By age five—after a stint in a home with six other kids and alcoholic foster parents—I learned how to defend myself. When you’re smaller than your opponent, you have to be fast. You go for the tender bits: the crotch, eyes, and throat. You use your teeth, nails, and knees. You yell in their ear—maybe take a bite of it.
Never let them pin you.
At sixteen, I moved into a group home with fifty other kids. It was a lot like prison; I trusted no one, even the girl I shared a bunk with. My weapon was my ink pen tucked under my pillow. A week after I began living there, an older boy attacked me in the bathroom. He had waited for me, he said, and was going to teach the new girl a lesson about who to give her dues to. Him. He shoved me down on the floor and pinned me with a knife. While we were wrestling, my hands floundered, searching for a weapon. I grasped a piece of broken tile under the sink and jabbed it in his eye, then his neck.
He lived and was sent to juvie.
At the heart of me is a fighter—but I’m also pragmatic to the bone.
I need this job.
“Holy shit, how can you still work here?” Gianna says after they walk out the door.
I wash my hands in the sink, then pat them dry, thinking about my reply. “Honestly, I was here before either of them, and it’s like I’m giving in if I leave. Why should I leave? Does that make sense?”
“Girl. I’d be out of here in a heartbeat—but not before I beat his car with a bat.”
A long sigh comes from me. “I get that, I do, but this is my life, and there’s the gallery for my art. Maybe I’m torturing myself. Maybe I need to see them together over and over so I can move on. I don’t know.” Plus I have bills to pay. My art-school loan comes to mind. And the warehouse studio I sublet with other artists. And my apartment rent. It’s not cheap living in Manhattan, but I’ve been drawn to this city for as long as I can remember. My hands brush the locket under my shirt, a reminder that someone did care for me. Once. Until she left.
Gianna frowns. “I’m so sorry.”
I push up a smile. “Hey, none of that. Don’t feel bad for me. I’m fine. Totally.”
“All right,” she says, then glances up at the wall in front of my station. “Oh. This one wasn’t here last time. What’s it called?”
The piece in question has a layered gray background with a black door in the center, barely cracked. Two abstract yellow figures are in the room—one on her knees, the other standing with his head thrown back. “I haven’t titled it,” I say, tearing my gaze away from the canvas. “How do you want to pay?”
She tugs out her American Express. Her tattoo comes to two grand, which includes my time today, the sketches I worked on (which she gets to keep), and the meeting at the coffee shop. Donny keeps 30 percent, and I get 70, a sweet deal I worked out with him once my business blew up and people poured in to see me. At least Edward only gets 20 percent.
She gives me a 50 percent tip, way too much, then signs the receipt. She hugs me, then surprises me when she kisses me on each cheek. Before she flounces out the door, she tells me to keep my chin up and promises to text me for coffee.
With heavy feet, I head upstairs to Donny’s office. He’s been avoiding my eyes since the closet incident. And the pacing around my station today? Dread curls.
With each step up the stairs, unease rises higher, exactly like the time Mrs. White picked me up from school, took me to get ice cream, and then drove me back to CPS because she was pregnant with twins and didn’t need a little kid around anymore. She wasn’t the first to decide I wasn’t a good fit. Back and forth across the state of New York, I lived in eleven different foster homes before I finally ended up at a group home permanently.
I knock and wait for him to tell me to enter before I open the door. Wearing an old Joshua Tree shirt, he sits behind a big mahogany desk. Around sixty with shoulder-length gray hair, he’s a hippie who opened his first location in Boston, gained a reputation for hiring talented artists, blew up on Insta, and then quickly opened two more shops—this one and another in Philadelphia.
“Whiskey?” He nudges his head at the decanter. He’s already got one poured for himself.
“Do I need one?” Instead of sitting, I lean against the wall. “I can’t remember the last time you called me up here. What’s going on?”
He rubs his face and groans out a long breath. “Francesca, shit, there’s no good way to say this, but I need to let you go.”
My stomach drops. “What? Why?”
“Harlee feels uneasy with you in the shop. The entire situation is uncomfortable for her.”
I shake my head, an exhalation of disbelief coming from my lips. “She’s uncomfortable? Oh my God, that’s ridiculous. She humiliated me; she has Edward. What else does she want?”
“Francesca—”
“Donny. No. Don’t do this. I’ve never said a word to her about what happened. I’ve been on my best behavior. Professional. This isn’t right. It’s unfair.” I try to hold his gaze, but he refuses to look at me, instead staring at a spot behind my shoulder.
“Regardless, the aura in the shop is tense. The vibe is getting to her—and me. Also, there’s the painting above your station. We all know what it is.”
My hands clench. The painting was the only voice I had to express my anger. Not for one minute do I think she really cares about the art; no, she probably loves looking at it. This is her wanting me out of the picture because she wants to make sure Edward and I stay apart. I recall her smile earlier, and my anger ratchets up. She’s noticed the long glances Edward gives me. She’s noticed the way he lingers at my station. Maybe she knows about the texts he sends me, the ones I never reply to.
“I didn’t do anything wrong, Donny—you get that, right? Why not Edward? You can’t let me go! I’m booked up for months!”
“Harlee wants him, and she’s the manager. She’s my heir and will run the shops when I retire. I don’t have kids or a wife, Francesca. My sister and Harlee are my family, and I do what’s best for them. Come on; you have to admit this place is toxic for you. You need a new parlor. I’ll write a glowing letter of recommendation for you.”
I deflate like a popped balloon, fear overtaking the anger. “Donny, please . . .” My voice hitches as I read the firmness on his face.
He clears his throat, then pushes out his words hurriedly. “You’re one of the best artists I’ve had, and I’m truly sorry, really. You’re a good human, the clients love you, and I’ll miss you. You helped build the reputation of East Coast Ink, and I’m grateful.” He takes a breath. “However. Today is your last day. Leave me your key to the shop, send an email to your clients, clean out your station, and take your canvases from the front gallery.”
The knife in my heart cuts deeper. They don’t even want my art.
It’s as if I’m being erased.
Tears prick behind my eyes. “I—I’ll need to . . .” My voice trails off, my brain blanking as I think on how to get the majority of my supplies and art back to my apartment.
“No rush on the art.” He tries to smile. “I’ll have an opening at the Philly parlor in March. If you want the spot, it’s yours.”