores did not look this giant at home, did they? It was a stupid idea to switch-up my seven-step skincare routine last night by trying a different serum.
Serves me right for living life on the edge.
I’m about to snap the flimsy piece of plastic shut on this mirror and never look at it again but I halt. There, slightly wiggling in the cool air from my dashboard vents, is a single chin hair.
Not just any hair, but a hair. A how-in-the-world-did-I-never-notice-that type of hair.
One that would put all three little pigs to shame.
No, this strand on my chinny-chin-chin might have been growing since freaking birth.
The wispy, sunlit offender protrudes from the soft skin beneath my chin, and I claw at it as the red light turns green.
The silky hair slips through my grasp again and again. Panic edges my next breath, and I know, I know, that I’m going to be thinking about this stupid hair all freaking day unless I can get rid of it. My mind is fun like that.
Another stoplight laughs in my face, so I paw open my organized glovebox and retrieve my car kit. It’s an adorable velvet pouch filled with tampons, bandaids, mini deodorant, and the like. I could’ve sworn I had tweezers in here, but I come up short.
“Okay, Julia, lock in,” I mutter, pinching the pale perpetrator with my stubby fingernails. I’m insanely grateful it’s not bright copper like the rest of my hair. Taking a deep breath, I squeeze my eyelids shut and yank. I open them in time to see my auburn eyebrows drop.
All my fingernails managed to do was curl the strand like a damn Christmas ribbon.
Groaning, I mentally prepare myself to spend the rest of the day like a grown billy goat that also happens to be responsible for my clothing boutique’s marketing.
My white coupe fits neatly into the parking stall behind Autumn & June.
Trying to forget my billy goat status, I shove open the car door behind the clothing boutique.
Stretching my long limbs beside the vehicle, I take in the early fall weather.
It’s beautiful, but still feels awfully like summer.
Sweat beads along my lower back, but I don’t regret wearing my long sleeve ivory sweater and wide-legged chocolate corduroy pants.
The autumn vibes make me feel like a plucky main character from one of the cozy romance novels I read.
In true celebration of faux-fall, I retrieve two brimming pumpkin spice lattes from my car’s cup holders. Today marks the first day it’s been reintroduced for the year, and even though some might call me basic or predictable, I’m ecstatic.
The bell jingles above Autumn & June’s door as I enter.
Perky music spills through overhead speakers, and I’m hit with the scent of citrus and lemon.
The exposed red brick walls are full of character.
The quirky decor brings a smile to my face.
Customers especially love our mural of a sun-kissed model’s face partially obscured by a giant pink bubblegum bubble.
I technically don’t need to work on-site, since I can run our ad and social media campaigns from anywhere, but Hannah, my lifelong friend and co-owner of Autumn & June, insists on both of us having a physical presence. She says it’s what keeps the employees upbeat.
Hannah approaches, hips swaying, and she gives me a quizzical once-over. I tug up the neck of my turtleneck sweater trying—and failing—to bury my chin into it. Hannah doesn’t seem to notice my translucent goatee, for which I’m thankful.
“What in the world are you wearing?” Hannah’s olive-green eyes flick over me with a glimmer of incredulity.
“A sweater,” I say tentatively with a chuckle. “Emphasis on the sweat.”
“In seventy-nine degree weather? You’re insane.” She flips her long, chestnut curls over the strap of her skin-tight black tank top, but she takes the drink cup I offer to her. “And thanks for the coffee, but you’re late.”
Alarm tugs in my gut as I stumble after her. “Am I?”
I fumble for my calendar app. That sucker is my baby, and the only way I’m a semi-functioning adult.
I scroll past yesterday’s reminders: schedule bikini wax, pick up Dallas’s dry cleaning, remember to never buy riced cauliflower again—it tastes nothing like rice, and talk to Dallas about setting a wedding date.
There aren’t any reminders listed for today other than needing to help out my Mom by picking up my youngest sister from dance.
“Yeah,” Hannah says, doing a terrible job at masking her annoyance as she strides toward the curtain separating the storefront from the back room. “I told you last week we’d need to shoot the new inventory for the website before the employees get here.”
“But did you mention a specific day? How was I supposed to know–”
She whips around, popping a fist on one of her curvy hips.
I fall silent, chastising myself.
This is Hannah.
She’s been with me since my middle school awkward phase. And when I depleted my savings to help with my parents’ flood damage and couldn’t afford my initial half of Autumn & June, she offered to cover my portion. Even as I paid her back over time, she didn’t make me feel too bad about it.
“Sorry, Hannah.” I give her a tight smile. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that.”
Hannah hefts a large cardboard box that’s almost the size of her petite frame off a pallet, then slices it open with a box cutter. “We need these photographed and on the website by the end of the day.”
“I’ll get started,” I mumble. The doorbell chimes, letting us know two of our teenage employees on rotation have arrived for their shift. Hannah’s pouty lips lift in a pleased smile as I hoist another box off the pallet and set it beside the first.
“Thanks, Jules. You’re the best,” she says.
But she’s disappearing around the curtain before I can even say, “You’re welcome.”
I sigh, flicking on tall tripod lights surrounding a white backdrop. Even though it’s dim and musty back here, the photography set-up is bright.
Sipping my latte, I shuffle over to the box Hannah opened. It’s like I’m in deja-vu. A stale world of repetition inside a dusky room filled with the scent of cardboard. Although I enjoy predictability, adore it even, I can’t help but feel kinda…stagnant lately.
Tugging back the flaps of the box, I scoop out the top layer of items. They’re adorable cashmere cardigans, which will likely make the customers sweat as much as me unless this weather decides to finally cool off.
On a whim, I decide to shoot a quick video of the unboxing for our social media.
Our following loves to see sneak peeks of what will soon be on the floor, and the videos always do well.
I’ve just finished posting it as my phone rings with a call from one of my newer friends, Kate.
I met her through my other childhood best friend, Brandon, who now works at the same art museum as her.
Despite their tumultuous fling ending in college, they’re now engaged and happier than ever.
“Hey, Kate. What’s—”
“Don’t freak out, kay?”
Her words are enough to send a rock into my stomach. “What…do you mean?”
Her usually unapologetic tone sounds somewhat…apologetic. “I might have accidentally filled out an application in your name for the museum social media position a few weeks ago.”
“You what?!”
Kate puffs a short breath of static into my ear. “Julia, come on. You and I both know you had a blast marketing for the museum’s street art exhibition last year. We also know you’d rather cut off your own hand than leave Hannah hanging at Autumn & June.”
Although Kate sounds frustrated, my internal sirens don’t wail the way they do when people are upset with me.
Despite Kate Chen being a bold, confident woman, she doesn’t make me feel small.
If anything, our recent friendship makes me feel like I’m absorbing a fraction of her don’t-mess-with-me energy by proxy.
I did have an amazing time marketing for the museum last year, but it was a one-time gig.
Just a way to help out Kate and our other friend, Amantha, with her art exhibition.
But then the museum director told me there weren't any available positions in the marketing department, so nothing came of it.
“Okay, cutting off my own hand is a bit of a stretch,” I say. “And if you already know I won’t leave Hannah, then why did I apply? I mean, why did you apply?”
“I saw how lit up you were marketing for us last year, and I just couldn’t resist once the spot opened up. And I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d shoot me down. But I probably should have told you before today, because the interview happens to start in thirty minutes.”
“What?!”
“Well,” she grumbles, “I figured the museum already contacted you. But when I checked the roster for the group interview, your name wasn’t on it. Do you not check your email anymore? The runnergirl247 one?”
I groan. “Kate, I haven’t used that email since high school.”
“Oh,” she says. “Well, Brandon gave it to me, so that checks out. Whatever. You need to get to the museum, and now.”
Something akin to excitement vibrates millimeters above my skin, spreading like an electrical current. Marketing for the museum was one of my top two highlights last year, aside from Dallas finally proposing. But one flick of my eyes toward the curtain partition sends my shoulders drooping.
“Kate, I can’t. Hannah–”
“Come on, Julia.” Kate pleads. “Just come feel it out. Sometimes people need a kick in the butt to get what they want out of life, and lucky for you, I am an expert butt-kicker.”
Despite everything, I snort. “And it is part of why I love you.”