Smart Girl

by Rachel Hollis

“So it’s an Almond Joy?”

  She nods her pretty blonde head. “I knew you’d understand.”

  I settle myself in. “You had some questions for me?”

  She grabs a notebook out of her purse with a beaming smile. “I do,” she says, flipping through the pages. “I have an idea, and I know you’ve designed websites before.”

  “I’ve designed them, but you’d still need a developer to code everything.”

  Her face falls a little. “Oh? Cripes. Is that difficult to find? Is it expensive?” She bites her lip nervously.

  “Mali, this is Los Angeles. Half the nerds in this room could probably code for you. Don’t worry.”

  Her face clears. “Oh, great then. OK, so I have this idea, and I think it could be a really cool website and—I don’t know—maybe even a business, but you should totally tell me if it’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard of, OK?” She looks down at the notes on her page. “I’m actually kind of an expert at that.”

  Malin is always so alive and full of energy. I’ve never actually seen her unsure of herself before. I lean closer across the table.

  “Hey, I’m sure it’s a great idea. Tell me about it.”

  She grins happily. “So, I was thinking about becoming a fashion blogger.”

  I don’t hide my wince very well.

  She holds her hands up in surrender. “I know, OK? I get that there are a hundred thousand people trying to be fashion bloggers and that the vast majority of them live within a twenty-mile radius.”

  I open my mouth, but she cuts me off. “And before you mention it, yes, I also know that I got my degree in education—but that was really just a last resort, because my parents were freaking out about me not picking a major.” She shudders. “Can you imagine me trying to mold America’s youth?”

  I grimace. “Good gods, no.”

  “Exactly.” She takes a sip of iced tea that presumably came from one of the wooden buckets on the countertop. “So I know the competition is fierce, but I think I have a pretty unique idea.”

  “Which is?”

  “Terrible fashion!” she announces joyfully.

  “Pardon?”

  “Terrible fashion, as in, an entire blog and Instagram that’s devoted to styling really terrible clothes in a beautiful way.”

  My forehead knots.

  “Max is actually where I got the idea from. You know how she’s always wearing those horrible T-shirts with ridiculous and/or totally inappropriate sayings on them?”

  When I saw her last, Max’s T-shirt had a picture of a piñata on it under the words I’d hit that! I grin at the memory.

  “Yes, I’m familiar.”

  “Well, I saw her wearing one of those terrible shirts, and I thought, well, actually, if she styled it with a cute skirt and the right pair of heels, that could totally trend. You know?”

  “Sure.”

  “It could totally be a thing—like, a sort of make-the-nerdy-girls-cool thing.”

  I give her the stink eye.

  “Careful, Blondie.”

  “Please, you aren’t anywhere close to nerdy now, if you ever were.”

  I love her for thinking that’s true.

  “And that’s not the point anyway. The point is that it’s a different angle, one that hasn’t been done.” She takes a breath. “And I’d like to try it. Do you think it could work?”

  The truth is, the idea isn’t bad, but it’s nearly impossible to break out of the saturation of the blogging market nowadays, particularly in fashion. But she’s looking at me like a hopeful little bunny, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to dream-crush her, even if I don’t think this is the best I’ve ever heard.

  “I think that if you want to do this thing, you should do it. Everyone should be allowed to pursue their dreams.”

  To my surprise she slumps down in her chair again. “That’s the problem, though. All I do is follow my dreams, one after another, and none of them lead me anywhere. Sometimes I realize it was a bad idea, or sometimes it doesn’t work no matter how much I try. Either way, I’ve got a long list of careers I’ve attempted, and since I’m currently working in a boutique selling clothes on commission, I’m sure you can guess how well any of my other ideas have turned out.”

  She looks so lost all of a sudden, and I want to reach out and hug her. The thing is, though, Malin doesn’t need a hug, and she doesn’t need to be coddled. That’s what her family has been doing her entire life.

  “So give up.”

  Her head flies up in shock. “What?”

  “Give up,” I say it clearly. “You’ve got a rich daddy; you can live off your trust fund forever.”

  Hurt settles over her face, followed quickly by anger. Attagirl.

  “I don’t want to be that kind of person. I want to make my way.”

  I fling a dismissive hand out at her spiral notebook. “Doing this?”

  Her eyes narrow. “Why not this? It’s a cool idea and it’s entertaining. It’s a way to elevate a style that lots of people look down on. It might help other women feel better about themselves.” Her words become hurried in her excitement to explain it all. “I could have guest posts where people submit their own pictures, or we could take the worst thing from someone’s wardrobe and show you five different ways to wear it. There could be a weekly segment where I show off something I got at the Goodwill for less than five dollars.” I didn’t even know Malin knew what Goodwill was. I’m wildly impressed. She stabs her notebook with an angry finger. “This is a good idea!”

  I smile at her sincerely. “Of course it is. Now don’t let anybody talk you out of it. Not me, not your family, and definitely not yourself.”

  She sits back in shock at my abrupt change in direction. So I lean closer across the table and look her right in the eye. “Mali, everybody has dreams and ideas. The difference between the people who succeed and the people who don’t isn’t about whose dreams were better. The difference is that the people who succeed refused to give up.”

  She sits up eagerly and grabs my hand. “So you’ll help me?”

  I roll my eyes and feign a long-suffering sigh. “I mean, you did buy me a coffee, so I guess.”

  The sound of her squeal startles the guy at the table next to us. He’s unironically wearing beaded moccasins, though, so he totally deserved it.

  “So where does this start exactly?” Charlie looks down at the blueprints in his hand and then back up at me.

  I walk across the dusty and cracked floor to stand next to him. After everything that went on at work with Landon, I feel even more pressure to make sure I don’t screw up this meeting. I prepped for hours and tried to think of every question they might throw at me. I pull the tape measure off the waistband of my jeans and measure out the appropriate distance from the wall.

  “The bar would begin just about there.” I point out the area to the left of us. “And it’ll run down the wall until just before the entrance to the kitchen.”

  I came to the restaurant today to do a walk-through with all of the Ashton men. Liam and I have discussed the schematics for the space several times already. Since it’s his project, he’s the one tasked with making the majority of the decisions. At the end of the day, though, this place is a Barker-Ash property, and I am on contract with Barker-Ash. That means taking the other two members of their executive staff through the plans as well. Since the space was a former restaurant, they’re going to get off easy with several codes and permits, but before they break ground on the design, they all need to have a clear understanding of how it’ll be laid out.

  Charlie is looking dapper in his slacks and a bespoke blazer that probably costs more than every piece of clothing I own combined. His blond hair has the slightest bit of gray in it; he’s well on his way to becoming a silver fox.

  “It’s an awfully long bar,” he tells me wit
h a worried frown.

  I smile back confidently. “Ahh, but some allowances must be made in the pursuit of great design.”

  “The design is beautiful, Miko,” Brody tells me sincerely. “But something that large cuts into our capacity for the restaurant by an additional ten percent. That’s a significant loss of profit on what could be more patrons. Especially when we really only need a bar half this size.”

  Behind both of their backs, Liam fights off a grin. This is the same argument we’ve been having about the plans for weeks. Sticking my tongue out at him would be childish, so I don’t do it, even though I really, really want to. I turn my attention back to Brody and Charlie and look at the room with them. The image is in my head, as clear as it is on the plans they hold. It’s exactly what the space should look like, and that bar is central to the whole idea. Each design needs one grounding element, one thing that makes it stand out. In this case it’s the bar, and I’m prepared to battle for it. They brought me in on this project because I know what I’m doing when it comes to design. They brought me here because they needed a fresh perspective to set the stage for the high-end clientele who care almost as much about the ambiance as they do the food. I know what I’m talking about; I have years of design credit to back up my belief—now I just need to convince them that I’m right.

  “It wants for a major focal point, you guys. Can’t you see that?”

  Their smiles are kind, but I can tell design is going to be a hard sell with them when the profit is being affected. I set out to explain it the same way I would with event clients: by selling them on the experience, not the way it looks.

  “People are going to pull up out front and find this place glowing like a firefly.” I point out the front door. “Imagine that you’re them and you’re stepping inside this restaurant, with its hideous vegan food”—Liam rolls his eyes—“for the very first time. You stop first at the front door. You can’t help but admire its ironwork and the scrolling inspired by the spires of Sagrada Família in Barcelona. And then you walk inside.” I hurry over to the spot where the receptionist will stand. “And you find an antique Cuban desk that serves as our reception stand.”

  “Given that the embargo has only recently been lifted, thus driving up the price of goods, would another country’s antiques be more cost effective?” Brody asks, bemused.

  I snap my fingers for him to be quiet. I suppose I should be a little more deferent to his position here, but we’re just too good of friends now for me to pretend otherwise.

  “Cuba will be fine. Don’t worry about it. And it’ll be gorgeous and so is the receptionist; his name is Paolo—”

  “Here we go,” Liam interrupts, only to be silenced by his father’s chuckle and my refusal to be stopped right when I’m getting to the good stuff.

  “His name is Paolo,” I continue, louder now. “And he’s tall for a Dominican.”

  “Dear Lord!” Liam is laughing now too.

  “And he’s not one of those regular receptionists who’s really rude and actually wants to be a backup dancer. He’s the consummate professional and so happy to greet you when you walk through the door. In another situation, in another restaurant, perhaps, you might stop to chat with him for a moment. But not here. No, there’s something even sexier than Paolo in this restaurant, and it’s just beyond where you’re standing. Your eyes quickly slide past him to the room, drawn there by the play of pattern and texture so beautifully harmonized you can’t not look at it. It’s not what you expected. So much bigger and brighter than you thought it would be. And then you see it; the bar beckons to you, an oasis of bold color in the large airy space. You and your date make your way over to sit at the stools, amazed by the detail and ironwork in their base.”

  All three of them are smiling at my story as I knew they would, but they’re also looking out over the empty space along with me, which is what matters most. I hope they can see it too.

  “The façade on the bar is a statement in and of itself. Black-and-white tile shipped here from a tiny artisan outside Mexico City.”

  “Did they figure out how to ship it properly?” Liam asks.

  The tile was another item we argued over, since I’m insistent we use a pattern I remembered from a small hotel I visited years ago in Baja. One of many issues with this merchant, besides the fact that I needed Landon to translate for me since they can’t speak English, is that they had no idea how to ship it to the States without it breaking.

  “We’re figuring it out, Liam,” I say to him for what must be the fiftieth time in reference to that tile. “My point is, the bar is part of the story of this space. More than that, it’s the heart of your restaurant.” I shake my head defiantly. “You can’t cut it in half.”

  They all look a little sorry, likely because they’re dead set on disappointing me, but Liam is the one who speaks. “Miko, I appreciate your passion for this—we all do. But ten percent is too great a percentage to miss out on in the name of style. We have to find some way to make it work in a smaller size.”

  It’s impossible. The entire design is based around the bar standing just as it is. And not only that, but this will be my most significant design ever. This is the kind of thing that will put me on the map after years of scraping by with freebie work and low-paying design jobs. I remember my conversation with Malin about the people who don’t give up on their dreams.

  I cross my arms and look around the room, trying to come up with some way to make this bar work. And then I remember the design I worked on for Riverton and the highlight of the party they’re throwing. I spin around and nearly trip in my excitement.

  “Have you considered only serving organic liquor?”

  They all glance at each other.

  “Providing a top shelf and widely stocked bar is imperative to the success of any restaurant,” Brody tells me. “Getting a full menu of items to offer that are entirely organic would be difficult.”

  “But not impossible,” I hurry to add on.

  They still looked confounded by the direction I’m headed.

  “I believe it would be extremely difficult to educate people on exactly what they’re drinking and why their favorites aren’t on the menu,” Charlie says kindly.

  “But the exclusivity would also mean you could charge a lot more than you could for regular liquor.” I grin at them. “A lot more than a ten percent markup, I’m sure.”

  Brody frowns. “But how could you convince them to order the more expensive option?”

  “You don’t give them the option,” Liam says. The understanding on his face makes me feel like a superhero. “You only put high-end organic alcohol on the menu, and they don’t have a choice.”

  I nod at him. “You make the bar the focal point of the whole restaurant, both within the design and within the menu. You have Max come up with some incredible cocktails. She’ll use unique flavors and specialty ingredients. Give them long names and have the servers regale your guests with some histrionic backstory of how each drink came to be and how it earned its name. They won’t question the upcharge; they’ll accept it all as an exclusivity of eating at a place like this.”

  Liam smiles.

  Brody smiles.

  I smile.

  Charlie breaks into loud laughter. “Come on, girl. We’re going to take you to lunch. I want to hear what other crazy ideas you’ve got tucked up there with Paolo and organic tequila.”

  On the way out of the building, Liam calls after me. When I turn around to speak with him, he tells them we’ll meet them there. As soon as the door closes behind them, Liam pulls me to him and kisses me so well I feel light headed.

  I can’t help my grin. “What was that for?”

  “You are always a surprise.”

  “And you like surprises?”

  His eyes are sparkling with mischief, and I think he might answer with another joke, but then his smile
grows soft. “I like you.”

  After that pronouncement I decide not to push him too hard on things like text messages or labels or what the normal progression of a relationship should be.

  When Liam and I are together, it’s incredible—the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. I stay at his house almost every night when he’s in town. The next time he goes out on business, he keeps in contact with me through funny photos and the occasional borderline-inappropriate text message. We never actually get around to arguing about why his radio silence during the last trip bothered me so much.

  He goes away for a couple of days on a business trip again not long after, and the next time we see each other is at Sunday Supper. We end up making out in a closet, surrounded by winter coats and scarves like teenagers afraid of getting caught.

  Whatever else our relationship is, it is exciting and fun. I decide to just focus on enjoying myself rather than trying to figure everything out. We do sneak around a lot, but that becomes a game in and of itself. I tell myself our relationship is more special somehow because it is something nobody knows about but the two of us. Whatever this is, it has turned into some kind of relationship. That is more than many other women could boast. I count myself lucky.

  At some point our clandestine meetups are going to turn into the real thing. At some point we’ll walk out of his parents’ house hand in hand instead of leaving in separate cars and meeting up later that night. At some point he and I are going to spend enough time together that he’ll realize he is in love with me, just like Marianne Dashwood and Colonel Brandon. The way he feels about me is evident in his touch, the sweet things he says, and the little gifts he gets me for no reason. If it isn’t a normal kind of relationship, that’s OK—I’m not a normal kind of girl. Not that he needed to be reminded of that; it’s always popping up in conversation.

  “I’m sorry—it’s called what?”

  I just took a huge bite of my Corn Flakes, so I have to chew quickly to answer him.

  “Cosplay.”

  He looks at me incredulously. “And it’s like . . . a costume party?”