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I was right. The demise of EastSide equals the demise of our relationships. With a heavy heart, I take my drink and head back to my office to get away from the toxicity of my business partners.
I look at this week’s numbers. If they’re just an anomaly, we’ll be fine. But if this is indicative of what lies ahead, we’ve got a problem.
Maybe it’s time to dicker with the developers. Get out while the business is still worth something. Because if we wait until the day we close our doors, I can guarantee no one’s going to pay shit for this place.
48
LIVVY
With my hairpulled up into the world’s ugliest struggle bun, sporting the nasty free T-shirt my bank gave out that I normally use for dusting, I start doing something I thought I’d never have to.
I’m marking down my fancy dog and cat clothing. Putting it all on sale. The manufacturers at Cucci were kind enough to send me one more small box of goodies, probably returns from a more successful pet store somewhere, extending me the last bit of credit they can. I don’t fault them for cracking down on my deadbeat ass. They’re a business like I am, and they have bills to pay.
I pull the tiny sweaters and raincoats, handmade in the outer reaches of Mongolia, out of their cardboard shipping box, and gently hang them, knowing this is the last time I’ll get to do this. At the bottom of the box are a few bags of Cucci’s gourmet dog treats that would put any fancy restaurant—EastSide comes to mind—to shame.
There was a time when Pawsh Pets and my sky-high ambitions were all about creating a boutique where pets weren’t just animals, but royalty. How far the mighty have fallen.
With a red Sharpie, I cross the retail price of the tags, and mark each at fifty percent off.
Each one of these feels like a betrayal, a glaring, mocking judgment screaming how unimportant my aspirations are to the rest of the world. It’s an exercise in torture, like marking down the value of my dreams. I have to do it, though, to raise some cash if I want to keep Pawsh open for a few more weeks.
Hope the dogs and cats of the Upper East Side appreciate this, my donation to their universe.
The doorbell jingles and for a moment I think how much I’m going to miss that sound. The next second, I’m mad at myself for assuming Pawsh Pets’ demise is a foregone conclusion.
But it kind of is, right?
I look up to see what lucky patron is going to be the beneficiary of my fire sale.
It’s Weston. From next door.
His timing is impeccable as a train wreck.
Of course, he’s all pressed and starched like any young master of the universe, and here I am, looking like a homeless person.
No offense to homeless people.
Harry hisses, like he always does.
I’m pretty sure I haven’t put on deodorant for a week, and I don’t remember if I brushed my teeth this morning. I am certain I haven’t washed my hair in several days.
I jump behind the counter so Weston can’t get too close. It’s one thing to look at me, but another to have to smell me.
“Livvy,” he says, pausing at the door like I might tell him to get the hell out.
He and his buds might not be my favorite people, but I’m not that much of a bitch.
“Oh hi, Weston,” I say all breezy and cool.
He gets a little closer, not quite to the front counter, but close enough I can see his slight afternoon facial scruff. If only I didn’t want to run my fingers through it so badly.
“I… haven’t seen you in a while.”
I shrug and pretend to organize a little tray of cat crowns, the ones I just put up on Instagram. Yes, those would be crowns, worn by cats. I’ve never tried to put one on Harry. I value my fingers too much.
“Been busy, ya know?”
He’s at the counter now and I push my stool back a little in case I stink. He doesn’t seem to notice what a slob I look like.
