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“Livvy, it’s true that I knew. Or rather that I’d heard. And it’s true I wasn’t going to tell you, way back in the beginning, anyway, before we started… getting to know you. Then, I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to think I was a slimy motherfucker. But we became… friends, or whatever you want to call it. I don’t know what to call it, Livvy, but I’m not ready to throw it away. I hope you’re not, either.”
Is he serious? Does he really think he can basically just tell me to get over it and forget everything that’s happened? What is it with guys like him? And Owen and Enzo? They get their way every fucking day, every fucking time they want something.
They’re so used to it, they expect it. Just like Owen expects me not to throw away ‘whatever it is we have.’
Which is a big fat nothing, I’ll remind him.
As soon as I stop crying.
It’s all such a mess. As much as I want to untangle myself from this web of deceit and half-truths, where everyone is out for themselves with no regard for me, these guys are still my best—really myonly—chance at saving what’s left of my shop.
And my life.
“I gotta go.”
I end the call. I don’t know what to say and I certainly don’t want Owen to know how upset I am. I’m not giving him that much power over me. He already has enough.
Jewel left to meet her mother for dinner at EastSide. I try not to feel betrayed that she’s supporting them because why shouldn’t she? They make food that people like. She’s going to have a nice dinner with her mother. Who’s also paying for it.
I look out the front window of Pawsh. I’m going to miss this view, of a moderately busy Manhattan side street with a mini-mart on the corner, a dry cleaner next to it, and various other neighborhood conveniences scattered throughout. I’ll even miss the abandoned shoe store directly across the street, which already has a prospective tenant, I’ve heard through the rumor mill.
I wander around my once-thriving boutique, now a monument to crushed dreams and broken trust. My phone buzzes—another text from Owen—but I ignore it.
I can’t. I just can’t.
I’m evaluating everything—not just my failed marketing strategies but also the so-called 'relationships' I fell into with the guys next door. Should I stick with the once-allies who turned out to be only marginally honest? Or pull on my big girl panties and go solo? Can I be my own David and slay the dreadful Goliath?
46
WESTON
There isno kiss of death for a restaurant like a bad review, especially one from an influential critic who can sink ships with the flick of a pen. Whoever planted ours knows that well and didn’t hesitate to use it against us.
Bastards.
And the fucker who wrote the piece is no better. In fact, he’s worse.
We did everything right. We followed all the rules. We raised enough money. We weren’t assholes to anyone as we climbed our way to success.
Yet, we were still vulnerable. How the hell does that happen?
Actually, I don’t have to ask. I’ve seen it. Lived it. My father’s businesses were on both the receiving and delivering end of both of those all the time. If I were to ask Dad, which I would not give him the pleasure of, he’d say it’s just another day at the office. That if I thought we guys here at EastSide were immune to the ugly side of commerce, I was naïve as hell and apparently never learned a thing from him.
As Dad would say, in the business world, someone is always getting fucked, and someone is always doing the fucking.
Yup, I guess I am naïve.
I have no right to be surprised the developer resorted to playing dirty. Why wouldn’t he? People want what they want and will take opportunities when they see them.
I look around the restaurant, having emerged from my office, resisting the temptation to hide there and let everything implode around me. Once in the dining room, I take in the lunchtime quiet. It’s not that the place is silent, far from it, but when the dining room is full and chugging ahead at full-speed, like on a normal day, the hum is unmistakable. We certainly have people eating here today, but the sound of their chatter, along with clanking plates and silverware, is not at the noise level it should be. In fact, when the bartender starts up the espresso machine, it startles the crap out of me.
Our once-vibrant atmosphere, while hardly dead, is subdued. Diners won’t have noticed, of course, at least I hope they haven’t, but I have and it’s the kind of thing that makes me ache to the bones. I have no doubt Owen and Enzo feel the same. We’ll find a way to fight back, I know we will. We just have to keep our focus. And stay angry.
But if that’s all we need to do, why do I feel like the captain at the helm of a sinking ship, helplessly watching it go down?
As if this isn’t bad enough, our lovely friend and neighbor won’t have anything to do with us. Owen’s little secret got out and he seems to think she’s done with us guys, like we’re vectors of a contagious disease. No more partnering as we each try to save our businesses and no more… whatever you call it. It’s not like we were dating her, per se, but I know I sure as hell was enjoying getting to know her better. I never thought it would come to such an abrupt halt, almost before it even got started. As if our business alliance isn’t disappointing enough, our lifeline to her is snapped, broken, and unlikely to be repaired. I’ve reached out to her via text a couple times and been replied to with curt answers or complete radio silence. I thought of going over there for an in-person chat, but I suspect that’s the last thing she wants from me.
Ever since Owen told me about the debt she’s carrying, I haven’t stopped worrying. I know she’s worked hard, and I know what it’s like to have your dream threatened. I’d hate to see Pawsh Pets go belly up. It would be a loss for the neighborhood and devastating to her.
