Chapter 24 #2
And I need business cards too…
“Okay,” I grant. “You may have a point.”
Vivian nods. “Give yourself that year to finish your degree and get all of your ducks in a row, look at lease properties, figure out your financing, spec out how long you could last comfortably without turning a profit, identify your suppliers… There’s a lot to do that would fill up your year.”
I’m no good at being patient, but if I were making strides towards opening, that wouldn’t feel like just waiting around.
It may make me sound privileged—because I am privileged—but I doubt I really need to figure out the financing.
And I already have a place to live.
I talked to my parents last weekend. They closed on the townhouse. I had to sign power of attorney papers for the sale because it’s in my name, but the deal is done. I’m a homeowner.
And if I finish my degree and present my dad with a solid business plan, he’ll help me with financing. Even if he doesn’t, I can use my townhouse as collateral. I have options.
But if he were willing to start me up with an alteration shop, I don’t see how this is any different. And yet…
A place like Viv Couture? It makes all the difference in the world.
A place where sewists can find what they need, gather, take classes, work, sell their wares? Where customers can commission one-of-a-kind outfits? Nothing about that is boring. Every aspect about it excites me.
But I know myself well enough to know that not every day will be exciting. That some days will just be hard and exhausting.
“You’re only closed on Mondays,” I blurt.
Vivian blinks. “That’s true…”
“So you only get one day off?” I hear the squeak in my voice. I love being in this shop, but even I couldn’t do it all day, six days a week.
“Oh, my, no. I have help. You’ve met Simone and Ashtyn.”
I have. They both work here. Simone just taught a group class on putting in elastic waist and wrist bands. Ashtyn pinned the hems on a pair of pajama pants I cranked out one afternoon.
“You’ve been coming in the afternoons, so you wouldn’t know it, but I have Simone open on Tuesdays and Ashtyn open on Fridays.
One of them covers for me if I need a day off, and we close for holidays and for a week in December and another in July.
” Her smile turns wistful. “When my dad passed away last August, we closed for nine days.”
“Oh…” I hadn’t really thought about having the flexibility to close whenever I’d need to. Or whenever I want to. My dad owns his own business, and he went to work even the day after my grandfather died.
I always thought it was because he had to. Maybe it was because he wanted to.
“You just need to find good people you trust and treat them right,” Vivian says.
“And find a store manager who’s better organized than I am,” I blurt.
This is something that came out of the career counseling assessments I had with Mark at Summit House. Creativity. Vision. Communication. Those are my strong suits. Organization, time management, and task completion are things I need help with.
“Exactly. You need people who are strong in ways that you need support.” Vivian raises a brow.
“Simone is much better at marketing and community engagement than I am. And Ashtyn is great at keeping an eye on our inventory and being vigilant about machine maintenance. Those are things I tend to forget about.”
I learned the hard way that sewing machines need regular cleaning, oiling, and maintenance. If it weren’t for the good people at AllBrands back home, I would’ve had to ship my Singer off when it started eating fabric.
It’s a relief to hear that Vivian—who’s clearly such a success—isn’t good at all the things needed to make her shop work.
“I feel better,” I declare.
Her face brightens. “Do you?”
“Yeah. I don’t have to do it all by myself.”
Vivian’s eyes widen. “Hattie.” She leans in and places a hand on mine. “You can’t do it all by yourself. No one can.”
And hearing this is a relief too.
On the bus ride back to Summit House, I take out my phone and open my chat with Beck. I scroll back to my text from Saturday.
Me: WOULD IT BE OKAY IF I CALLED YOU?
Late Saturday Night:
Me: I GET IT IF YOU DON’T WANT TO TALK TO ME. I GET IT IF YOU ARE ANGRY. MARGARET TOLD ME A COUPLE OF WEEKS AGO THAT I SHOULD CALL YOU.
I COULDN’T CALL YOU THEN. IT’S HARD TO EXPLAIN. BUT NO MATTER WHAT, I SHOULD HAVE AT LEAST RESPONDED TO YOUR TEXTS SO YOU’D KNOW I WAS OKAY.
I TURNED MY PHONE OFF THE DAY I GOT HERE BECAUSE READING YOUR TEXTS WAS TOO TEMPTING. I DIDN’T REALIZE HOW WORRIED YOU’D BE UNTIL I TURNED IT BACK ON AGAIN THE DAY YOU CALLED MARGARET IN HAWAII.
I’M READY TO TALK TO YOU NOW. I UNDERSTAND IF YOU’RE NOT READY TO TALK TO ME.
I NEED YOU TO KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU AND THAT IT’S CRAZY HOW MANY TIMES A DAY I THINK ABOUT YOU.
Rereading it, Saturday night’s message makes me cringe. Not the declaration of love, but my obvious cowardice. My blatant selfishness.
Why didn’t I call him the moment I turned on my phone again? That first Friday I was here? Why didn’t I text him right then and just say, I’M OKAY, BECK. I LOVE YOU, AND I’M OKAY.
I let myself shut down instead, and it wasn’t until an hour later, after a distracted lunch with my group mates, that I saw Margaret’s missed call and called her back.
I called my sister. Not my boyfriend.
Not the man I love.
Shit.
I was so ashamed to…
Fuck.
I scroll past nearly a week of my messages. He’s read them all. And clearly, I haven’t said anything he wants to respond to.
Which is gutting.
I deserve it.
And he may not have texted, but he’s sending me a message all the same. Texting him in the middle of the night like a chicken shit?
It’s not enough.
Of course, it’s not enough.
My first impulse is to call him—as terrifying as that is—but I’m not yet at the next stop, and no one on this bus needs to witness the snot fest that will surely ensue.
When I get off the bus, I do something unimaginable.
I run.
I run down the block, around the corner, and through the gates at Summit House. I even run up the front steps.
I do walk through reception. Huffing and puffing.
But I take the stairs to my room like my feet are on fire.
It’s my lungs that are smoldering, but I don’t care.
Oxygen deprived, I slam my door behind me, collapse against it, and call Beck.
He answers on the second ring.
“Hattie.” His voice is rough, hard. My struggling heart plummets. And then—“Thank fucking Christ.”