The Allure of Julian Lefray (The Allure #1)(43)

I couldn’t have a breakdown; I had things to do. I needed to take outfit photos for a post that should have been up on my blog two days earlier. I needed to email out more resumes and beg for a part-time job. I’d extend my search beyond the school of fashion retail. Do they have Dairy Queens in New York? I’d serve up fries and ice cream all night long if it meant I could go one day without wondering if I had enough money to make rent.

“Get out of the way lady!” a deliveryman yelled from behind me just before I felt an excruciating pain shoot up from my foot.

“Shit,” I hissed as pain coursed through my foot like a thousand tiny knives stabbing my bones. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

The asshole had rolled his dolly over the top of my foot and all but crushed all my bones to a pulp. I hopped up and down, trying to quell the shooting pain, but it didn’t help.

“Are you kidding me?” I yelled as he continued to walk away, not even bothering to acknowledge that he’d almost broken every bone in my foot.

“Who does that?!” I yelled. “And then you don’t even apologize?!”

He didn’t turn around once. He sped away with his dolly piled seven feet high with boxes, most likely filled to the brim with tiny elephants and lead paperweights. Meanwhile, everyone on the sidewalk shot me glares as if I was the crazy one.

At times I felt as if New York City was trying to kill me. I mean literally crush me under the weight of UPS boxes and overdue rent and rude people. I tried to wiggle my toes, relieved that they didn’t feel broken, and then I glanced down to assess the damage.

At that moment I felt a tiny rip in my heart, right down the center.

THE ASSHOLE HAD RUINED MY CHANEL FLATS.

A fat grease stain spread across the top of the leopard print, right where his dolly had rolled over my foot. The double “CC” logo that Chanel was known for had ripped off and was sitting lonely and forgotten on the sidewalk next to my foot.

I knew I was being ridiculous. I knew people were dying because they couldn’t eat. I knew people had real problems that didn’t include grease stains and designer shoes.

I knew all that, and yet I couldn’t stop the tears from slipping down my cheeks as I bent down to pick up the CC logo. I couldn’t stop the flood of emotions that hit me.

This was the final straw.

I couldn’t do it.

New York wasn’t my city. I was not cut out for the hustle and bustle and I was not cut out to make it in the fashion world.

There.

ARE YOU FUCKING HAPPY, UNIVERSE?!

“Sweetie, stop that. You’re embarrassing yourself,” a gentle voice said from behind me.

I felt a small hand wrap around my waist, tugging on my shirt and trying to pull me back toward the side of the sidewalk.

“Stop that crying.”

I looked back to see the consignment shop owner doing her best to drag me back into her shop.

I shook my head and waved my hands, the universal sign for “leave me alone”. I knew if I spoke up, my words would come out a babbling mess.

“Come inside for a moment. Come inside and we’ll sort this out,” she insisted as she dragged me through the shop door. “Are you upset about those flats?”

For a petite old lady, she was remarkably strong. I don’t think I could have fought her off if I tried. Yet another reason NYC isn’t for me. I couldn’t even fend off an attack from an old lady.

The bell chimed overhead as we stepped back inside, but I could hardly hear it over the sound of my own babbling.

“Stop that crying. I can fix those flats. That’s nothing. With the right solvent, that grease will come right off,” she said.

I wiped my face, trying to get a handle on my tears. Her kind brown eyes searched my features, most likely trying to find the origin of my crazy. Keep lookin’ lady. It’s there.

“Does that make it better? Is that all that’s wrong?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“What else can I do then?” she asked. “I can’t pay you more for those dresses, but I can fix those shoes for free.”

I stared up into her kind eyes, took a deep breath, and went for it.

“Are you hiring?”

“What?” She leaned back and narrowed her eyes, obviously taken aback by the question.

“I promise that I’m a great employee,” I swore. “Despite what the current circumstances suggest.”

She smiled. “You just had a public breakdown on the sidewalk and you expect me to give you a job?”

I felt my lip quiver.

She held up her hands and shook her head.

“Okay. Jeez, just get it together. I can’t give you work. The shop isn’t ever busy enough for two people, but I have a friend who might be able to help. Are you available for some night work?”

“Yes. Yes! Absolutely.”

She let go of my elbows and turned toward the counter. I stayed glued to my spot, watching her pull out an old grey rolodex and dust the top off with her hand. The thing probably hadn’t been used since the 80s. She took her time rifling through it until she finally pulled out a worn business card toward the back.

She met my eye as she dialed the number and offered me a reassuring smile.

“It’ll be okay,” she said. “We all have days like this. Don’t you know the old saying: ‘When someone ruins your Chanel flats, make lemonade’?”