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Elisha comes out of the kitchen and glares at me. “Well, fuck you very much, ho.”
“You’re fucking welcome, slut. Also, maybe try locking your door when you close, otherwise, any riffraff can just walk right in,” I reply with a wink.
She laughs as she throws a dish towel over her shoulder. She walks over to the counter and grabs a bag. Handing it to me, she motions to the few chairs in the little bar area of the bakery. I sit down and she reaches into the bag and places a muffin in front of me. Elisha has been feeding me since the second day I moved in above her café. She told me that I looked like I needed a dozen donuts and promptly set a box of them in front of me after I asked for a small coffee because that’s all I could afford. I tried to pay her, and she refused. Later she told me she would never accept money from a woman whose purse was literally sewn back together in three places. I told her that was prejudiced against consignment shoppers, and she pulled out her used handbag. After that, we became best friends. She’s like the older sister that I never had, and I don’t know what I’d do without her…and also her stellar baking skills.
“Eat and tell me what’s going on?” she demands.
“Geez, pushy much?”
She shrugs. “You love it.”
Laughing, I unwrap the muffin as she reaches over and pulls out two bottles of water, placing one in front of me.
I take a bite of the carrot cake muffin and groan. “You are a freaking culinary genius,” I mumble as I swallow my first bite.
“I know,” she agrees.
“Wow, humble much?”
“You know it. Stop stalling, did that asshole reply to your emails yet?” she asks, giving me a pointed look.
Sighing, I take another bite and shake my head because I’m pretty sure if I speak, I’ll burst into tears. When I heard about this first-edition collection, I knew it was my only chance to show this charity that I had a match of some kind to contribute toward the grant award, because I certainly didn’t have any money or personnel.
Elisha sits up and curses under her breath. “Fuck this. Just drive up to that crusty old jerk’s estate and refuse to leave until he sees you!”
I choke on the muffin and reach for the water as Elisha pats my back. Once I’ve composed myself, I stare back at her. “You can’t be serious.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“Well, no, but…I can’t just drive out there,” I say, my voice dropping to a whisper.
“Yes. You can. It’s literally less than ten miles away,” she assures me.
“Fuck. You can’t be serious. What would I even say?” I ask in semi-horror.
Elisha reaches out and grips my shoulder. “You look that over-entitled prick in the eyes and say, loan me your damn fantasy-book collection.”
“They are Jane Austen and James Joyce first editions,” I correct her for the millionth time. Elisha is a fantasy-book lover and refuses to accept that other genres exist.
“Fine, whatever. Just go ask him. Also, you should ask if he has any first-edition fantasy novels. What’s the worst thing that can happen?” she prods.
“He has me arrested for trespassing and I end up in a cell with a bunch of drunk people who vomit all over me and my parents can’t get there to bail me out and I have to spend the weekend in vomit-covered clothing locked up with a metal toilet and no toilet paper,” I state.
“Ewww. No. Just no. That’s not happening,” she says, her eyes wide at the faux horror I just envisioned.
“OK, well, it could be close to that.”
Elisha drops her hand and stares into my eyes. “Isabelle Lisette Garren, you need to put on your lady balls and do it!”
I hate that she’s right. I hate that I need to do this. “OK,” I state because clearly, I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.
Her dark eyes widen. “OK, like you’re going to do it?”
I nod. “Yeah, why not. I hate to admit it but you’re right. My time is up. I just got the final notice on the library’s electric bill.”
“I can’t believe the city council is making the library pay their electric bill. It’s so messed up,” Elisha says as she starts grabbing various pastries, muffins, and cookies and stuffing them into two bags which she pushes toward me. “Here. Take these. No one can say no to my pastries or cookies. Not even stingy old men.”
“I don’t think he’s that old. Or at least the photo on the company website doesn’t look like he’s that old.”
