“Stella, that’s amazing!” I exclaim, and I mean it. “That’s huge.”
“It’s huge!” She practically bounces in her chair. “But I need money. Like, serious money. I need to buy canvases, high-quality oils, rent studio space for a few weeks to get the work done without my cats knocking paint jars over. I’m already picking up extra shifts, but I need a lump sum.”
I feel my stomach clench. This was it. This was my window. I was going to ask her for a loan. Just five hundred bucks to get me through the month, to cover the debate fees and the groceries.
She’s the only person I trust enough to ask, despite the distance.
I look at her hopeful face. I think about the deposit for the studio space in London, the cost of paints in the city.
If I ask her for money, she’ll give it to me. She won’t hesitate. But then she’ll be short for her dream.
I can’t do it. I won’t be the thing that holds her back, not when she’s finally clawing her way out of the hole we used to share.
“That’s incredible, Stel,” I say, forcing a smile. “You’re going to kill it.”
“I hope so,” she sighs, her excitement dimming slightly. “It’s just… the money is tight. But I’ll make it work. I always do.”
“You will,” I assure her. “Hey, I have to go. I’ve got a delivery coming in.”
“Okay, babe. Keep me posted on the shop closing. Maybe you can come visit me in London while they renovate?” she suggests.
“Maybe. That would be nice.”
We say goodbye, and the screen goes black.
I stand there in the silence of the shop. The reality of my finances sits on my shoulders like a wet wool blanket.
The car repair drained me. The upcoming lost wages from the renovation are a dark cloud on the horizon. Maisie’s debate fees are due by Friday.
I can’t ask Jude. They already house us, feed us half the time, treat Maisie like a princess. Asking for cash would be too much. I have too much pride.
I need a second job. Something flexible. Something I can do in the evenings or early mornings before the shop opens.
I could waitress at the Smokehouse, maybe? But Mick usually hires locals who have been there for years.
I could clean houses? No, that takes too much time away from Maisie.
I stare at the piles of eucalyptus and rose thorns, feeling the panic rising in my chest. I’m always one step away from drowning, it seems. Just when I think I’ve found solid ground, the tide pulls me under.
The bell above the door chimes, jarring me from my spiral.
I check the clock. 8:30 p.m. Right on time.
I wipe my hands on my apron and smooth down my hair, trying to banish the worry from my face. I walk to the front of the shop.
Eli is standing there, snow dusting the shoulders of his coat. He’s holding a brown paper bag tied with twine, and he’s smiling that soft, crooked smile that makes my knees weak.
“Hey,” he says as I unlock the door and let him in.
“Hey yourself.”
He steps inside, bringing the cold air with him, but also that scent—vanilla, burnt sugar, and warmth. He locks the door behind him and pulls me into a kiss.
It’s a hello kiss, but it quickly deepens. His lips are soft, his hands settling on my waist, pulling me flush against him.
I melt into him, the stress of the phone call, the money, the renovation, all of it fading away in the presence of his touch.
When we finally break apart, he lifts the paper bag. “I brought you something. Chocolate croissants. Not lemon tarts this time, but I figured you needed a comfort food tonight.”
