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She scribbledcup holderson a piece of tape and patted it on the shelf. If her thoughts were spinning out of control, then perhaps organizing her supplies would make her feel more in control.
Ben shoved the beans into piles. “What’s going on?”
She broke down boxes to avoid looking at him. Since they were kids, she told Ben nearly everything. He was the constant in her life. The one she trusted the most. Why couldn’t she just spit this out? “I just… I don’t know how much longer I can keep this place open.”
Ben stopped moving and lowered his arms. “What do you mean, not keep it open?”
The concerned look on his face gut-punched her. If a dark black hole could open at any moment that she could fall into, she’d seriously appreciate it. She stared at the half-torn box and swallowed. “I screwed things up. Bad. I just… I put way too much into remodeling this place, and overspent. Creditors are literally calling all the time and sending things in the mail, and any second now they’re going to bust down the doors and haul me away.”
He paused for a long moment. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was more defensive than sweet.
“You’re pissed, right? ’Cause I’m failing?”
“What are you talking about? Pissed, yes. But not because the shop might go under. Pissed that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me. You know I’ve always got your back. Why did you keep this from me?”
She dropped the box and pushed her palm into her forehead. “I don’t know. I just… I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle it.”
Ben shook his head and sighed. “Don’t ever do this. I’m here always. Good, bad, whatever. We’re a team.” He brought her in for a rare but warm hug. “Now what?”
“I honestly don’t know.” She’d given Mack’s dad all the contract information several days ago and hadn’t heard anything. Not that he owed her anything, butstill… She had to make a decision soon about Sugar Mugs. “Can you hold down the shop for a bit? I’ve gotta run upstairs to do some paperwork.”
Ben nodded and she ran up to her loft.
Taking a seat at her desk, she pulled in a full, deep breath and opened her laptop. No more running. Time to face this head-on.
She scoured the inventory spreadsheet with the product costs. What was the profit margin on coconut milk? Maybe she could eliminate that. What if she upped her charges? Although that felt icky to do to her regulars and after being open less than a year. Maybe she should stop using fair trade coffee. Although that felt even worse than raising prices.
She opened the drawer of unopened bills and failure-to-pay notices. One by one, she laid them in a pile and pressed out the wrinkles. Putting them in order fromFinal Notice,Sent to Collections, andThird Notice, her stomach coiled and she thought she was going to throw up.
An hour in, she texted Ben to say she needed more time. Two hours in, she started to cry. Three hours in, she put her game face on. She could do this.
Her phone pinged.
Mack: Hey, beautiful
Mack: so sorry, totally MIA. This deadline is gutting me with a razor-sharp butterfly knife like I was a rat paying for talking to the cops.
Mack: sorry, my head’s still on the manuscript
Mack: and if you tell anyone about that scene, I’ll deny it until the day I die
Mack: how are you?
Charlie’s fingers suspended over the screen. She held the phone in her hand for a full minute before she stuffed it back in her pocket without responding.
Yep. She could do this independent thing.
The afternoon rush slowed, and Charlie waved at Ben as he left. She reread Mack’s message, started to respond and stopped herself.
Stay strong.She could message Mack after work. Like what an independent person would do. Like what a healthy, well-put-together, fully organized person would do.
The motivational quotes calendar on the wall caught her eye, and she studied the Mark Twain quote:“The secret of getting ahead is getting started.”
He was right. She could do this. Time to take charge and regain control. The lastcustomer had left over an hour ago, and even though no one else stopped in, today was still a better day customer-wise than most. Charlie flipped the sign to closed and wiped her forehead with her arm.
Audit slips and receipts littered her tiny desk. Multiple notepads scattered the storage room and were stuffed God-knows-where. Post-it notes covered both the corkboard and half the mirror, bearing messages like:Ben needs July 14-22 off,a decaf espresso should be called a depresso ;-),June 17 shipment missing forks—follow up!,Best advice of the Year: Don’t be a Dick.
She pulled in a deep breath and clapped her hands. One by one, she plucked the outdated Post-it notes and tossed them in the trash. Ten minutes in, she couldn’t help adding one more note:Cleanliness is next to godliness.
