4. Izzy #2
“I had to hear her offer, Izzy.” I can hear the apology in his words, but his voice is firm. “Fiancé is an investment banker. They’re interested in buying the whole building. Cash offer.”
I grab a pen, clicking it obsessively, because the alternative is saying what I’m thinking. Namely, what the actual fuck?
“That would be a great deal. For you.”
He winces. “I know we spoke… you’re not in a position to buy the building?”
I wish.
“No, but business has been great, especially lately.” I stop short of admitting why I think that might be. “I’m still interested in renting the space next door and expanding. I’m confident—”
“You’re an excellent tenant, Izzy. Really.” He peeks down at his loafers and heaves a sigh. “But I need something concrete before I can turn down Claire’s offer. Real numbers. Real commitment.”
“Then tell me what you need, and I’ll put a proposal together for you. When’s the deadline?”
His shoulders drop a fraction, and I find a little more room in my lungs for air. I haven’t lost the store yet, then.
“I’m not looking to do anything until the start of the year. I’ll give you until December 15. You’ll need the first and last months’ rent for the new space. Upfront. That’s eight thousand dollars.”
I grip the counter, thankful for once that my anxiety had predicted this could happen. Shit, that number lands like a gut punch.
Eight. Thousand. Dollars.
“Claire’s offer means no contingencies, no waiting.
” He clears his throat. “But if you can have the deposit ready by mid-December? The space is yours. I’d rather keep the building’s character.
Your bookshop fits Main Street better than a…
” He scratches the thinning silver hair at his temples. “A trendy wellness yoga spa.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his brown eyes. “Keep in touch and let me know how everything is going.” Then his gaze lands on the roses on my counter, and one thick eyebrow lifts. “Your date with Jack Murphy must have gone well.”
Sure, business has had a nice uptick since videos of the bachelor auction went viral, but there’s not a chance I’m going on that date with him. “Have a good night, Mr. Piersanti.”
“Wait, you’re dating Jack Murphy?” Claire appears, seemingly out of nowhere, her phone clutched in her hand. God, even her nails are manicured within a centimeter of perfection. “Like Jack Murphy of the Boston Breakers?”
“Thanks so much for coming in,” I say, sidestepping the question. What I would give for a coffee right now. A big one. Maybe two.
Claire’s assistant nudges her, and the pair exchange a look before snickering. I’m clearly missing the joke. For a second, I’m thirteen again, clutching my lunch tray and scanning the cafeteria for somewhere—anywhere—to sit.
But whatever. I’m not thirteen anymore. And I don’t need some wellness influencer to remind me I am not the kind of girl who would ever be connected with Jack. I’m already well aware that we move in very different worlds.
They quickly say goodbye and head out, leaving me to close up.
Then it’s just me, these dumb roses, and the number I’ve scribbled on the back of an old receipt.
Eight thousand dollars by December 15.
I stare at my handwriting until it blurs.
It’s not impossible, but what happens when people stop caring that I’m the girl who won a date with Boston’s favorite playboy?
I pull up my accounts and do the math I already know the answer to. Half, maybe, if I”m careful. The rest belongs to other people before I’ve even spent it—my mom’s rent because Phil cleaned her out again, Peyton’s car payment I promised for next month.
It’s always like this. Everyone’s needs lined up before my own.
I rub my eyes and send out a text to the group thread:
Izzy: Emergency meeting at my house tonight at 5:30. Bring a bat.
Sloane: Bats? As in the rats with wings and rabies?
Zoe: Bats are vital to a healthy ecosystem. A terrible virus decimated the local population. Something to do with noses.
Kate: Can’t. Work thing.
Sophie: Don’t make me run, please. Prepping for the Tyrell wedding on Saturday, and I’m so tired. Zzzzz.
Sarah: Who are we fucking up?
Izzy: Sarah, I’m worried this was your first response.
Sloane: Words matter! Bats like the flying mammal, or bats as in baseball?
Izzy: Forget the bats. Just come over.
Kate: Bats? Wow, your hosting skills are turning niche, Iz.
Zoe: No more bat slander. They eat mosquitoes.
Sarah: Has no one ever seen The Town?
Sloane: Should I alert Fenway there’s a heist underway?
Sarah: HA. HA.
Sophie: I’ve been preparing for this moment my whole life after Goodbye Earl. I’ll buy out Summit Sports if I have to. Bats for everyone!
Sloane: You get a bat, and you get a bat…
Izzy: Never mind. I take it back. You can fend for yourselves tonight.
Zoe: We love you, Izzy!!
I’m about to toss my phone down when I peek at the flowers, then shoot off one more text.
Izzy: Your ridiculous flowers are still here.
Maybe it’s because I’m an overachiever, but I love September. It’s a fresh start. The mornings have a bite, and the trees are kissed with just a hint of color. It’s anticipatory magic of what’s to come.
I’m carrying the last pumpkin out to my small fenced-in yard when I hear the doorbell. I run in through the house and open the front door. The girls stand together with two cases of Sam Adams and plastic bags of Chinese takeout.
“It sounded serious,” Sarah says, stepping past me. She brushes her hand over her auburn hair. “Nico is handling bedtime tonight. I’m all yours.”
I clasp my hands to my chest, so happy. Sarah’s usually juggling Arlo and baby Olive, so the fact she’s here, kid-free on a weeknight, means a lot. She works at the coffee shop while dreaming of opening an art gallery someday. But for right now, she’s here. For me.
“I’m flattered,” I tease, stepping back to allow everyone inside. Suddenly, it’s as if the living room grows bigger. I feel like I can finally breathe since this afternoon.
Sloane glances around. “Shit, Izzy, I keep forgetting how cute your place is.”
In between reading, I love to decorate. My place is full of tiny treasures I’ve thrifted and painted, and I might have a serious addiction to disco balls.
I think a girl can’t have enough rainbows in her life.
And when I’m bored, or maybe have one too many margaritas, I paint designs around the doorways and windows of my small beach cottage.
“So, what’s wrong?” Maisie sets down the beer on the small dining table in my kitchen.
“Nothing,” I lie. “I thought we could all use a break.”
“You take such good care of us.” Zoe swoops in and pulls me in for a hug, then whispers against my ear, “You seem off. Everything okay with your mom?”
I shake my head as she pulls away. Luckily, she knows by now I’d rather not talk about it.
“Grab a beer, ladies,” I offer. “We can sit on the deck and eat before it gets too cold.”
“No, don’t say it,” Sarah whines. “I’m not ready for winter.”
We all chuckle before we step outside. Summer is something we chase all year long, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to starting a strict Vitamin D regimen to prepare for another Northeast winter.
The crickets’ chorus hums loudly, and a few butterflies hover along the hedge of the zinnias and sunflowers I planted this spring.
“We’re carving pumpkins already?”
“We could,” I say, “but I had another plan.” I dash inside the small she-shed in the back I use for extra book storage, then emerge with a handful of bats. Luckily, having a house full of boys next door paid off. I agreed to buy them pumpkins tomorrow if I could borrow their bats tonight.
I hold them up, grinning. “No need for a rage room when we can just do it here. We’re smashing pumpkins tonight.”
“Well, this is perfect. Chinese, beer, and a healthy outlet for some pent-up anger.” Sloane grins. “Let’s do it.”
Sarah scratches the back of her neck, tilting her head toward her best friend from high school. “What do you have to be mad about? Is banging a hot lobsterman who’s utterly obsessed with you and moonlights as a chef too much?”
Sloane flips her off. “I’ll picture Jason’s face.”
“That asshole,” Maisie chimes in, “deserves it.”
Maybe her ex-fiancé shouldn’t have knocked up his ex before his wedding to Sloane. So, honestly, asshole is justified.
We each grab a bat and stand in front of the pumpkins. I count down from five. On one, we all yell and smash the bats down. It’s tougher than I thought, but mine gives a satisfying crack before it splits.
“Jesus, Izzy, whose face are you imagining?” Sloane asks, slinging her bat over her shoulder and popping her hip.
“She’s still pissed about the auction,” Zoe chimes in.
“Am not.” I am, a little. “Not really.”
“Mad we won and thought you needed to get laid, or mad the story went viral and you’re all over the internet?” Maisie stops smashing her pumpkin, her brows drawn.
“I’m fine.”
Everyone bursts into laughter, and after a moment, so do I—even if it doesn’t stop it from hurting.
I’ve eaten more than my weight in crab rangoon, but there’s nothing more satisfying than pulling the pie I made earlier from the fridge to show off to my friends an hour later.
“You spoil us.” Zoe grabs another beer, then opens up the drawer, snatching a handful of forks. “Chinese and lemon meringue pie? Perfect.”
I hand the pie to Sarah, then put on a record in the living room. I’m tipsy from a few beers, but I feel a little more human. Who knew smashing a gourd would be good for your blood pressure?
“So then he tells me he doesn’t like it when women order white wine at dinner,” Maisie says, dishing about her latest disaster date. “He believes red wine is the superior choice.”
“I hope you told him he can fuck all the way off.” The words come out mumbled around Sarah stuffing a forkful of pie into her mouth.
Maisie plops down onto the floor beside Sarah and grabs the pie from her. “Better. I finished my glass, then ordered the most expensive bottle of red on the menu.”