I throw open the car door but don’t climb out right away. Instead, I turn toward Jade—who still isn’t looking at me. “For some reason, I thought you were different from the other assholes in this town,” I mumble. “I really should’ve known better.” I slam the door and escape, realizing that sticking around this place has been a big mistake.
CHAPTERTEN
JADE
I hit ‘send’on my email to Magnolia Sloane, the eccentric clay sculptor who lives on the outskirts of town, before drawing a line through her name on my notepad.
Seven down, four to go.
So far, I’ve found eleven local artists and creators who’ll hopefully be interested in stocking their arts and crafts at the store for us to sell on commission. The tricky part will be getting enough stock in before the magazine reporter arrives in town for Fall Fest.
A moment of panic grips my throat, but I fight it off with a gulp of watery coffee. I can do this. I nearly pulled off a business merger that only came undone because of reasons I couldn’t have prevented. My eyes dart up to Mom’s face on the wall, and I use her soft smile as encouragement.I’m gonna win this glossy feature spread, and I’m gonna make it my bitch. Oops, sorry, Mom.
A giant shadow falls over the window, accompanied by the screech of worn brake pads. I huff with irritation as a massive delivery truck pulls up outside for the sixth time this week, blocking the store from the Main Street traffic. Only a few months ago, I had our shop signs repainted fire-engine red to catch the eyes of visitors driving through the center of town. And now this delivery dude keeps blocking the signsandthe shop with his monster truck before disappearing into Dylan’s apartment next door. And if it’s not him, it’s the continuous cycle of food delivery trucks and tradespeople’s vans. Because apparently, being born with a silver spoon in your mouth means you don’t ever have to cook anything or fix your own leaky taps.
Maybe I’m being too hard on Dylan. I didn’t like how he looked at me in the car the other day after I fumbled my words and told him he has a “reputation.” Even if that’s true, one thing I’ve learned from what happened to Ruby this summer is that there are always two sides to every story. People think they know stuff, but sometimes they don’t know shit.
I lean sideways on my stool and crane my neck to see what the delivery guy’s dropping off to Dylan this time. All I can make out is another giant cardboard box that looks like it contains something heavy. Honestly, what is all that shit he’s ordering?
I tap my computer to life to check my emails, chewing the inside of my cheek. None of the artists have replied yet—which is of no surprise given the pace of this town—but there’s a new message sitting in the store’s inbox from the bank. My gut tightens with dread, and I consider burning the computer to the ground before I suck in a breath and open the email.
This is a formal notification that you are in default of your obligation to make payments on your commercial loan…
Shit.Before Mom got sick, she and Dad took out a large loan for the shop to make some crucial and expensive upgrades. They found her cancer soon after, and everything started to go downhill. I hurriedly scan the rest of the letter, my breath hitching at the final paragraph.
Unless the total amount in arrears is received within 90 days, we will have no choice but to begin the foreclosure process on your property.
I slam the laptop shut, my palm trembling against the metal casing as I sit frozen solid. Can they actually do that? Surely, Mom and Dad didn’t put the store up as collateral? I grip my stomach and force myself to take a run of deep breaths.
It’s okay. You’re only behind on three months of payments. You can talk to Dad…you can talk to Ruby…you can figure this out.
But the last thing I want is to bring Ruby into this. She’ll feel a million times worse than she already does about the merger falling apart. We’ve discussed selling Grandma’s house, but Grandma refuses. She’s convinced she’s going to get better and move out of the nursing home as soon as possible. Besides, what’s happening with the store isn’t Grandma’s fault. There has to be another way.
I’ll talk to Dad. Maybe we can borrow some more money through his home loan—just to cover the next few payments and catch up on what we owe.
The uncomfortable thought of having to ask Dad to do that makes me flip open my laptop again. Ineedto get that magazine spread, whatever the cost. Emailing a few local craftspeople isn’t enough—I have to do more, to be proactive, like I was taught in business school.
Perhaps I can contact the Fall Fest journalist in advance and organize a phone call to butter her up. According to theGazette, her name is Sunny Gillespie and she grew up in Still Springs, which explains why a reporter of her caliber is doing a feature on this tiny town.
Her Instagram looks like a luxury travel magazine in itself, her grid filled with images of her doing yoga in the aqua shallows of the Maldives or standing atop a New Zealand mountain with her arms stretched in a V-shape. The fact that I’m supposed to impress this woman is a joke for the stand-up stage.
I send her a message, but given she’s got more than three million followers, there’s a good chance she won’t see it. I could reach out to her through her assistant at the magazine, but I’ve tried to contact journalists before and for much smaller publications. It’s like sending an email into a black hole.
I click back to her social media, when my eye snags on a follower we have in common: @HayHay_NYC.
Of coursethe glamorous, jet-setting Hayley would know who Sunny Gillespie is. They also both live in New York City, so maybe they’re even friends!
I find Hayley’s number in my recently dialed calls and tap her name. When I called to check on her yesterday, she’d just landed in Crete.
Hayley answers on the second ring. “Still keeping tabs on me?” she says warmly.
I smile. “Always. How are you doing?”
The bounce in her tone disappears as she fills me in on another sightseeing day spent fighting off tears at everything that reminded her of her parents: an ice cream cone flavor, a patterned style of dress, a piece of art her dad would’ve loved.
We chat quietly for a bit while someone comes into the store to browse—ugh—before I ask Hayley if she knows Sunny Gillespie. My chest sinks when she tells me that she knows who she is, but they’ve never met in person.
“I think she was in Dylan’s year at school,” Hayley adds.
