Page 6 of Lady and the Butcher
“I haven’t heard anything. Maybe they ghosted me.”
“Maybe that’s for the best.”
The door jingled again before I could answer.
A woman stepped in, holding an infant with two different socks and an alarming amount of applesauce on his shirt. “Hi,” she said, breathless. “I’m here for the breastfeeding group?”
“Of course,” I said, pushing off the counter and slipping back into my practiced calm. “You’re right on time. Head straight through the curtain, and help yourself to tea.”
She smiled in relief and moved toward the back.
Stephan stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Text me the details about Saturday?”
“Done.” He paused at the door. “And Sim?”
“Yeah?”
“If this guy shows up …” His voice lowered. “Be careful, okay?”
I gave him a dry smile. “When have I ever not been careful?”
He gave me a long look. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
Then he was gone, swallowed by the sidewalk and the heat and the last days of a Charleston summer.
And I?
I went back to stacking nipple balm, wondering if I’d just invited something into my life that I wasn’t ready to survive.
3
The moon was full, which meant two things.
One: I’d accidentally left my crystal charging grid on the windowsill at home again, which meant my smoky quartz was probably absorbing UV instead of divine feminine power.
And two: I had ten women coming over to burn shit in my backyard.
Technically, we were calling it a release ceremony. But let’s be honest—it was a glorified adult bonfire with kombucha, essential oils, and feelings. So many feelings.
This was who I was, down to the compostable cups and the playlist of feminist folk anthems queued up on my Bluetooth speaker.
My idea of community organizing was part potluck, part consciousness-raising circle, and part therapy session without the copay. My politics had grown up alongside my personal life—fed on equal parts Gloria Steinem quotes and the stubborn belief that the world could, in fact, be remade if enough of us just stopped buying fast fashion and voted in every election.
I knew my senators by name and my farmers by handshake. I could filibuster anyone into a reusable water bottle. And yes, I’d been called “intense” before—usually by men who found out I’d once written an op-ed about the inherent patriarchy of wedding registries.
I didn’t see it as radical. To me, it was common sense, the logical outcome of a life spent learning that if you didn’t protect your own boundaries, someone else would happily redraw them for you. My work as a doula, my shop full of postpartum wraps and perineal ice packs, my devotion to women’s circles and birth justice—it was all part of the same gravitational pull.
I wanted women to feel safe in their bodies, in their choices, in the messy beauty of their lives. And if that meant I scared off a few fragile egos along the way, well … bless their hearts.
I was already sweating, even though the sun had dipped low behind the trees and cast the backyard in a soft indigo hush. Charleston humidity didn’t care about your plans. It wrapped around my waist like a clingy ex and whispered,you sure you want to wear that gauzy linen robe, babe?
Yes. Yes, I did.
Because nothing said “sacred feminine channel” like a floor-length wrap with bell sleeves and embroidered stars that got caught on everything. Including my citronella candles.
I adjusted the hem and lit the last of the tea lights around the fire pit, then stepped back to admire the scene. Twinkling string lights. Blankets in a circle. Mason jars full of herbal mocktails. The musky scent of sandalwood and old pine rising from the smudge bowl in the center.
