For 100 Days(2)

“Hey, girl!” Tasha comes up behind me in the coat room as I’m hanging up my wet jacket and gives me a quick hug. “Thanks again for taking my shift last night, Avery. You’re the best.”

“No problem,” I tell her. And it wasn’t. I needed the extra night’s tips, and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have said no. I know Tasha would come in for me on her day off, too, if I ever asked the favor of her.

She watches me as I take off my flats and trade them for the black heels in my purse that complete my uniform for the bar. Tasha’s arms are crossed over her breasts, which are generously displayed in the low-cut V of her black top that’s very similar to mine—another part of the Vendange dress code that I despise. “I mean it, Avery. You’re a lifesaver. Joel said he was gonna dock me for a full day if I left without making sure the bar was covered.”

I roll my eyes at the mention of the restaurant’s oily manager. “Joel’s a dick. How’s Zoe doing today?”

“Much better. Just a passing stomach thing, but my mother-in-law panicked.” Tasha shakes her head, sending her soft brown spiral curls swaying against the coffee-and-cream smoothness of her cheeks. “It’s been a long time since Inez has taken care of a four-month-old and Zoe tends to fuss. But I know she’s in good hands. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that Inez is free child care now that she’s living with us.”

I smile, hearing the relief in her voice. “I’m glad everything’s okay.”

“Yeah, me too. FYI, you’ve got paint on your chin.”

“I do? Dammit.” I rub my face, then fish for the compact mirror in my purse. The smudge of dark plum acrylic stains my chin like a fading bruise. “I’m almost finished with one of my pieces,” I tell her as I scrub the paint smear with the pad of my thumb. “It’s not perfect yet, but I’m working on it. I want to have it ready to show Margot soon.”

“Margot from the gallery?”

I nod, unable to hold back my grin. “She’s supposed to call me tonight with some news. Her voicemail this morning said she wanted to tell me personally.”

“Holy shit.” Tasha’s eyes widen. “Avery, that’s awesome. You must’ve sold another painting.”

She says it as if my art sells with some kind of regularity. It doesn’t. Aside from one painting that sold almost immediately after Margot got me placed at Dominion more than a year ago, it’s been a long, arid dry spell ever since.

Maybe that first sale was a fluke. I’ve often wondered. Dreaded it, really. People have told me I have talent. God knows, I love painting more than anything. It’s always been my outlet, my refuge. But maybe passion isn’t enough. Maybe I should’ve stayed in the hometown and saved my money to finish art school instead of running away to the biggest city I could think of as soon as I had the chance to break free and chase my dreams.

The truth is, I wanted to escape. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to become someone new. Someone different from me.

Someone better.

I wanted to live. For me, not for my mom or all the things she wants for me. Not even for my grandma, whom I’d looked after back home until her death from emphysema two years ago.

If I fail now, I’ll be letting everyone down.

Fuck, who am I kidding? I’m already failing, and unless Margot calls to tell me she’s sold my entire portfolio, the odds are I’ll be back on the bus to Scranton before the month is out.

I stow my purse in an employee locker, then start gathering my blond hair into a long ponytail at the back of my neck, finger-combing the damp tangles into some semblance of order.

“You better go,” I tell Tasha. “I have to clock in and you need to get behind the bar before Joel docks both of us.”

She makes a face. “Right. Meet you out there.” She starts to leave the coatroom, then swings back to point at me. “The second you hear from the gallery, I want to know. The very second, got me?”

“Yeah, of course.” I nod, and now my smile seems forced as doubt crowds in to diffuse the hope I’d been carrying with me most of the day. “I’ll be right behind you.”

She leaves and I can hear her greeting one of the customers on the floor outside with her bubbly, easygoing warmth. I lean against the lockers and take out my phone to type a text to Margot.

Please call as soon as you can. I’m dying here. I need to know what’s going on.

I hit SEND before I can change my mind and delete the desperate sounding message. I hate appearing weak or out of control, and the realization that I am both right now puts a sick feeling in my stomach.