Chapter 8
Give Me Caffeine or Give Me Death
TILLY
I managed to get through customs and find Mona without any further disasters (incredible, I know). I was so jet-lagged from the flight that I barely took in the fact that I was in London freaking England when she picked me up, and I crashed immediately on her couch.
“Morning, sunshine,” Mona greets me as I blink awake to the sound of her espresso grinder running at full force.
“Morning, Mo-Mo,” I say through a yawn, propping myself up on my elbows.
I look around, finally registering her posh and modern (read, angular and sparse) apartment. Everything is a different shade of white or gray with minimalistic furniture, and the walls hold a few hanging mirrors and sharp metal artwork. Mona is the only streak of color in the barren place, strutting around the apartment in a deep red blouse and matching trousers.
I roll off the couch, scurrying across the artfully aged wooden floors to the large window. I stand, throwing back the curtains with a flourish to welcome in the beautiful, vibrant …
Depressingly gray skies?
I frown, then shake myself. This is London gray, and is therefore superior to all other shades of gray.
Pressing my face against the glass, I take it all in. A row of beige stone buildings line the street. An older woman walks a fluffy white dog while chatting on her cell phone and … oh … holy shit … be still my heart, is that a literal red freaking phone booth on the corner? I’m about to swoon.
“Mom’s upset you didn’t call her when you landed,” Mona says, coming up behind me and disrupting my very special moment with the red phone booth.
I roll my eyes. Of course she’s mad at me. She’s always finding some reason to have a hissy fit over something I do.
“I’ll call her in a minute,” I say, turning to Mona. She’s holding a tiny espresso cup slightly away from her body. I grin and reach for it.
“Yeah, right,” she says, furrowing her perfectly manicured thick brows. Damn her for figuring out her brow shape and actually maintaining it. “I’m scared to see you caffeinated,” she adds, taking a sip of her espresso. “You can have herbal tea.”
I frown. “You should be more afraid of an uncaffeinated me,” I say in my most menacing voice. Mona isn’t impressed as she takes another dainty sip.
“Please?” I beg, switching tactics by making my voice high-pitched and whiny. “It helps my ADHD.”
This is actually true. Dr. Alverez had told me my intense coffee habit I started freshman year of high school is likely a form of self-medicating to help with my focus. Whatever it is, the fact remains that I need coffee or I will, quite literally, perish in the most dramatic and crankiest way possible.
Mona purses her lips, looking me up and down, and I squirm under the appraisal.
My sister is objectively gorgeous: short with full curves and thick black hair that hangs in perfect shiny layers around her contoured face. But her beauty is amplified by a certain cunning sharpness she exudes, like she could bring even the strongest person to their knees with three artfully chosen words and a well-timed arch of her eyebrow.
“We’ll compromise with black tea,” she says, turning and heading back to her small but sleek kitchen.
“You’re the best,” I say, galloping up behind her and wrapping her in a bear hug.
“Get off. You know I’m not a hugger.” She pushes me away and I shoot her a goofy look to mask how much I wish she were a hugger.
She preps my tea and I dump so much sugar in it that I’m sure my dentist cringes from across the pond.
“Call Mom,” Mona hounds me, pushing my phone toward me. “I don’t want her pestering me every four minutes to ask how you are.”
I roll my eyes and sigh. “Sorry to be such a tremendous burden.”
It’s Mona’s turn to roll her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic. But this is first and foremost a work trip, and I can’t be fielding her calls all day.”
“I mean … Your priorities are your priorities, but I plan on having fun this summer,” I say, shooting my mom a quick text, telling her I’m safe and miss her, blah blah blah.
Mom immediately responds with the world’s longest list of questions, none even coming close to: Are you having fun? Or How was the flight? But instead: Have you taken your meds this morning? and Did you lose anything? and the lovely I think Mona should hang on to your money so you don’t impulsively spend it all, but it’s your call. What do you think?
I think I’m going to choose to ignore her.
Mona takes a final sip of her espresso before rinsing out the cup. “I actually wanted to talk to you about that and what Amina and I expect from you as our intern.”
I groan while my stomach drops. “I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to exploit child labor,” I say, blowing on my steaming tea.
“I’m pretty sure you’re eighteen and getting a free trip across Europe,” Mona counters, tilting her head in a way that reminds me of Mom. “And I promised them I’d make this as much of a résumé builder as I can for you.”
“I don’t want a résumé builder.”
Mona wipes down the immaculate white counters with a hand towel. “Well, welcome to adulthood. You’ll be doing things you don’t want to do for the rest of your life. Enjoy.”
“So this conversation is good practice then?” I shoot back.
An emotion flashes across Mona’s face—something that looks close to … hurt?—but she turns away before I can fully read it.
A trickle of guilt twists my stomach, but I push the feeling away. There’s no way I hurt Mona’s feelings. She gave up on feelings when she became a professional business lady.
“For the most part, you won’t have to do much,” Mona says, her voice cool but defeated. “Actually, the more you stay out of the way, the better, come to think of it.”
“Nice.”
“But I’ll need to use your hands. To model the polish for my Instagram and Twitter and TikTok pages,” Mona says, turning and glancing at where my fingers are thrumming on the counter.
A grin breaks across my face. “Aw. Like when we were kids.”
“Yes,” she says, shooting me her own soft smile. Mona has been painting my nails since I was in diapers.
I spread my fingers in front of me, looking at them. I’m not gonna lie, these are some hella beautiful hands. I have long fingers and well-shaped nail beds. I’ve always liked my hands, which is why I put in a tremendous amount of mental work to break my nail and cuticle biting habit in middle school. Another stimming thing. Now I roll my toes if I get a surge of electric energy I need to get out. It makes sense Mona wants to use my hands. They’re so pretty. Ideal. Dare I say perfect?
“I couldn’t budget for a professional hand model, so you’ll have to do,” Mona says, bursting my bubble. “It will be good marketing to have you showing off the polish at different sites we travel to. I’ll be meeting with various store buyers at each location, and it will be a nice touch to show the polish in familiar territory. It’s an idea my new design intern actually came up with.”