Lavender Haze

Chapter 7

Week seven of working with the future St. Jameses turns out to be the most challenging so far, mostly because Mila is here, and she is even more difficult than I had anticipated. For how tricky it is to spend time alone with River, he usually just takes my suggestions and rolls with it. Mila, on the other hand, is way more opinionated, and it turns out she lied when she said "they knew what they wanted," because whenever I propose, suggest, or even hint at something, she shoots me down viciously but has no better option in mind. It took us three meetings to pick up tablecloths. Three. We visited fourteen different vendors, and she left each place looking like she might come back after dark to set the shops on fire. River has been his usual sulky and moody self, a true asshole, way more than any other time we've met, not smiling once, not even when I tripped on the train of a tablecloth that could have battled the one of Kate Middleton's wedding gown and nearly faceplanted the floor. Any humour is vacuum-sealed out of the room when Mila is with us. Which in turn makes me sulky and moody. It's totally true that someone else's mood can affect yours, or at least, it is in my case. It has always been. If Raf is ever upset at Dan (thankfully, that happens on the rarest of occasions), it's a real challenge not to let his annoyance seep into me and lash out at my brother for no reason other than loyalty to my best friend. It's the same with mom. If her spirits are down the gutter, I usually go back home after our visits and cry myself to sleep. So it's problematic to be around someone like River and Mila.

In the three days we embarked on our quest to find the perfect tablecloth, I've not laughed once, because River hasn't laughed once, and Mila probably doesn't have the muscle flexibility do so, despite the fact that when we met, her pageant queen smile could have lit up the entirety of Manhattan during a blackout. But it's almost like now that we're acquainted to each other, she doesn't need nor care about being charming. So there's that, and I'm left with only one thought crowding my mind: I was wrong; there's no lovely spouse in this couple. I'm fucked for the months to come, destined to be an emo mess.

Just when I thought the only way to please Mila's taste was to get sewing lessons and create the pieces myself, she found something acceptable. The night we finally picked the tablecloths, I got back home with a bottle of prosecco to celebrate. That's how exhausting this expedition has felt. Ever heard of trial by fire? That's what it's like spending time with Mila Bauman and River St. James.

Today is our last meeting before the Christmas holidays, and I couldn't be more relieved. The season is already stressful on its own, what with mom in the nursing home and the weather being consistently shit and the city turning into the set of Mariah Carey's Christmas album. I couldn't possibly take dealing with River and Mila on top of that, too. Not if I want to keep a shred of mental health.

River meets me in my office, just three doors down from Blooming Wild, for once on time. After mom got too sick and I had to take over her business we had to downsize, which is why when River comes in, unannounced, he finds me pacing the cramped space of my office barefoot. I take off my AirPods and put my phone away.

"Your assistant off for the holidays?" he asks.

"Sure," I say, even though said assistant doesn't exist. When mom was in charge around here, I was the PA, the talent scout, the intern. We had a couple more people working with us, but once I've exclusively moved to the wedding sector, I had to let them go. It has not been easy being a one-woman operation, but thank God I have Daniel and Rafael I can delegate to.

River looks around my office with inquisitive interest. I swear, I've seen people less titillated by lions at safaris. There's almost a tangible scientific curiosity in the way River takes everything in.

He bumps into my shoulder when he takes another step back to stare at the (mostly dying) white lilies and pink roses composition on my desk. "Sorry," he mutters, barely looking at me. River swipes his eyes across the room once more, and I wonder if he's cataloguing my degree and the family pictures lining the walls and the curling sage-coloured wallpaper by the white wooden skirting by the desk or he's merely taking a cursory glance to then discard everything he's learned about me (it wouldn't be the first time he does that, would it?).