Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
I can’t count the number of sellers who have popped up with bulk orders, mentioning that Lark hand-sold the products to them in passing. Or the number of requests I’ve gotten for smaller, blog-style interviews or features with Insta influencers, all because Lark took the time to write them personal messages, gushing about how hard I work, how much I believe in my products, and how long I’ve dreamt of getting these out into the world.
Every time one of those Insta influencers forwards a screenshot of Lark’s message to me, or says they’ve got to get their hands on the product “if it’s anywhere near as good as Lark claims,” my heartbeat picks up a little, and the nauseous tension that’s been in my stomach all week eases just a bit.
He’s the perfect business partner, I’ll grant him that.
Then I remind myself that that’s probably what Sheryl thought, too, when they first decided to start their investment company together, and I kick myself mentally for even going there.
But my anxious thought spiral gets harder than ever to avoid one night when I’m doing some much-needed cleaning up around my apartment. After all the work and the hecticness of the past month, things have gotten a bit out of control on the home front.
I decide to take a whole Saturday off and dedicate it solely to tidying up, getting my home back into working order. I’m digging around under my bed, fishing out tossed-aside pieces of clothing that I didn’t even realize got kicked under there, when my fingers graze against an unfamiliar piece of fabric.
I draw it out from beneath the bed, and my breath hitches. It’s a silk tie, expensive-looking, a little wrinkled from lying under my bed all this time. But I recognize it instantly.
It’s the one Lark was wearing, the second time we hooked up. Holding it in my hands brings the memories flooding back. The way we’d sat side by side on my old, ratty couch, so careful not to touch. Me, because I was afraid he’d set me on fire. Him, because he was clearly trying to respect my boundaries, despite the flirty smile he wore whenever he caught me stealing glances at him.
I recall the slow slide, as my stupid ancient couch cushions gave way, like the universe trying to force us toward one another. I remember my thigh brushing his, then my leg, from knee all the way to hip. I remember how I tried to ignore the heat burning through me from the inside out.
How I reached for the makeup palette he was holding, only to fumble it, have it spill next to us on the sofa as he drew me into his lap, his hands warm and strong around my waist, and already familiar, even though it was only the second time we’d ever let ourselves touch.
The way his lips tasted that day, his scent enveloping me…
And the way I felt the next day when the replacement sofa arrived. My stomach both sinking and sailing at once, because no guy had ever done something like that for me. He took care of me, even before he knew me at all. Even before he knew how hard I’d push him away.
Without realizing it, I tighten my grip on the tie, savoring the smooth silken feeling between my fingers, tears stinging at the backs of my eyes.
Then I remember something from therapy. In our last session, we talked about how things ended with Norman. I didn’t break up with him, something I’ll forever be embarrassed by. I just wasn’t strong enough. Even though I wanted to, anytime I tried, he’d lure me back in with promises that he’d change, he’d be better this time.
That, or he’d flat out stop me from leaving by barring the door, trapping me in with him.
But one day, he told me he’d met someone else. She was younger than me, prettier. I didn’t care. I was so relieved. Now, I regret not warning her. Or at the very least, being the one to walk out the door on my own two feet.
My therapist tells me it’s not my fault. That this is a normal reaction to what I went through.
But afterward, I hoarded pieces of my relationship with him. It was like, even though I knew things had been terrible with Norman, I wasn’t ready to let go, because letting go meant I was alone again. And that terrified me.
She told me it was important to stop clinging to the past. To learn how to move on and let go—of people, of possessions, of memories… And of objects, too.
I look down at the tie clenched in my fist.
She’s right. I need to work on letting go. On being able to release things that aren’t serving me anymore.
Like this tie. Like the man who wore it.