Chapter 35 Rosanna
Chapter thirty-five
Rosanna
I've been living in Luna's guest room for five days when she decides I've wallowed long enough. She bursts into the room at seven in the morning, throws open the curtains with aggressive cheerfulness, and announces, "Get dressed. We're going to the city council meeting."
"Luna, I don't—" I start, but she cuts me off with a look that could freeze lava.
"Nope. No arguments. You've spent almost a week in sweatpants eating ice cream and staring at your laptop without actually opening it.
I've been patient. I've been supportive.
I've let you process. But now it's time to remember that you're Rosanna Lopez, children's book illustrator and community preservation warrior, not just a woman with a broken heart. "
She tosses clothes at me—my clothes, the ones I actually packed instead of the ratty pajamas I've been rotating through.
"The city council is holding a public hearing on the Heritage Street development this morning.
The historical landmark application is on the agenda.
And you're going to be there to speak for it, because giving up isn't actually in your DNA, even if you're currently pretending it is. "
I want to argue. Want to tell her that showing up to a city council meeting to fight for a building that's already been sold to O'MalleyMart is pointless.
That I don't have the energy to stand up in front of strangers and advocate for something I've already lost.
But Luna is standing there with her arms crossed and the mulish expression she gets when someone tries to tell her something won't work. The expression that means she's already decided how this is going to go, and I can cooperate or be physically dragged to the meeting, but either way I'm going.
"Fine," I mutter, grabbing the clothes. "But I'm not promising to actually speak."
"You'll speak," Luna says with complete confidence. "Because you care too much. It's your superpower and your fatal flaw."
***
The city council chamber is more crowded than I expected.
There are developers in expensive suits clustered near the front, community organizers with handmade signs scattered throughout the middle rows, and ordinary residents filling in the back—people who care about what happens to their neighborhood even if they don't have the resources to fight corporate money.
Luna steers me to seats in the third row, close enough to be visible but not so close that I feel exposed.
I recognize a few faces from the original community meeting—the elderly woman who talked about her grandfather building the storefront, the young couple who runs the coffee shop two blocks down, the librarian who's been collecting historical photos of the neighborhood.
They all look tired. Like they are running out of hope that anything they do will actually matter.
Or maybe that's just me. Hard to tell.
The council president calls the meeting to order, and they work through routine business first.
My attention drifts. I'm thinking about Seamus's emails, the ones I still haven't opened. Wondering if he's saying anything that would make a difference.
"Next item," the council president announces, and I snap back to attention. "Heritage Street historical landmark designation application. We have representatives from the Historical Preservation Committee, the applicant, and several interested parties who've requested time to speak."
A woman I don't recognize approaches the podium—mid-fifties, sensible suit, reading glasses on a chain.
She introduces herself as Dr. Patricia Vince from the Historical Preservation Committee and launches into an explanation of why the Heritage Street storefront meets the criteria for landmark designation.
It's a good presentation. Thorough, well-researched, hitting all the technical criteria.
But I can see the council members' faces, and they're not moved.
This is just another application to them, another preservation request that will create an administrative burden without obvious political benefit.
When Dr. Vince finishes, the council opens the floor to questions. Council Member Harrison—a man in his sixties who I vaguely remember from news coverage about budget fights—leans forward with an expression that telegraphs where this is going.
"Dr. Vince, I appreciate the committee's thorough review. But I have to ask about the practical implications here. What's the administrative cost to the city if we approve this designation?"
Dr. Vince adjusts her glasses, and I see her shoulders tense slightly. "Landmark designation does require ongoing monitoring and review of any proposed modifications. The committee would need to evaluate renovation plans, exterior changes, and—"
"In terms of dollars," Harrison interrupts. "What does this cost the city annually?"
"The committee operates on a limited budget. We estimate approximately fifteen to twenty thousand dollars in annual administrative costs for monitoring and compliance review."
The number hangs in the air, and I watch several council members exchange looks.
Twenty thousand dollars isn't much in a city budget of hundreds of millions, but I know how this game works.
Every dollar allocated to preservation is a dollar that could go to something with more visible political benefit—road repairs, parks, programs with constituencies that vote in large blocks.
"And what about enforcement?" Another council member—Williams, I think—chimes in. "If the building is designated and a property owner wants to make changes, what's our liability if we don't properly monitor compliance?"
Dr. Vince starts to answer, but I can already see how this is going to end.
They're building a case for denial based on budget constraints and administrative burden.
They're going to express sympathy for the historical significance while ultimately deciding that the city can't afford to take on the responsibility of protecting it.
Luna leans over and whispers, "You need to speak. They're about to bury this under bureaucratic excuses, and someone needs to remind them what's actually at stake."
"I don't know what to say," I whisper back. "They're talking about money and liability. How do I compete with that?"
"You tell them why it matters. Not the architecture or the administrative details—the human story. That's what you're good at, Rosie. Making people care about things they were ready to ignore."
The council continues asking questions about designation criteria, review processes, precedent from other landmark approvals.
The developers' representatives make their case—the Heritage Street building is unremarkable, the historical significance is overstated, the neighborhood would benefit more from modern development than from preserving outdated structures.
I should stand up. Should request time to speak. Should use the three minutes they allocate to public comment to talk about community and beauty and the importance of preserving spaces that matter to real people.
But I can't make myself move.
Can't make myself believe that my words would change anything when corporate lawyers with polished presentations couldn't.
Finally, Council President Morrison calls for a preliminary vote on whether to advance the designation application to full review or to table it indefinitely.
It's not a final decision, but everyone in the room understands what it really is—a test vote to see if there's any appetite for actually protecting the building.
"All in favor of advancing to full review?"
Three hands go up. Three out of nine.
"All opposed?"
Five hands. One abstention.
"The application is tabled indefinitely pending further information and budget review."
The words are bureaucratic and bland, but their meaning is clear: the historical landmark designation is dead. Not officially rejected, just pushed into limbo where it will sit until everyone forgets about it or until the building is already demolished and the point is moot.
Luna mutters something under her breath that I'm glad the microphones don't pick up.
Around us, I hear the disappointed sighs of community members who probably expected this but hoped for better.
The developers' representatives are already packing up, looking satisfied but trying not to be obvious about it.
I feel numb.
I knew this was likely—Luna had warned me that the city was balking at the administrative costs—but knowing it and experiencing it are different things.
This was our last real protection, the only legal mechanism that could have slowed down O'MalleyMart's demolition timeline enough for other options to emerge.
And now it's gone.
We're filing out of the council chamber when my phone buzzes.
A text from Tessa at ERS:
I thought you should hear this from me rather than a news alert. O'MalleyMart's acquisition of 428 Heritage Street was finalized this morning. Sale closes in 72 hours.
I stop walking, and Luna nearly runs into me. I show her the text, and I watch her face shift from anger at the council vote to something softer and sadder.
"I'm sorry, Rosie," she says quietly. "I know you were expecting this, but still. I'm sorry."
I was expecting it. I've known since the moment I saw their revised bid that this was inevitable. My offer never stood a chance. The historical designation was our last hope, and it just died in a 5-3 vote wrapped in budget concerns and administrative liability.
But expecting loss doesn't make it hurt less. The building is gone. In seventy-two hours, it will belong to O'MalleyMart, and shortly after that it will be demolished to make way for whatever gleaming development they've planned.
The space where generations of people built community and memory and connection will be erased, replaced by something profitable and soulless and completely disconnected from the neighborhood's history.
"I thought maybe..." I start, then stop because I don't even know how to finish the sentence. I thought maybe we could win? I thought maybe caring enough would be enough? I thought maybe if I fought hard enough, the building could be saved and that would somehow make everything else hurt less?
All of it sounds naive now. Childish. Like the illustrations I draw of gardens growing in concrete—beautiful fantasy with no connection to how the real world actually works.
Luna wraps an arm around my shoulders and steers me toward the exit. "Let's get out of here. We'll go somewhere and process this properly. With wine and probably excessive amounts of pasta."
We're halfway to the door when I hear my name. I turn, and it's Dr. Vince from the preservation committee, looking apologetic and determined in equal measure.
"Ms. Lopez, I wanted to tell you personally—the committee hasn't given up. The city council's decision is disappointing, but it's not final. We're exploring other avenues, looking into state-level preservation grants, reaching out to architectural conservation groups. This isn't over."
She sounds sincere. She probably believes what she's saying. But I can hear the subtext underneath: This isn't over, but it's probably going to end the same way. We'll keep fighting because that's what we do, but we're running out of options and we all know it.
"Thank you," I manage. "I appreciate everything the committee has done."
Dr. Vince squeezes my arm and moves past us, already pulling out her phone to make calls to whoever else is still willing to fight this losing battle.
Luna and I walk out into the morning sunshine, and the contrast between the bright day and the darkness of the news feels cruel.
Somewhere in the city, Seamus is probably in his office, maybe even hearing about the acquisition closing through whatever corporate channels deliver that kind of information.
Maybe he's relieved that his company got what it wanted.
Maybe he feels guilty that it came at my expense.
Maybe he doesn't feel anything at all except the satisfaction of a deal well-executed.
I don't know which possibility hurts more.
"I knew this would happen," I tell Luna as we walk to her car. "I knew from the moment I saw that bid that we'd lost. But knowing it and having it confirmed are different things."
"Yeah," Luna says quietly. "They really are."
My phone is still in my hand, Tessa's text still on the screen. Sale closes in 72 hours.
I expected this. I've been preparing for it since I left the penthouse.
But expectation doesn't make it hurt less. The building is gone. And so is everything else I thought I was building—the marriage, the trust, the hope that maybe love could be enough to overcome fear and damage and all the ways we were both too broken to know how to hold onto something good.
I expected all of it. But it still hurts like I'm losing it for the first time.