“But you can’t unsee them.” He points his phone at his shoes, and garish, horrid green Crocs fill my screen.
I slam my palms over my eyes, my right hand pressing the phone to my face. “La la la la la.” I yank the phone back in front of me, wagging a finger at him. “Next time I see you, I’m taking all your Crocs and donating them. Wait. No one wants them. They will need to be burned as an offering to the gods while you ask for forgiveness for ever having worn them.”
He cackles. “They’re comfortable. Also, when women dig me, I know it’s for me and not for how I dress.”
“That’s for damn sure.”
“Second, you want to know why I’m being a hater?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Because . . . wait for it.” He wields his imaginary drumsticks and performs a drumroll, then gets up close and personal, shoving his face against the screen and shouting, “YOU’RE WEARING A PANTSUIT!”
I glance down at my outfit, royal blue with slim, tailored, high-cut cuffs that show off my heels. “But it’s a trendy pantsuit.”
“There is no such thing. I know nada about fashion, and even I know that. How do you even own one?”
“I borrowed it from Mariana,” I mumble sheepishly, caught in the act of having stepped in sartorial mud.
“Well, un-borrow it. You are seriously getting me down. My mojo is at an all-time low. Seeing you in a pantsuit is like seeing a unicorn giving traffic tickets. That shit isn’t right.” He waves his hand dismissively at the screen. “Now, I’d say go burn that, but Mariana might need it to scare people when she’s in court or doing depositions. So return to sender, and let us never speak of this again, unless it is to mock you for that day you went temporarily presidential-candidate on me.”
Oddly enough, I breathe a little more easily thanks to his dressing down. Truth be told, this outfit isn’t me. I’ve known it since I buttoned the slacks—hell, since I checked out my reflection and called Cameron for a second opinion. Still, I want today to go perfectly. I’ve lined up all my ducks in a row—I’ve staffed up at the shop to ensure my partnership with Heavenly gets off to a flying start. I want Kingsley to be proud of me, and I want to do right by Leo for recommending me, and I thought looking more corporate, less candy, was the way to go. “You’re right. Let me find something else. I love you for being so . . . diplomatic.”
“Yeah, that’s me. I was so easygoing in my assessment of the worst outfit you’ve ever put on. Now go grab something dope, as the kids today say, and look like a boutique chocolatier, not like a politician. No one likes them, no matter which party, but everyone likes chocolatiers.”
“Except Willy Wonka. He was kind of a perv.”
“He is the poster child for pervs.”
I say goodbye to my friend; rummage through my closet; rip off the suit that isn’t me in any way, shape, or form; and slide into a cute purple dress with white polka dots, adding a chunky red belt.
I snap a selfie, send it to Cameron, and am rewarded with a return text full of clapping emojis.
Cameron: Lulu and the Purple Crayon!
Lulu: Is that good? Do I want to be Lulu and the Purple Crayon?
Cameron: We have reached the end of your allotted questions, thank you very much. You may now proceed to the corporate offices of Heavenly. Please send a report by the close of business. PS I am on my way to meet a mystery woman. Do you vote Crocs or no Crocs?
Lulu: NO CROCS! ALSO, I WANT ALL THE DETAILS!
Cameron: You will get them in due time.
I stretch my neck from side to side, take a breath, and send a wish that things go well with his mystery woman. Then I visualize my day unfolding perfectly. I’ll meet the team, share some of my plans, pose for a few marketing pictures, and be on my merry way.
Lulu: I am Lulu and the Purple Crayon, and I am going to look so dope in photos in my purple polka-dot dress.
Cameron: I know how hard you’ve worked. Go kick ass. You deserve it.
But do I? Does anyone deserve anything? I’ve never bought into the life-is-fair or life-isn’t-fair debate. I don’t believe certain people deserve bad things and others deserve goodness.
As far as I can tell, life is about how we play the cards we’re dealt.
Today, I’ve been dealt a pair of queens. The last few years, I was playing with a three of clubs high, at best, and bluffing my way through everything. Now, I have something worthwhile, and I’m going to treat it like the precious hand it is.
I’m thirty-two, but in some ways, I feel younger. Perhaps because my twenties feel like missing years. Back then, I was stretched thin and pulled in so many different directions and none of them were the direction of my dreams. I would work on recipes late at night, wait up for Tripp, then fall asleep at the kitchen table, worried and wondering what else I could do to help my husband. I’d rise at six in the morning, crick in my neck, cocoa bean on my face. Money was tight in those days, my focus was narrow, and my emotions were spent in one store and one store only—my marriage.
I was running on fumes, and there was nothing left in the tank to build a business. Now that I’ve worked through the pain and the heartache, I’m a dog chasing a Frisbee with my career. I won’t lose sight of it or let it go.
And as I look into the lobby mirror at Lulu and the Purple Crayon, I feel like a new woman with a new chance.
I head to the food labs inside the corporate offices of Heavenly and work with my colleagues there on the recipes I’m mapping out.
Later that morning, Leo texts that he’s at a business meeting, but he recommends the edamame salad for lunch and he’ll see me before the meeting starts.
I reply: Edamame rocks, and so do you.
As I send it, I smile, loving that he’s looking out for me in his way. I lose a little more of the first-day-of-school jitters, knowing I have someone in my corner backing me.
At lunchtime I pop into the company cafeteria, where Ginny waves, motioning for me to join her. I wave back, indicating I will, then walk past a pack of guys discussing a call in last night’s Yankees game.
One of them looks my way, then flashes a friendly smile. “Am I right or am I right?”
I doubt the shouter needs my affirmation that he’s right, but I shoot him the thumbs-up, giving it to him anyway. “Totes. That was one hundred percent infield fly rule.”
He jerks his gaze sharply at me, his hazel eyes widening in admiration as I head in the direction of the edamame.
