Vanessa places her glass on the table. “But I’m not stupid to think you’ll forever work for me. What I want is for you to learn as much as you can about business and give me one hundred percent when you design for Vanshionista. Your name will always be on the designs but the label will be mine. This is also mentioned in your contract, if you haven’t read it.”
I nod, remembering I read something along that line during my cursory glance of the contract.
I never thought about opening my own brand. Is this something I want?
This question hums in the back of my mind the remainder of the day as I try to forget Mom and focus on the upcoming show.
17
CLEMENTINE
Merida’s room looks amazing. I glance around and admire my doing.
I’ve used purple streamers, her favorite color, and huge balloons with Thank you printed on them. If not for her, I never would’ve thought of that prom dress.
I open my to-do list and strike off decorations. Since Keith got me into journaling my expenses, I’ve started keeping track of a lot of things. Next task on my list is cooking.
I amble into Keith’s kitchen and open the fridge. All my groceries except cookies ended up here, though I’ve yet to cook a real meal successfully without burning it.
But isn’t there a first time for everything? I seriously hope so.
Since Merida told me eggplant parmesan is one of her favorites, I want to make it for her. Hopefully, today it’ll turn out good, or at least edible.
I open the recipe in my phone and place it on the table before taking out all the ingredients. Eggplants, tomatoes, cheese, flour, eggs, and spices. I read through the entire recipe once more and start with instruction number one. Preheat the oven.
I place the eggplant on the cutting board and it tumbles onto the counter when I try to put a knife through it.
After some practice, I’m able to slice the rings. They’re all out of shape, some too thin and some too thick.
But it doesn’t matter. They’ll all taste the same.
Finally, when my eggplant slices are baking in the oven and the sauce is simmering on the stovetop, I go up to my loft. Grabbing the half-empty bottle of wine, I come downstairs.
I meet Snowy in the hall, running back and forth as she sees me.
“Hey, girl!” I pick her up. “You were in Keith’s room again, weren’t you?”
Since the day Keith agreed to let Snowy stay, I’ve seen her spending more time with him than Mere and me together.
“You like him, don’t you?” I place her on my lap as I perch on a chair at the dining table. And as if understanding my question, she purrs softly.
“I’m sure you’re saying, what’s not to like, right?”
I scratch her chin a few more times before grabbing her feather wand toy. Her ears perk up at the jingling sound before she takes her position under the table, ready to pounce.
We play for a while as the delicious smell of tomato sauce and baking eggplant fills the kitchen. I lick the sauce from the wooden spoon, and it doesn’t taste bad. It actually tastes pretty good.
Proud at my accomplishment, I assemble the casserole in a glass dish, before placing it in the oven.
While my eggplant parmesan cooks, I settle on the couch with wine and Snowy on my lap. My mind goes back to Keith, something that’s happening too much, or maybe too too much.
I’m in the middle of a daydream where Keith is helping me in the laundry room, when Snowy jerks in my lap. My insides are all hot and mushy. I blame it on the kitten toasting my lap and definitely not on the dream where Keith grabs my thong and this time puts it in his back pocket instead of tossing it aside.
I place Snowy down on the floor. Fanning my face, I try to switch my focus away from the crazy-hot Keith of my dreams. I glance at the clock and realize it’s late. Usually, Merida is home by now. I grab my phone from the table and call her.
“Hi, Mere, where are you?”
“I’m still at school. We’re in the library, working on our history project,” she explains in a hushed voice.