Chapter Ten Nomi
CHAPTER TEN
NOMI
I’m not religious, but when I wake up the morning of move-in day, the spirit of, well, something, enters my body and levitates me out of bed. I throw off the covers, unceremoniously unseating Big Bird by accident, and leap to my feet, feeling true joy.
I rush up the stairs and bang on Eve’s door before throwing it open. “It’s move-in day, bitch!”
Eve’s already up and baking in her kitchen, wearing a beautiful pale-green apron with The food has weed in it embroidered in cursive, a present from me for 4/20.
She grins and proffers a beautiful platter of freshly baked scones, muffins, and the infamous hemp protein bars. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day!”
I hesitate in front of the platter. “I don’t know… we have so much to do.”
She pshhaws at me, then picks up a big, sumptuous blueberry muffin tinged the palest green and waves it in my face. “I used the high-energy Sativa blend—the one that made you clean the whole house two weeks ago and do your taxes. This is for our Wake and Bake menu.”
I grab the muffin. The rich, buttery flake makes me groan out loud. “Eve. This is so fucking good. You’re ridiculously talented.”
“Funny.” Eve smirks. “That’s what Julian said to me at the party.”
“Can we not sully this perfect morning with D’Asshole?”
“Fine.” Eve wraps up the platter to take with us. “But let the record show that my pot baking is so good, it turned Julian D’Angelo into a lovely person for one whole evening.”
“Truly witchcraft,” I mutter. Whenever I think about that night, a wave of angry, frustrated disappointment surges through me.
Because Julian was lovely at our Pot Luck.
Kind, open, earnest. Hilariously scared of raccoons.
I was charmed against my better judgment.
Seduced by the sheer physicality of him all grown up with too much horny pot in my system.
I knew what kind of person Julian was, and I fell for it anyway.
It hurt when he woke up the next day, horrified at what we’d done.
I didn’t ask you out, did I? The look of disgust on his face haunts me, and I cringe in mortification every time I remember how he accused me of drugging him so I could straddle him.
It shouldn’t have surprised me, then, when he got up in front of the whole town and said there was no excuse for my mediocrity to my face.
That’s the Julian who hurt me all those years ago when I finally came back to high school, and that’s the one he chooses to be, every day.
So what if there’s a lovely person trapped inside, accessible only by increased dopamine activation in his nucleus accumbens from the presence of cannabinoids? Who he chooses to be matters more.
And he chooses to suck.
“Come on.” Eve tugs my arm. “Let’s get to Stranger Drugs before the edibles hit.”
The morose mood Julian’s wasted potential put me in evaporates as soon as we park in front of our building.
“Our building!” Eve says, a perfect echo of my own thoughts. We smile up at the red brick facade. “Our dispensary!”
“We did it, Joe!” I hug her to my side, wishing I’d ordered a big ribbon and giant pair of scissors for the moment.
Ooh, maybe for the grand opening! Where does one buy ceremonial scissors, anyways?
In two thousand years, will some race of conquering aliens dig through the rubble of what was once Sparrow Nook and find my giant scissors?
What will they think? How will they explain why most scissors fit our primitive human hands, but sometimes we made gigantic versions?
I press my hand into my chest, empathy welling there for those little alien archaeologists. They’ll be so confused.
Eve nudges me. “The muffin hit, didn’t it.”
My face breaks into a big, sunny grin. “Let’s get cleaning, bitch.”
“You realize that all your motivational one-liners end with the word bitch. Not very progressive of you.”
“Let’s get progressive, bi—”
Eve drags me through the beautiful double doors as I cackle.
The morning disappears into a spirited haze of mopping, dusting, and after Graham arrives with his truck, unloading various furniture and supplies.
While he’s an absolute demon at trivia, Graham’s also very strong, which is great since I’ve already tapped him to be our security guard and chief mover-of-heavy-things.
The dispensary’s main room needs almost nothing—the glass display cases intended for historical artifacts are perfect for displaying our cannabis selections.
The booths, old soda fountain counter, and bar stools are all perfect for socializing and enjoying Eve’s baking.
We install an old commercial coffee maker Eve bought cheap off one of her Greek uncles and hang our thick, ceramic mugs with our dispensary’s logo lovingly emblazoned in red along the copper wall hooks.
While I don’t drink coffee thanks to my angry colon, Eve convinced me coffee will go perfectly with her morning Wake and Bake line, so I gave in.
As long as I don’t have to learn that machine, I’m fine with it.
Graham helps me hoist the antique wooden desk I scored from an estate sale onto a hand truck for my office.
My office! It’s been like this all morning.
Every time I touch something, the words My ___!
fill my brain, making me smile in wonder.
My desk. My office. My bathroom. My giant pair of scissors, I muse as I happily press add to cart during a break later that morning.
When you’ve waited your whole life for something to be truly yours, the simple truth of it feels like a hug, whispering you did it, over and over.
My dispensary. My future. My life.
I’ve just finished installing a new desktop computer for my office when Eve’s voice cuts through my concentration.
“Um, Nomi? Can you come out here?”
I break away from my new tech-baby and all the sweet, sweet spreadsheets I’m going to make and pad out to the front.
“Oh.” I startle back. There’s an officer standing in front of the door, but I don’t recognize the ruddy uniform or the patch on his chest pocket. Eve and Graham are standing motionless to the side of him, their eyes round, concerned, and aimed at me.
“Are you Nomi Wyeth?” he asks with the kind of pep that comes from loving your job.
“Yes?”
He hands over a manila envelope with my name and the dispensary’s address on front. “The Sparrow Nook Zoning Commission has received a citizen complaint regarding your business’s zoning eligibility. I’ll be performing the investigation.”
I stare at the envelope dumbly in my hands, then up at his face. The officer can’t be older than forty, but it’s difficult to tell since his face, hair, and facial hair are all the same, sandy color of old limestone. “You’re a…” I squint at the embroidered patch on his shirt, “zoning detective?”
“That’s right, Ms. Wyeth. May I ask you some questions?”
Behind him, Eve’s waving her arms wildly, mouthing, “Say no! You have rights!” She watches a lot of Law & Order.
“No, I have rights,” I repeat slowly. This appears to be the wrong thing to say, because the detective’s jaw tightens.
“If you want to play it that way.” A hostile sparkle gleams in his yellowish eyes. This man is jaundice personified.
“No, no, I mean—now’s not a great time, is all.” I make my tone as deferential as possible. “Can we make an appointment to talk over everything later this week?”
He sniffs, mollified. “I’d be happy to arrange a mutually convenient time with you, Ms. Wyeth.
” His eyes skim over me to the platter of Eve’s baked goods with obvious interest. “In exchange for one of those scones.” His pasty lips quiver into a smile as he reaches toward the platter. I jump in front of it.
“No! Those are—” I scramble for what to say as his eyes narrow at me once more.
“Filled with weed, sir,” Eve blurts, rushing to pull the platter back and behind the counter. She smiles hastily. “Can’t get intoxicated when you’re pursuing uh, zoning justice.”
The detective looks at us with shocked outrage, then pulls out a notepad from his belt. With giant, petty flourishes, he jots down what must be very thorough notes because this goes on for a while. We stand around in increasing discomfort until he finishes.
“I’ll be back, and in the meantime, you’re officially prohibited from conducting any marijuana business on this property.” He takes one last look at the scones, scowls, then strides out the door.
As soon as he’s gone, Graham and Eve descend on me like seagulls on pizza.
“A zoning complaint?” Eve plucks the envelope from my hands and dumps the contents on the counter. “What even is that?”
I hoist myself up on the stool next to Graham and groan.
“Every part of town is zoned for a specific use. Commercial, residential, industrial, designations like that. If you try to operate a business in an area that’s not zoned for that kind of business, you can get investigated, penalized, fined, even forced to move. ”
Graham frowns. “I don’t understand. Who told on you?”
“All you need to know is right here.” Eve points at the signature at the bottom.
“Julian?!” Rage kindles inside of me, blazing to life. “That absolute dickhead!” I push off the counter and stomp toward the door.
“Where is he?!” I bellow two minutes later at the bored teenage boy manning Dr. Appa’s reception desk. He takes in my crazed eyes, bandana askew, sweat-damp tank, and the fire of holy fury burning me alive. He’s only slightly interested.