Chapter 3. You Have Arrived at Your Disaster Zone
CHAPTER 3
You Have Arrived at Your Disaster Zone
Three thousand miles, forty hours, three cheap motel rooms, and hundreds of dollars of gas later, I finally arrived in Port Benedict, hungry and exhausted, and for the one-hundred-millionth time, wondering if I’d committed the biggest mistake of my life.
Well, too late to do anything about it now.
The exhaustion that seemed to have taken over my body had evaporated the moment I drove past the WELCOME TO PORT BENEDICT sign. There was a quaint small-town vibe and laid-back charm to the city, contrasted by several high-rise buildings towering in its center. My insides practically vibrated with anticipation at the thought of seeing my new shop; the place where I was supposed to start over, as evidenced by the five suitcases, three duffel bags, the cooler bag for my insulin vials, and seven cardboard boxes crammed inside my car.
My CR-V sputtered, probably feeling the long journey it had just gone through. Eric had warned me it was unwise to drive the twelve-year-old car across the country. But I was on a tight budget, so upgrading to a newer car was fresh out of the question. And besides, the car was a gift from my father’s parents, my Engkong and Emak, when I first got my license, and now that they were both gone, it was the only thing that reminded me of them.
I took a long sip from my water bottle while eyeing the road for signs to Port Benedict Plaza. I’d been driving since the crack of dawn, only making a quick stop at the Realtor’s office to pick up the keys.
Everything had worked out perfectly. Within forty-eight hours of making my inquiry, I had signed the lease for the shop, then spent the next two weeks packing up my belongings. I’d only told Eric and Naomi where I was going and no one else, not even my parents. And by doing that, I had successfully checked the last item on the Top Three Things That Would Bring Lifelong Disgrace to Your Family: moving across the country to escape my meddling parents.
When I finally reached the Plaza, I circled the busy parking lot twice before finally finding an empty space. Switching the engine off, I took a deep breath, quietly reflecting on what I’d done: left the safety of my family and the city I’d grown up in, relocated to the other side of the country with no familiar faces, and sunk almost all my money into starting a business. It was daunting, but it was a fresh, exciting start to my new life.
I got out of the car and pulled up the directions to the shop on my phone. Walking past the main building, I headed toward the row of shops on the fringes of the shopping complex. The area became quieter, with fewer customers milling around. I kept walking, until my phone quietly announced, “You have arrived at your destination.”
I looked up and my face spontaneously broke into a grin.
The pictures I’d seen online didn’t do the place justice. It was as if the store had been lifted out of an idyllic countryside and plunked in the middle of this shopping strip. The walls were made of beautiful recycled red bricks, giving off a timeless, warm, and rustic charm. The door and the windows had charcoal-colored trims, with a black metal hanging sign dangling above the door. The cute yarn store next to my shop had painted white bricks, a blue door, and blue window frames, while the ice-cream shop on my other side had striped, red-and-white awnings with vintage wrought iron chairs and tables outside on the sidewalk.
It was awesome .
I was vibrating with excitement. This is the start of the greatest year of my life. Fishing out the keys from my pocket, I unlocked the front door and walked in.
Only for my jaw to practically clatter to the ground.
Instead of an empty space full of hopes and dreams, I saw a mess of catastrophic proportions and my life flashing before my very eyes. A long, thick piece of tree limb had impaled the roof at the back of the store, which was why it wasn’t visible from outside. There was a massive hole where a significant part of the roof used to be, and a pile of debris littered the floor: a bunch of broken roof tiles, some plasterboard sheeting, chunks of drywall, shattered floor tiles, and bits and pieces of twigs and leaves. The tree had also knocked out part of the back wall where the pipes were, causing water to slowly trickle onto the floor.
It took me a few minutes to fully comprehend the scene in front of me, because I was too busy flexing my multitasking muscle: gawking at the unholy mess that was supposed to be the start of my new life, whilst excavating my jaw from the ground and simultaneously brainstorming multiple doomsday scenarios in which I had to declare bankruptcy and beg strangers for mercy at the side of the road to survive, or worse, go home and beg my parents for their forgiveness.
No. That was not an option. I was not going back home, no matter how bad things were. I gingerly stepped around the debris, jumping when something hairy—a squirrel? No, two squirrels — climbed down the fallen tree from the hole in the roof, before scurrying out through the open front door. As I stared at the disaster that was nowhere near my worst nightmare, it became harder to stay calm. I wondered if this so-called fresh start was actually the first step toward permanently screwing over my life and whatever hope I had of a future away from my family. The quiet reflection from earlier had vaporized, replaced by fear, mercilessly seeping into my pores, and I began to hyperventilate, as panic threatened to overtake me.
Inhale, exhale.
Maybe I should count to ten and think of my happiest childhood memories. There weren’t many, but I should be able to conjure one up if I really put my mind to it.
Inhale, exhale.
Nope, epic fail. Maybe I should close my eyes to avoid looking at this atrocious sight in front of me.
That didn’t work either because the vision was already permanently imprinted on my brain. This entire thing was my own fault. I had brought this on myself. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t had the brilliant idea to start my own bakery, would it?
Get a grip on yourself, Ellie. Swallowing the scream that was threatening to spill out of me, I took a few deep breaths, counted to twenty, then opened my eyes, feeling my heartbeat slowing down.
Okay, shit happens, right? Problems and challenges are part of life. It was how I reacted to them that mattered. Having type 1 diabetes taught me how to be flexible, to adapt to things quickly, and to always be prepared for all kinds of possibilities. Underestimated my carb count? No worries, I had my trusty insulin pump for that. Gave myself too much insulin? Nothing a juice box or some glucose tablets couldn’t fix. Unsure how much carb was in that plate of fettuccine carbonara? Just make my best educated guess and adjust for the difference later.
Finding a ruined store on the first day of the rest of my life?
It was nothing I couldn’t handle.
All I had to do was call the Realtor that had handled the lease, explain the situation, and they would organize for the landlord to fix the damages, just like what the owner at my old apartment used to do.
I pulled out my phone, and in my calmest, most professional voice, informed the Realtor that I had found substantial damage to the property, only for them to remind me that I had signed a “triple net lease,” which meant the tenant— me —was responsible for all expenses of the property, including any repairs and maintenance. It had been storming and raining heavily for the past two weeks, which had probably caused the tree to fall and part of the roof to collapse.
Internally screaming, I thanked the Realtor and hung up. Fine, surely the insurance company could help, right? But after being put on hold for over an hour, the cheerful voice at the other end told me that because they had been inundated with calls, they wouldn’t have an available claim adjuster to assess the damage until next month .
If my mom were here to witness this, she’d probably shake her head patronizingly and murmur choruses of, “See, Ellie? You couldn’t survive out in the world on your own.”
Yes, I can. She was wrong, and I’d prove it to her. I had everything riding on this, and I’d rather forge a friendship with all the squirrels in the world than crawl back home, admitting defeat. I had to turn this around, come hell or high water.
So I looked up building contractors in the area and called them one by one. But they were all tied up in various projects, and one hour and thirteen unsuccessful phone calls later, I was ready to pull my hair out. The earliest someone could start working was in nine weeks.
Nine. Fucking. Weeks.
Not knowing what else to do, I called Eric.
“Ellie! I was just about to give you a call. How’s the new place?”
“A disaster.” I told him about the property as I fought to keep my voice steady. “Nobody is available to fix the place for another nine weeks. I don’t know what to do.”
There was a long pause, before my brother’s voice came back on the line. “Let me make some calls. But you’ve got to promise me that you won’t be upset.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I know someone who can help. But you can’t be mad.”
“You’re helping me. Why would I be mad?”
“Give me an hour. I’ll see what I can do.”
He hung up, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my disaster of a place. I glanced around, and uncertainty rained down on me again, hard. When I’d conducted my research and business plan, I’d been confident with my niche, even thinking that I could make a difference by helping people to live healthier. That had to count for something, right? But after this morning’s setback, I was scoring very low on the confidence graph, and very high on the freaking out chart.
Time to assert some control over this problem. I didn’t know what Eric was going to do, but I couldn’t just wait around for him.
After moving my car to a closer spot in front of the shop, I hauled my backpack inside the store, then sat on a debris-free spot on the floor. Pulling out my laptop, I began to rework my finances, figuring out where to cut costs so I could reallocate the funds for the repair expenses. Accommodation took up a significant chunk of my budget, so I had to do something about that. Find somewhere cheaper to live, or maybe, if push came to shove, and things got really bad, I could probably temporarily camp out in the shop. I wondered if sleeping in a commercial space was illegal and made a mental note to check on that.
Reaching for my phone, I opened my list-maker app, then started a new To-Do List and a To-Buy List. On the top of the list: disposing of all the rubble, then buying some cleaning supplies and running a mop soaked in hospital-grade disinfectant through the floor. Some duct tape to put over the leaky pipe. A ladder, and tarp to cover the hole in the roof.
An hour later, I had a good plan going, and my confidence was slightly restored. Going back to my car, I decided to find my sleeping bag. The chances that I would sleep there tonight with the squirrels treating it as their stomping ground was less than 5 percent, but just in case.
As I turned around to go back inside the shop, I missed the five dogs happily stampeding in my direction, followed by their teenage dog walker, who was staring at her phone as if her life depended on it. In the split second it took me to notice the canine entourage, my feet snagged on the crisscrossing leashes, and like a bad slapstick routine, I tumbled, ass over teakettle. My sleeping bag went flying as my hands shot out to cushion the fall, and my left forearm heroically scraped the cobblestone pavement, saving the day.
I groaned as the dogs continued their journey unfazed, and my fresh wound began to sting. A car door slammed somewhere in the distance, and there was the faint sound of footsteps pounding the pavement. But the sidewalk was quiet, and nobody had witnessed my fall, so perhaps I could stay down for a while. After the busy past two weeks and the stress of this morning, the brief respite felt wonderful. I could probably close my eyes and doze off for a few minutes…
A firm hand clamped around my arm, interrupting my precious nap. How rude.
“Are you okay? Shit. Wait here, don’t move.”
Glad whoever that was had left me in peace, I turned my body sideways, hoping to find a more comfortable position. Only to be interrupted by the same person.
“Your hand is bleeding.” Those firm hands gently touched my face, then felt around my head. “Your head seems fine, though.”
Who is this guy? Why is he back?
I was faintly aware that the owner of said hands was squatting down and dabbing at my bloodied arm with something soft and wet.
“Ellie? Can you hear me?” There was a tinge of worry now in the voice. “Are you feeling dizzy or shaky?”
How does he know my name?
And why does the voice sound oddly familiar?
I opened my eyes to find a pair of eyes the color of matcha infused with lightly roasted cocoa beans, and framed by incredibly long lashes, peering down at me. From memory, I knew that the frown on his face hid a lone dimple on the left cheek. A faint scar cut through his right eyebrow, making him look like he’d been in a knife fight. Some people had argued that the overall combination could be called hot, but I wouldn’t go that far. Maybe he could be classified as cute, at best, but I certainly wouldn’t be caught dead saying that—at least not within hearing distance. He smelled as nice as I remembered, too, like citrus, spice, and sunshine.
Him.
The last person on Earth I had expected to see.