Chapter 1 #2
The door chimed, that bright and cheerful sound that used to make my heart lift and now just made my stomach drop, and I looked up with a smile already plastered on my face. The smile felt like it might crack my face in half, but I held it anyway.
Except it wasn't a customer.
Mr. Chen stood in my doorway, and the expression on his weathered face told me this wasn't a social call, this was business. The kind of business that ended badly for people like me.
Oh God. Not today.
“Mr. Chen.” I straightened up, wiping my damp palms on my jeans and trying to look professional and competent, not at all like someone whose entire life was falling apart in real time. “What can I do for you?”
He moved into the shop slowly, his eyes scanning the space with the calculating look of someone assessing property value.
Mr. Chen was in his sixties and had owned half the commercial buildings on Main Street for thirty-five years.
I'd always liked him. He was fair and reasonable, the kind of landlord who actually cared about his tenants.
But today, the way he looked at my boutique made my skin crawl.
“Ms. Walsh.” He stopped at my counter, pulled a folded paper from his jacket pocket with deliberate slowness, and laid it between us. The paper was thick, official-looking. Legal. “I wanted to speak with you in person.”
My mouth went dry. “About?”
“Your lease.” He tapped the paper with one gnarled finger. “You're three months overdue, and the end of the month is only three weeks away.”
“I know.” My voice came out thin. “I've been—”
“Working on it. Yes, I've heard.” His voice wasn't harsh, just flat.
The voice of someone who'd made this speech before and hated it every time.
“Ms. Walsh, I've been a landlord for thirty-five years and I've worked with struggling businesses before.
I've tried to be understanding, tried to give people time.
But there's a limit to how long I can carry someone else's debt.”
“I understand.” My hands gripped the counter edge so hard my bones pressed against my skin. “If you could just give me a little more time—”
“Thirty days.” He tapped the paper again, and the sound seemed to echo in the quiet boutique like a death knell. “This is official notice. Thirty days to bring your account current, or I begin eviction proceedings. I'm sorry, but I can't wait any longer.”
Eviction.
The word hit me like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from my lungs.
Eviction meant closing the boutique. It meant admitting defeat after years of trying to prove I could make something of myself.
“Mr. Chen, please.” I heard the desperation in my voice, hated the way it cracked and made me sound pathetic. “This is my business. I've put everything into this place. My savings, my time, my whole life—”
“I know you have.” His expression was sympathetic but unmoved.
“And I've tried to be understanding. I've given you ninety days already when most landlords would have started eviction at thirty.
But Ms. Walsh, I have expenses too. Property taxes, maintenance, insurance and my own family to support.
I can't keep absorbing your missed payments.”
He pushed the paper closer to me across the counter, making sure to punctuate the conversation with its purpose.
“Thirty days, Ms. Walsh.” His voice was gentle now, almost sad. “I truly hope you can figure something out. You're a good person, and you've worked hard. But hope doesn't pay the bills.”
He left as quietly as he'd come, the door chiming cheerfully behind him like this was any other pleasant morning and he hadn't just delivered my death sentence.
I stood frozen behind my counter, staring at nothing.
Around me, the dream I'd built from nothing, the space I'd poured my heart, savings and every spare moment into for six years, suddenly felt like a mausoleum. A beautiful, carefully arranged tomb for a dream that was dying.
This can't be happening.
But it was. It had been happening, and I'd been too proud, too scared to admit it. Too stubborn to ask for help. Too convinced I could fix it myself if I just worked harder, tried harder, wanted it badly enough.
The walls seemed to close in and my vision blurred. The lavender scent that usually soothed me felt cloying now, making my stomach turn. My chest was tight, my breathing shallow, and each inhale didn’t quite fill my lungs.
Thirty days. Sixteen thousand dollars. Two thousand by Friday.
Each number was another weight pressing down on me, suffocating me, making the room tilt sideways.
The bell chimed again, and my whole body tensed like I was expecting another disaster.
However, it was only Mrs. Patterson, one of my regulars, bundled in a heavy winter coat and knit hat, her cheeks pink from the February cold.
“Harper, dear! I saw your lights on and thought I'd pop in. Oh—” She stopped, studying my face with the concern of someone who'd known me since I'd first opened. “Are you feeling all right? You look pale.”
I forced a smile, years of practice making it look almost real. “I'm fine, Mrs. Patterson. I just didn't sleep well last night. What can I help you with?”
She wanted to see the new spring arrivals. The inventory I'd charged to my nearly maxed credit card last month, betting on spring sales that hadn't materialized yet. Now those cheerful pastels and floral prints just felt like more evidence of my terrible judgment.
I helped her anyway. I pulled pieces she might like, made suggestions, and acted like I wasn't falling apart inside. Like my entire world wasn't crumbling around me while I smiled and talked about how this shade of blue would bring out her eyes.
Mrs. Patterson bought two dresses, spending a hundred and twenty dollars that would help, but wouldn't save me. I rang her up with genuine gratitude, folding tissue paper around the garments with hands that had finally stopped shaking.
“You take care of yourself, dear,” she said, patting my hand with her gloved one as I handed over her bag. “You work too hard. When's the last time you had a day off?”
Can't remember. “I'm fine, really. Thank you so much for coming in, Mrs. Patterson.”
The bell chimed as she left, taking that brief moment of normalcy with her.
I stood alone in my boutique, surrounded by carefully arranged dreams I couldn't afford to keep. Thirty days to save my business, and I had no idea how to do it.
I picked up my phone and scrolled to Connor's contact.
Our last text exchange was from three weeks ago.
His “Hope you're doing okay” followed by my equally meaningless “You too.” Before that?
A month of silence. The easy friendship we'd had for six years, talking every day, sharing everything, being each other's person, was gone.
Replaced by awkward distance and things unsaid and the memory of that terrible fight at his house when I'd said what I thought about Morgan and he'd chosen her over our friendship.
My thumb hovered over his name.
Tell him. He'd help. You know he would.
But I couldn't show up at Connor Whitaker's door after months of barely speaking with my hand out, needing something. He’d helped me enough over the years when I was short on cash for something or just gave me things that he knew I wanted but couldn’t afford.
I refused to be another person who wanted something from him or only came around when they needed a favor or his money or his connections.
I set the phone down and got back to work.
Because that's what I'd always done.
I survived. Even when I had no idea how much longer I could keep it up.