Page 42 of Show Me How to Heal
Luke
“It’s going to be fine,” I told Zayne, stopping him from pacing by firmly placing a hand on his shoulder when he walked by my stool behind the cash register. “People are going to show up. They love you, and they’ll love your new, broader assortment.”
Zayne sighed, leaning against me. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, and finally relaxing a fraction. I basked in the knowledge that I could calm him down, make him slow down a little bit. He was strung tight. I understood why, but I didn’t have to like it.
“But what if they don’t? What if it’s too hippie and hipster for them?” he asked, his voice pitched high, eyes shooting open.
“What exactly do you think might be too alternative for your customers?” I wanted to know in the hopes of being able to show him reason.
“The deodorants, for one,” he said, letting out a bitter laugh. “It’s a cream.”
“Yeah, but they’re selling those in drugstores, aren’t they? I mean, they do in Germany. So it’s not that hipstery and special, Zayne. Besides, your stuff works. Like seriously. I’ve never had a deodorant that worked that well for me.” And three years ago, I shot a commercial for a deodorant. I’d gotten tons of cans of that stuff, and it’d been… okay. But Zayne’s stuff felt better while working out. I didn’t tell him that little tidbit of information, though.
“Yeah, but the people buying that stuff are mostly still hipsters or young environmentalists.”
“Soo… young hipsters?” I laughed, pulling him closer and placing a kiss on his neck. “What is the worst thing that could happen?”
“They don’t buy it.”
I nodded, urging him to turn around so he could look into my eyes. His worried expression was killing me. “Exactly. The worst thing that could happen is that your customers here won’t buy it. But you don’t just have this shop, do you? You have an online store, and thanks to the statistics you get from YouTube and Instagram and stuff, your target audience there is a lot younger. So, even though it might not work here, it could very well be a success online. Give it a chance.”
Like he’d given me a chance. I still didn’t get why he’d done that, but I wasn’t going to complain. He’d given me a purpose, something to get up for every day. A reason to get out of bed, a reason to work out, do all the exercises my PT had given me. Without him, I’d be sitting in my huge ass cabin all alone, moping and crying into the couch because I’d lost my drive, my purpose, maybe even myself.
“Thanks.” He pressed an innocent kiss on my lips before letting his head fall against my shoulder. I wrapped my free arm — the one not holding my crutches — around him, pulling him against me.
“You’re awesome. Your assortment is awesome. People will see that. And if it’s not that busy, don’t forget: this is your soft opening. The big one, the grand one, the one you’ll actually advertise, is still seven weeks away.”
Zayne nodded against my shoulder, drawing in another deep breath.
“You’re right. This is going to be great. My products are high quality, and I’ve got the best employee in the world.”
My cheeks heated as he looked up at me through his thick, black lashes. He was so sweet. He tipped to his toes and kissed me again before taking a step back.
“How much time do we have left?”
“Five minutes,” I said, shifting on my stool. “Do you want me to get up?”
“No, take a break. I’ll go and get the champagne,” he said. “I want to fill a couple of glasses so people can get one when they enter the shop.”
I nodded and watched him disappear into the back area where we’d spent the last two days setting up the packaging station. Tables, shelves, a scale, boxes full of organic filling material. Tape. Everything.
The back area also housed a big fridge for the employees — aka me — to store drinks and food in. While I didn’t have any drinks in it, Zayne popped a couple bottles of champagne and orange juice into it in order to have something fancy for the people that came to celebrate his soft opening.
I looked out of the window and swallowed nervously.
Yeah, his fear of no one showing up was unfounded. Like super unfounded. As in, there were tons of people already there unfounded. People looking at me curiously.
Was someone holding a smartphone? Shit, of course they were. It was 2022. It didn’t mean anything. No one was taking pictures of me, yet I still felt like they were all watching me, not trying to catch a first glimpse of Zayne’s shop.
He came back with three big bottles of champagne in hand, placing them on a small table decked in champagne glasses. Apparently, you could rent glasses. Who knew?
“Let me,” I said, getting up from my barstool, leaning the crutches against the counter, and hobbling towards his table. “Get the orange juice while I fill the glasses. People are already there waiting for you to open.”
Yeah, in all honesty, I just needed a distraction. And not only would popping open champagne bottles without accidentally showering the store in champagne take all my focus, but it would also put me with my back to the door, which meant that even if someone took a photo of me, they’d only catch my back.
Which, unfortunately, didn’t mean shit. I thought all the media attention would die down once I was out of the picture. And it did. Kinda. At least there weren’t pictures of me popping up on social media every fucking day. But the newspapers? Yeah, whenever they had nothing else to report about, a new, blurry picture of “me” popped up, and the newspapers went crazy again. And whenever they did, social media went wild once again.
I carefully popped the bottle open, pressing the cork immediately back against the opening and waiting a couple of seconds. I let out the breath I’d been holding when nothing spilled out before carefully grabbing the first glass, tilting it until it was almost horizontal, and starting to pour the champagne into it.
