Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Saturday pop-up was Camila’s idea. Soft launch a physical store before you actually open one.
(Camila’s a genius.)
We’re hosting the all-day event in an airy rental space in the Warehouse District of downtown Austin. I arrive hopeful, optimistic. But when I say it goes from bad to worse, I mean it like this: what started as a controllable dumpster fire devolves into the gaping, smoking crater where a fiery meteor hit the earth.
It’s a gorgeous day, the smallest breeze carrying a hint of daisies and early summer grass across the Austin sky. I left my keys on my front car tire for Will and rode my bike here instead. Cami is by my side, strapped up in her signature weekend athleisure, an iPad cinched to her waist. I head next door to buy a carafe of coffee for us and the other staff who are coming to help later. Then we get to work. We spread out racks of clothes on hangers, organize sweaters on the shelves. Cami and I spend the morning hanging, folding, staging.
The new director, Margaret—who, before coming to Revenant, managed a handful of fashion stores for a large brand in Dallas—does not show up as early as we do. I can see the confusion grow on Cami’s face the later it gets. Finally, Margaret arrives at ten thirty, looking pleasantly surprised we’ve already staged the place.
The event is supposed to start at eleven a.m. sharp. By this point, we have a small line of customers waiting outside the event space. It becomes clear Margaret has not trained herself—or any of the other staff pitching in today—on the checkout devices. (At ten forty-five, we’re watching YouTube videos on how to accept card payments.) And that’s just the beginning of our problems.
Once the doors open (late) and customers begin browsing, the lack of fitting rooms becomes apparent. (One! And it’s also the only bathroom!)
I go into problem-solving mode: call my spray tan girl, offer her hundreds of dollars if she can quickly wipe down her spray tents and bring them by for the day. Then I send a staff member to Target to buy every college-dorm floor-length mirror.
Cami shoots me guilty looks while all this is going on, but I can’t pause to talk about it. My brain has never worked like that. You have to get through something, come out on the other side of it, before you’re allowed to admit how bad things got. And anyway, she’s stuck behind a line of customers waiting to check out (one of the devices bugged out two hours in; we’re down to two, and frankly, three wasn’t enough to begin with).
In the middle of the afternoon, we run completely out of sizes small, medium, and large. Maybe that sounds like sales are going well, and sure, they’re not going terribly, but the racks are still more than half full. I’ve never seen so many extra-smalls in my life. I make a mental note to politely ask Margaret how she determined the product mix.
Margaret, who has spent most of the day over by the photo wall, snapping pictures of influencers. It’s the one aspect of the event she put together the night before. The wall’s got the Fill your closet once tagline, pink streamers, silver balloons. Not even our brand colors, which are navy blue and ivory.
When Gio comes through around three o’clock, she gives me a pitying look.
“Brace yourself for some social media backlash,” she warns me. “There are videos going around talking about the poor execution.”
I nod at her, busying myself with folding and refolding sweaters that are too small for most human beings to wear, especially since sweaters tend to be oversized anyway. “How bad are we talking?”
“People who aren’t even in Austin are joining the conversation. It’s becoming about…” I glance up. Gio winces. “Age, and experience. People are saying Revenant is an unsustainable press darling.”
I bite into my tongue, glancing over at Margaret again. She’d been a great employee for a company with a huge brick-and-mortar footprint. But I guess the problem is she’s never worked for a start-up.
“Also,” Gio goes on, “I heard someone say they need a discount on a shirt because it has spray tan smudges on it.”
I’m holding it together all right until a beautiful blond plus-sized woman with a Parisian fashion sense finds me toward the end of the event and—very gently, very quietly—tells me she’s disappointed in the size inclusivity at this pop-up. Our XL sizes and our XXLs are gone at this point, too.
“It’s inexcusable,” I tell her. She’s wearing the Revenant bow around her softly curled ponytail. “And I’m personally going to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Not online, and not in any store we ever open.”
She sighs, evaluating me. Like she’s wondering how sincere a person I am. If she can hold me to my word. “I love your clothes. I love the way they look on me, and I’ve never had a problem online. I just hope when your Austin store opens, I’ll be able to try something on.”
Five minutes later, I get a text from Derrick with a TikTok attached. It’s an Austin influencer who posted about the pop-up, detailing everything that went wrong. Talking about problems I haven’t even heard of yet: that the discount codes we advertised weren’t reflected on the receipts, that a few items were priced differently online.
Who planned this?
Director of retail experience. She’s new , I explain, as if that will appease him, my fingers shaking as I type. Been with Revenant two months.
I’ve barely replied when Derrick shoots back another text: Fire her.
That’s not even what sends me to the back parking lot in tears moments later. It’s an email that hits my inbox mere seconds after Derrick’s command.
Miss Davis,
We’re deeply sorry for the mix-up, but it looks like your table at Andalo was double-booked for next Saturday. Since the other bachelorette party booked first, we’ve had to cancel your reservation. You will be fully refunded. Again, our sincerest apologies. Below is a list of alternative clubs in the Nashville area that may accept a group your size.
Best,
Andalo
That’s when the meteor makes contact, the words fire her repeating on a brutal loop in my mind, only it’s not Derrick saying them about Margaret. It’s Cami saying them about me.
You messed up. You did a bad job. You ruined something important. You weren’t a good enough maid of honor, and you’re also a bad fucking friend. Fire her, fire her, fire her.
I heave breaths in and out of my nose, slowing as my vision blurs from tears.
That club was the thing Cami was looking forward to most about her whole bachelorette weekend. She wanted to dance on a table with bottle service included, all her favorite women in a circle around her, shrieking the lyrics to Jason Derulo songs played at a sped-up tempo. She wanted to feel sexy and confident and in the middle of it all, the center of attention for once, everybody doting on her, just for that one night. I promised her we would do it all.
Camila Sanchez has six sisters, two cousins that are basically sisters, two more future sisters-in-law. But out of all those women, she chose me to be her maid of honor.
Fire her, my brain supplies cruelly, as I push out of the doors and bolt around the corner, choking back a sob. I rush to the back of the building.
You’re doing a bad job. Not just at this wedding. Everything. You’re bad at your job. You’re bad at life. No one wants to be with you. Everyone who works for you secretly hates you. You’re so bad at all of it. Who do you think you are? You can’t be in charge of all these people. You aren’t good enough. You aren’t worthy. You’re only going to keep disappointing—
“Josie?”
I slam into something hard and warm. Another body, whose scent I know immediately. Will grabs me by each elbow, steadying me. I try to focus on his face, but he’s blurry.
“I think I lost a c-contact!” I cry.
“It’s on your cheek. Hold still.” One of his hands cups the back of my neck, warm and heavy, while three of his knuckles settle on my cheek. “Got it,” he breathes, sending minty breath over my skin. “I have contact solution in my car. Come here.”
The hand on my neck drops to wrap around mine. Will pulls me deeper into the parking lot. I’m crying harder now, squeezing both of my eyes tightly shut as he leads me. Finally, he pulls me to a stop and unlocks his car.
“Here.” Will transfers the rogue contact from his fingertip to mine and douses it with saline.
I crouch in front of his side mirror, carefully securing the contact back in place. But once it’s fixed up, my tears keep coming. My body is heaving with sobs. Will doesn’t move away, but he doesn’t make a move to touch me again, either.
I am really, really crying. Not cute, dainty crying. Not soft, silent crying. I’m hacking sobs, sniffing like I’ve got a runny nose, hiccuping, gulping for small sips of air. I see Will’s hand flinch down by his side, like he’s tempted to comfort me but decides against it.
“W-What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I saw the press. Came to see if I could help.”
This admission does absolutely nothing to curb my tears. “We’re ab-bout to close,” I tell him.
“Probably for the best,” he admits darkly. “Truth be told, that’s the help I was going to offer. Or strongly suggest.”
I sob-laugh. “It was tragic.”
“That all? I’ve been hearing adjectives like understaffed, incompetent, and—brace yourself, this one’s going to sting— bad lighting. ”
“All of the above.”
“May I say,” Will murmurs, “it’s unlike you to get eviscerated for bad lighting?”
“You may. It’s a factual statement.”
My tears ebb, and the blue in his eyes concentrates. “Why are you crying? Did something specific happen, or was it just… everything?”
I shake my head, pushing hair out of my face so I can see him more clearly. He’s dressed simply in light jeans and a plain gray T-shirt, his brown hair mussed. “No. I mean, yes, it was everything. But I’ve dealt with shit hitting the fan more times than I can remember without crying. It was about Camila.”
Will looks down at me, his frown deepening. “Your CBO?”
“She’s also my best friend. And her bachelorette party, which I planned, is next Saturday. We’re going to Nashville, and she wanted to visit this club, only they double-booked us, and now I don’t know what we’re supposed to do that night that feels special for her. And I really want it to feel special,” I say, pushing down another sob, “because Camila has been this rock for her family almost her whole life. When she was sixteen, her mom died, and she was basically in charge of all her sisters and little cousins. Her grandma was Camila’s legal guardian, but she was ill. Anyway, Cami’s done a lot for her family, and for once, it’s her turn to have everybody care about her and love on her and celebrate her. Out of all that family, she picked me to be her maid of honor, and I don’t want to fuck it up.” I finish in a whisper.
I didn’t notice until now, but my mascara is smudged over the collar of his T-shirt. I must have really bumped him earlier. “Fuck, I stained your shirt.”
He glances down. “It’s no big deal. What’s the name of the club? In Nashville?”
“Andalo. They sent a list of other places I can call, so at least that’s something.”
“But Camila specifically wanted to go there,” Will clarifies.
I nod. “They do a whole shebang for bachelorette groups. Fireworks that come out of champagne, disposable cameras, special songs from the DJ, bottle service. I booked the table months ago. I don’t know what happened.”
Will’s hands dip into his pockets. “How about this. You forward me that email. I’ll call the other clubs and see what can be done. You head inside and close that shit show down for good.”
“Will, that’s not part of your job.”
“I know it’s not. Let me help anyway.”
“Why?”
He frowns. “Because you need help, that’s why.”
I don’t have the bandwidth to decode his expression right now, so instead, I forward him the email from the club and say a quick thank-you before heading back inside.
The last of our frustrated customers are straggling out the door, empty-handed. The balloons over by the photo wall have lost half their helium, but Margaret’s as chipper as she was when she walked in at ten thirty.
“I think that went great!” she announces, tucking her cell phone into her back pocket. “How about you guys?”
Cami’s already folding leftover inventory back into boxes. She doesn’t say a word but offers a tight smile. I can see doubt settle into Margaret’s expression the longer the silence stretches out—especially when she catches the uneasy looks from the other staff and, worst of all, the smudged mascara under my eyes.
“Everybody can head out,” I jump in. “Thanks for all your hard work, especially on a Saturday. Camila and I will load the rental truck.”
Mark offers me a weak smile, and Brandi rubs my shoulder as they grab their things and make for the door. Margaret lingers, approaching Camila.
“Hey, I can take care of that. Since I didn’t show up in time this morn—”
“It’s okay.” Cami lifts her head and shoots Margaret a lukewarm smile. “I appreciate the offer, but I already grabbed the keys to the truck. My fiancé is on his way to help us load. We’ll manage.”
The air in the room grows tight as Margaret grabs her belongings, muttering that she’ll see us both Monday morning. I stay quiet and unmoving, my hands loosely resting on my hips until she’s gone.
Camila walks over to her oversized purse and riffles around inside until she pulls out a lunch box. The same one she used to carry Jell-O shots on our way to date parties in college. (It was her party trick.) Nestled into a bed of slushy ice are two mini bottles of La Marca prosecco.
“This was supposed to be a celebratory drink.” She scoops up the bottles and stares at their necks wedged between her fingertips.
“Well,” I say, “we don’t have to tell the mini alcohols about that.”
“That their identity has been stolen? That we’re now drinking in mourning?”
“I need it more desperately now than I would’ve if today had gone off without a hitch.”
She sighs, dropping to the floor. She crosses her legs and sets both bottles in front of her. I walk over and sit down opposite, unscrewing each cap.
“I asked Margaret if we needed to hire an event management company,” Cami admits, taking a swig. “She said we didn’t.”
“We probably needed one,” I agree.
“Am I going to have to fire her?” Cami asks. “I’ve never fired anyone before.”
“Firing people sucks,” I say, thinking back on the handful of people I’ve had to let go over the years. “But if this was her first flop, maybe not?”
“It wasn’t her first flop.”
“Oh.”
After a minute Cami asks, “I know Derrick has an opinion.”
“Derrick says to fire her.”
Cami barks out a laugh. “Derrick is ruthless.”
“She’s your employee,” I say. “It’s your call.”
She bites her lip, looking sideways. “I didn’t really call David. But I can.”
“No need. Will Grant is here. He can help us load the truck.”
Her brown eyes lock back on mine, narrowing. “I know we’ve both been busy over the last couple of days—”
“Days?”
“Years,” she amends. “But at some point, J, I need you to explain why you signed a contract with a man who looks like a young Henry Cavill and writes sonnets at you with his eyes in public. ”
“He does not,” I say staunchly. “It’s a completely different look, I swear. I need to give you the full story later. Will and I know each other from high school.”
“Okay, well, that’s cool, but whatever he’s doing with his eyes when he looks at you is indecent all the same. More indecent than Jason Lorcan adjusting his pants every time we talk about expanding into intimates.”
I laugh. “Jason Lorcan can dream on. We’re not expanding into intimates.”
“What is this, a dictatorship?” Cami scoffs in mock outrage. “Jason and I would like to renegotiate.”
“Bras are out anyway.” I take another sip of my mourning alcohol, wondering if Will’s made any progress on the phone with another club. “Hey, Cami?”
“Hey.”
“Andalo double-booked us and then canceled on me.”
She nods, burbles out a small laugh, and takes another sip, draining her bottle. She sets it down and reclines all the way against the floor. “Clubs are out anyway.”