“Well, once the Femme’s show airs, you shouldn’t be lacking for clients.”

I humphed. “I’m not sure if I want the clientele that will attract. But that’ll be the best part—I can cherry-pick who I want to work with. I have enough in savings to float me, and when I flip the apartment—”

“You can’t flip the apartment,” she said with such authority, I frowned.

“I can’t afford to keep it. I’ll have to rent something smaller, tighten the belt. Don’t look at me like that. Dreaming might be free, but getting there is most certainly not.” I paused. Sighed. “Trust me, the last thing I want is to give up that apartment. It’s the first piece of my new dream, and I won’t even get to keep it.”

“Well, let’s just see. Who knows? Maybe things will turn around faster than you think.” She rose and moved for the door. “Now, come on, sad sack. Let’s get you out of the house before you wither up like a raisin, which is the most offensive member of the fruit family. Nobody wants to be a raisin.”

“They’re so wrinkly.”

“And gummy.” A shudder rolled through her.

“Wouldn’t want to be gummy. I’d best get up.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said cheerily, bouncing into the living room to plop down next to Dean.

I gathered my things and shuffled to the bathroom, smiling at them on my way. The baby was tiny and fair in his dark arms, his face soft as he smiled down at her. Ivy peered over his massive bicep, resting her cheek on the curve. The two of them were colored in hopes and dreams, realized in their child, their love.

I could only hope that someday, I’d find that too.

Kash’s face flashed in my mind, a streak of pain on its wake. That dream I’d had of the apartment and the dog and the long, lazy days hadn’t died. It hadn’t even quieted. If anything, it had flared, a bright and shining beacon in my heart, the most tangible form of my dream. Because it wasn’t about my job or where I lived or what I did on Sundays.

It was him.

The shower was hot enough to burn, the sting siphoning my other hurts, drawing them away to distraction. I prided myself in not crying as I dried myself off and pulled on my clothes. I’d done enough of that over the last few days. On average, I cried once per quarter, usually instigated by something stupid like my lipliner breaking, endured in solitude where no one could see.

Over the last few days, I’d cried enough to fill my quota for three years—and a few times in front of Ivy, to boot.