Page 135 of Go Back to December

“Of course. Even if you decide to do something else, I’d like to help, however you feel is appropriate.”

She glances at her watch. “They’re not showing the space until the afternoon, so take your time to look around and talk it over. I’ll meet you in the gallery next door when you’re ready.”

Her heels click down the hall, and Amal drags me by the elbow over to the window and the view of the river. She juts her chin toward the water. “If you tell me you won’t consider her offer, you’re going in headfirst. With your shoes.”

“I am considering it,” I say defensively.

“This is more than the money.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

“You’re scared of letting go. Giving up control.”

“If she has a minority stake in the café, she’ll have too much influence.”

“More than Blackhart & Steele did?”

I open my mouth. Close it.

“Lacy can help us figure out the legal agreements and contracts to manage it,” Amal argues.

“Possibly.”

“Alicia knows people. She’s connected.”

“So are the mafia.”

Amal groans. “Don’t you get it? This frees you. For Paris.” She clasps my hands. “You’re using us as an excuse not to take the fellowship if you get it.”

I’m a foolish, idiotic idealist for still trying for the Lightman. None of the other applicants has a personal statement that details their failures, but it was the only thing I felt right about submitting. My story is the truth, and I’m not ashamed of it anymore.

“With Alicia on board, you wouldn’t have to worry. We’d have support.”

“Amal—”

“Melody.” She utters a frustrated growl. “You can’t show up here every day, spoiling my lovely view with your sad heart, wishing it was in Paris.”

She doesn’t realize that even if I make it to Paris, it won’t heal my heart entirely.

I study the shining view of the river and turn to the vast space before us. It’s a clean slate all of us need.

“So, this is all about you,” I say.

“I’m selfish like that.” She smirks.

Reluctantly, I smile. “Come on. Let’s find Alicia and tell her how selfish you are.”

The gallery next door is a slice of creative heaven.

Ten artisans share the space. Their work includes everything from glass blowing to sculpture to fiber design, whatever the hell that is. To support other global artists, they also sell fair trade handmade gifts from around the world. Amal smiles as her hands run along a set of hand-woven baskets she says reminds her of her grandmother.

But her voice fades away as I’m drawn to the shelves at the back wall and the enamel pottery on display.

As I reach for a version of my favorite coffee cup, a low laugh sounds from behind me.

“That’s one of our best-sellers.”

My heart lodges halfway up my throat as I turn and find Sofia smiling.