Chapter 1
One
Present day
“Watch where you’re going.” I hear the gruff voice of the man wearing a tailored suit who just ran straight into me. Gasping, I look down at my shirt, momentarily stunned. Thanks to that shoulder check, I’m now wearing an iced coffee that I was looking forward to drinking.
Resisting the urge to apologize for something that wasn’t my fault, I step away from the miserable man, who has disdain written all over his face. He appears to be unscathed, so I don’t know what his problem is.
“Excuse me, but you’re the one who ran into me,” I defend myself, shaking the dripping coffee from my hand.
“Whatever,” he snorts as he moves around me and hurries down the sidewalk. Scooping the empty cup from the ground, I drop it into a nearby garbage can and continue walking to work.
Perfect, just perfect. This is one more thing on an already shitty morning.
I slept through my alarm and had to rush to get ready.
A shower and breakfast weren’t even a possibility.
I left my wallet, and what little money I have, at home and had to ask Aunt Maggie to put the coffee on my ever-growing tab at her bakery.
She doesn’t care, but I do. How do I not even have a couple of loonies or toonies rolling around the bottom of my bag?
The shop assistant April’s ice-blue eyes widen as I walk through the door of Inkfluence, the tattoo studio where I work.
“Oh my God, what happened to you?” she asks, rushing to greet me.
“Some guy plowed into me.” I sigh as I place my purse on the counter. Grimacing, I pull the cold, wet fabric away from my stomach.
“Gross,” she says, crinkling her nose as she inspects the damage
“No kidding,” I mutter with a frown.
“I have a clean shirt in my bag if you need something to change into.” Gliding back to the other side of the counter, she rummages under her desk and pulls out a white T-shirt.
“Thank you.” Grateful, I take it from her outstretched hand. “I don’t have time to drive home and change before my client gets here,” I say, peering up at the clock above her head.
“About that.” She sits down in her chair and hands me a note. “There was a message on the phone this morning. Your client cancelled.”
“Really? Did she say why?” I ask in confusion, taking the piece of paper and glancing down at it.
I have spent weeks working out the details of a very intricate flora and fauna hip and thigh piece. The client is a seasonal resident that I’ve done work on before. We were both excited to get started this morning.
“No, just that she would be in touch soon.” She glances at her computer screen and grimaces. “You have nothing else scheduled for the rest of the day. I’m sorry; that really sucks.”
Sighing, I take April’s clean shirt with me as I slip into the restroom to change. There’s nothing else scheduled; that’s on me. With a design that big, I wasn’t sure how long it was going to take, so I didn’t book anything else. Great, just great.
Carefully pulling my wet shirt over my head, so nothing gets in my hair, I drop it into the sink. My bra is next to go because I’m soaked to the skin. At least my pants are dry. Bracing my hands on the counter, I dip my head and take a large breath.
To make this situation even worse, I didn’t take a deposit.
I had been so caught up in the design, I never even thought to ask her.
Banks, the owner of the tattoo studio, has a rule that clients must give a nonrefundable 50 percent deposit to secure the appointment for this exact reason.
He won’t be angry with me, but I feel stupid.
Some people live pay cheque to pay cheque. Well, I’m currently living tattoo to tattoo, and I really need that money right now.
Pulling paper towels from the wall dispenser, I wet them with warm water and wash the sticky coffee from my skin.
A shiver runs through me as I continue to clean up the mess.
April’s shirt is way too big because she’s far more blessed in the chest than I am, but with a quick knot to cinch the waist, it’s passable and appreciated. As for a bra—I’ll have to go without.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I will myself not to cry. It’s just coffee and a wet shirt. It’s just a bad day.
I momentarily debate going home and back to bed to rot, but I decide to stick out the rest of the day to see if there are any walk-ins.
There aren’t as many this time of year, but income is better than no income.
Plus, I have a therapy appointment this afternoon.
If I go home, there is no way I’ll want to leave again, and if I cancel once, then I’ll find an excuse to quit going altogether.
My anxiety has been through the roof lately, and I made a promise to myself that I would commit to seeing a therapist regularly—again.
I’m self-aware enough to know I use therapy for validation.
Yes, Beck, your parents have been unsupportive. You deserve so much better.
Yes, Beck, you did the right thing leaving Braden. He’s a dick, and you shouldn’t take him back—ever.
Yes, Beck, everyone has a different timeline for achieving their goals. Your time will come.
I’m paraphrasing, of course. I mostly talk, and my lovely therapist, Jenna, listens and asks for clarification.
Once I get verification that my big feelings are justified, I quit therapy—and sometimes my meds—only to repeat the cycle again in six months.
I’m pretty sure I have exhausted 95 percent of the mental health resources in this small town.
My friends are wonderfully supportive, but even Hannah, my closest friend, doesn’t know how chaotic my mind has been lately. How hard it has become to quiet my intrusive thoughts. How much Braden continues to harass me.
Don’t get me wrong. She would absolutely drop everything to support me, but after years of carrying the weight of her mother’s mental illness, I don’t want to burden her with mine.
She’s busy with the art gallery she owns, plus she recently reconnected with her ex-boyfriend, Logan, after spending years apart.
They have problems of their own to work through right now.
So, on days like today, therapy is necessary.
I spend my morning working on small designs for a charity flash sale we are having next month. The proceeds go towards the elementary school nutrition program, so that will be fun.
Shortly after lunch, I accept a walk-in appointment with two women wanting matching celestial symbols on the inside of their wrists. Their laughter and friendly banter are contagious. They have been the highlight of my day so far. And my only commission. It isn’t much, but every little bit helps.
When I pull into the parking lot of the Emerley Family Health Centre, I’m pleased that there is a spot under an enormous maple tree.
I’m hoping the large canopy of orange leaves will help block out the heat from the sun and prevent the car from becoming unbearable.
The last few days have been unseasonably warm for mid-October, and my air conditioner died weeks ago.
I bought the secondhand Honda Civic about five months ago, and it’s a total lemon.
Leaving Braden has been costly, so I didn’t have any extra money saved for something better.
As I climb out of my car and push my long black braids over my shoulders, my heart races when I notice an ambulance pulling away from the side entrance of the building.
Since I am a worst-case scenario girl, it always freaks me out.
In a town this size, you probably know who’s inside.
It’s fine, I tell myself, taking a calming breath.
Everything is fine. It’s all I can do not to take out my phone and text our group chat to make sure everyone is safe.
Pulling open the heavy door that leads to reception, I expect the waiting room to be full, but it’s completely empty. That’s never happened to me before. There are usually at least a couple of people I know to visit with while we wait.
Stopping by the front desk to check in, I wait patiently for the receptionist to acknowledge my presence. I’ve never seen her before; she must be new to town. Shifting my feet back and forth, I adjust my bag on my shoulder and move my sunglasses to the top of my head.
After a few minutes of fidgeting, I clear my throat. “Excuse me, I’m here to see Jenna. I’m a little early.”
The young brunette woman startles, looking up from her keyboard with wide hazel eyes. She appears frazzled. I feel for her.
“Oh, Jenna?” Her eyes flick down to her computer screen and back at me before asking, “Beck?”
“That’s me.”
“Oh, yeah, um, sure. I’ll take you back. This way, please.”
She rises from her chair and swiftly leads me down the hall towards Jenna’s office.
“Watch your step,” she says, pointing at a wet spot on the grey carpet.
I scrunch my nose at the strong disinfectant smell as I walk around it and follow her into the brightly lit room.
“Jenna can’t meet with you today, but she has someone covering for her. They will be with you shortly,” she says with a quick smile.
She doesn’t wait for a response before turning and closing the door quietly.
“Okay…” I drawl out into the empty room.
“Thanks, I guess,” I mumble to myself.
Jenna is going on maternity leave soon; her replacement must have started early. Not ideal for me because I really wanted to see her, but it’s fine. It will have to be.
Wandering around the space, I admire the art on the wall.
One thing I like about coming here is that it doesn’t feel clinical.
Sure, there’s a large wooden desk, a matching bookshelf filled with reference books, and a plexiglass wall unit overflowing with mental health pamphlets, but there’s also a warm, welcoming vibe.
They painted the walls a muted blue. Someone arranged a couch and four chairs on an area rug to create a comfortable sitting area.
Lush plants hang in front of the sunny window, and a few other personal touches decorate the room.
I’m not sure how much time has passed, but I feel like I have been waiting for a while.
It figures that on the day that I am early, the therapist is running behind.
I pull my phone out of my bag to check social media while I wait.
I don’t even have time to open the app when I get a text notification.
And just like that, my already bad day gets a little bit worse.
Braden
Stop ignoring me, Beck.
We need to talk.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath before responding. Boundaries. I need to set some firm boundaries. Steeling myself, I reply.
No, we really don’t
Braden
Don’t be like that.
I don’t need very much. Enough to hold me over until payday.
A couple hundred dollars.
He says that, but it’s never enough. And paydays are few and far between with that man.
No. I don’t have it.
Braden
$100
This isn’t a negotiation. I don’t have it.
Tears stream down my face as I close the app and turn off my phone before I read his reply. When will this end?