Before I can have a full-on existential crisis on the sidewalk – becausehowam I really about to open my own business? – I put my key in the lock and turn the knob, my breath catching in my throat as soon as I step inside.
A little “oh!” slips out of me into the quiet room as I take in the nearly finished space. It’s stunning. The black and white checkered tile floors and pale gray walls are perfect to offset all the colorful blooms that will soon be overflowing in here. The shelves and empty displays are a mix of black, white and stained wood. I wasn’t sure how the eclectic mix would work, but I’m kind of obsessed. Andoh,the matte black countertop on the big, rectangular workspace in the middle of the room. I stroke my hand across it, picturing all of the arrangements that I’ll put together in this exact spot.
The amount I’m paying Matt and Mike is enough that I prefer not to think about it, but somehow, it still doesn’t feel adequate for the miracles they’ve worked here. What was once a massive room with worn wooden floors, cracked mirrors along the walls and a hideous white drop ceiling has been transformed into a work of art. A work of art that’s allmine.
I wander through, cataloging all the details I’ve obsessed over for months and dreamed about for much longer. My heart is firmly lodged in my throat as I inspect each detail that Matt and Mike helped bring to life.
The wooden counter in the back corner where customers will check out. Across from that, the doorway that leads to the small kitchen, bathroom and my office. At the very back of the shop, the door that leads to the shared backyard where my greenhouse is. My dad and Aiden had helped me assemble it a few weeks ago.
It isn’t until I’m walking back in from inspecting my greenhouse that I see it. Realization hits me like a freight train as I process thebig, glaring, very muchnot okaything that just catapulted this perfect moment into possible catastrophe.
Because that big window parents used to look through as they watched their kids dance?
It’s. Still. There.
Instead of looking at a pale gray wall — asolidgray wall — to match the rest of the shop, I can see straight into the tattoo studio next door, where Sean and Declan are busy unpacking boxes of… ink? Are those ink bottles? It occurs to me that I know nothing about tattooing.
By the looks of it I’m going to learn, though, because — and I cannot possibly overstate this —I can see their entire studio.
With shaking hands I pull my phone out of my pocket, fingers fumbling to punch in my code and open my list of recent calls. We’ve been talking so often about the shop’s progress that I don’t have to scroll to find his name.
“Hey, Elsie,” Matt greets me after a couple rings, cheerful as ever. “Did you make it over to the shop? How does it look?”
“I’m here now,” I tell him, fighting to keep my voice even. “I, um… have some questions.”
“Uh oh.” He chuckles nervously. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s just that…”
Rip the Band-Aid off, Elsie. Fuck being a people pleaser right now.
“Why is the big window still there?”
“Big window?” Matt asks, confused. “I thought you wanted those windows? You were with me when we picked –”
“Not the outside windows,” I cut in. “I mean the massive one that lets me see the entire tattoo studio next door.”
The other end of the line falls silent. I wait a few beats but Matt says nothing.
“Hello?”
“Elsie,” Matt says slowly, like he’s explaining something complex to a child. “That’s what the plans we drew up called for.Youdecided to keep that window.”
I’m honestly trying hard to remain calm, but the panicked “I did not!” that bursts out of me echoes off the empty walls and makes me wince. Next door, Sean and Declan both look up from what they’re doing. My face must look as stressed as I feel, because the next thing I know, the door adjoining the two spaces is opening. The door I didn’t even notice while I was having a meltdown over the window. But hey, fun surprise – there’s also a door connecting my flower shop with the tattoo studio.
Cool! Fun! Exciting!
I bury my free hand in the hair at the back of my neck to hide the way it shakes.
“You did,” Matt insists. “Remember that conversation we had about cutting costs, and sticking to our two-month timeline?”
“Of course I do.” A month or so back, I started to stress how much all of the renovations were going to cost. The dollar signs were racking up quickly and I started to think hard about what was aneedversus awant, especially if we wanted to stay within our two-month timeframe. Matt drew up a few different plans and I picked the one that cut a decent chunk of change and was also doable in eight weeks. My focus was on the fact that the plan I chose allowed me to have the big workspace that I wasn’t willing to part with or scale back. I have plans of teaching workshops and I need the space for it.
“The plan you chose called for leaving that wall alone,” Matt insists.
I bite my lip to keep from screaming. I hear a grunt and look over to where Declan and Sean stand just inside the doorway. Declan crosses his arms and glares, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He looksmenacing, the way his tattooed arms bulge where his fingers dig into his biceps.
My eyes trail along his arms, up the ink on the left side of his neck, along his stubbled jaw, up to his eyes. When his dark eyes meet mine, I swear they soften. The creases in the corners smooth out a bit and his glare loses some of its heat.
