Lunch break

The inventory system is a glorified spreadsheet—Margot's accountant, a woman named Dolores Firth who apparently communicates exclusively via fax, set it up fifteen years ago. Columns of SKU numbers, descriptions, quantities, and reorder thresholds in a shared Google Sheet that Margot accesses from an ancient desktop computer wedged between bolts of fabric in the back room.

"The trick is never to trust the numbers," Margot tells you, tapping the screen with a manicured fingernail. "Dolores is brilliant with money but she's never once set foot in a retail store. If the sheet says we have twelve of something, count them yourself. Trust your eyes, not the spreadsheet."

You do. You count everything. The silk scarves (forty-seven, not fifty-two as listed). The costume jewelry (sixty-three pairs of earrings, fourteen necklaces, a confusing number of brooches). The seasonal dresses hanging in the back stockroom, still in their garment bags, their tags crisp and unread. The numbers become a rhythm—pull, count, note, replace—and the rhythm becomes a current that carries you forward without requiring thought. Which is exactly what you need.

Customers trickle in throughout the morning. A woman in her sixties buying a birthday present for her granddaughter. A teenager with a nose ring who spends twenty minutes touching a cashmere cardigan before leaving without buying anything. A man who clearly has no idea what he's looking for and leaves with a silk pocket square after you help him narrow down his wife's taste.

Margot watches you work with quiet approval. She doesn't hover—she's in the back, steaming a shipment of new blouses that arrived this morning—but you catch her glancing your way twice, and both times she nods slightly to herself.

By noon, your feet ache in the block heels and your stomach is growling. Margot waves you off for a thirty-minute lunch.

"There's a sandwich place two doors down—Luella's. Tell her Margot sent you, she'll give you the regular discount."

You don't buy a sandwich. You sit on the narrow bench outside the shop's entrance, crossbody bag in your lap, and pull out your phone.

Wren's email arrived at 8:04am. Subject line: Blog Draft — The Visibility Principle (working title) — FULL VETO POWER REMINDS YOU. The body is two thousand words of careful, earnest prose about the closet reorganization, interspersed with photo placements marked [IMAGE 1] through [IMAGE 45]. You scan it. She's captured the afternoon beautifully—the before-and-after contrast, the teamwork, the moment you smiled at her camera. She's quoted you twice, both times accurately. No mention of Janelle's name in any romantic context. Just friends doing a project together.

She's good at this.

Below Wren's email, your notifications stack up:

Priya (9:12am): How's the first day?? You're gonna crush it

Priya (9:13am): Also Janelle wants to know if you're okay but she's too scared to text you herself so she's making me ask. So. Are you okay?

Janelle (9:47am): Hey. I know you probably don't want to hear from me. I just wanted to say I'm sorry. What I said was awful and I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I'm sorry, Riley.

You stare at Janelle's message for a long time. The cursor blinks in the reply field. Your thumb hovers.

What I said was awful.

Not really a girl.

You lock the phone without responding and go back inside. Margot has a new shipment to unpack and the afternoon is waiting.