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“Yes. Hello. Good morning. The owner of the warehouse signed the intent to sell. I’ve got a signed fucking copy that’s notarized sitting in my damn email.”
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“Yep. Along with a personal email from him stating that he has every intention to sell it to us. He just needs to get into town to get the paperwork straightened out. In the meantime, the realtor coordinating all this said to come in and see her today. She can help us get shit sorted out with our lender.”
“Fuck. What time is she expecting us?” I asked.
“In an hour. I’m coming with coffee. We’ll take my car.”
My heart was racing as I tumbled out of bed. A quick hot shower and a few pats on my cheeks woke me up enough to dress semi-appropriately for something like this. The dream of the boys faded from my mind and was replaced with the dreams for our business. Everything was coming slowly within reach, so much so that I could taste it. I wanted to drive by the place again. I wanted to go back inside and daydream for the rest of my day off. I wanted to take another look at the loft above the place and imagine what my new apartment would look like.
I grabbed my shit and went outside as the snores of my mother filled the caverns of the house.
Lindy pulled up in her car, and I jumped in. She handed me my cup of coffee, but I was already awake. She drove us to the realtor’s office and we walked inside. Our realtor was sitting there waiting for us.
“They’re just walking in,” the realtor said. “Ladies. Have a seat.”
“Hello! Who are you talking to?” I asked.
“I have your bank on the phone. We’ve been passing paperwork back and forth all morning.”
“Wait, are you serious?” I asked.
“As a heart attack.”
I jumped as the voice on the speakerphone filled the room.
“So, a business loan for one hundred and ten thousand dollars is what we’re gunning for, correct?”
“That is correct,” the realtor said.
“Is the loan going underneath both of their names?”
“It is,” Lindy said.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Because I can foot all of this. My credit score is awesome.”
“You both have fabulous credit scores, actually. Either way you want to do this is fine with the bank,” the realtor said.
“I just need to know for the paperwork,” the disembodied voice said.
“You got a name, Mr. Telephone Man?” I asked.
“Hank.”
“Hank. Put the loan in both of our names. Emma Mason and Lindy Adams,” I said.
“Okay. Your realtor already filled in most of the paperwork for you. I only need a few pertinent details. You ready?”
“Hit us,” Lindy said.
We fed the man our social security numbers and information about our future store. I talked him through how the lofted area of the building was going to be a residential space, and he made a note of it. He quickly went over what the monthly payments would work out to be. We wouldn’t see the money, just the loan amount on our mobile accounts. The check would be cut from the bank and sent directly to the owner of the warehouse once the paperwork for the transaction was filed.
We put everything in order and were ecstatic to figure out that a fifteen-year loan, even with our interest rate, would still put us under a thousand dollars a month for the repayment of the mortgage.
“If you want, we can go ahead and get paperwork on insurance for the business as well,” Hank said.
“Won’t I need different insurance for the apartment part of the building?” I asked.
