Page 8 of Scrooge

“What? What is it?” I ask, slight panic filling me at the look on her face.

“Oh. My. God. Isn’t that the guy you were talking to on the street?” she asks, looking past me. I swivel and glance over my shoulder, not seeing anyone.

“Where? What are you talking about?” I’m confused, not seeing anyone who remotely looks like him on this train.

“Deloris. Can I look at that newspaper you have?” Jillian asks, and it must be the way she asks or maybe the way her face has paled, because Deloris passes it over without a smart comment or snarl.

“What? What is it?” I ask her as she grabs the newspaper and folds it so we are looking at the finance section. When I see what she is seeing, I think my heart stops for the second time today, because staring back at me is the same handsome face I saw earlier. Still not smiling. Looking a mix of broody and stubborn, his shoulders are just as wide as I remember them, his scowl just as cold. He has his hands on his hips, like he feels the entire photoshoot is a waste of his time, yet he commands the camera like no one I have ever seen.

“Who is it?” I ask, squinting as I try to read the caption.

“Holy shit…” Jillian whispers. “It’s him!” Her eyes are wide as they snap to me, but I still can’t see the caption.

“Him who?” I ask, trying to grab the newspaper from her, but she has it gripped tight.

“The son. It’s Jerry Jackson’s son. Says his name is Alexander.”

“Seriously?” I say, nerves tingling as I think back to our interaction.

“You didn’t insult him, did you? We can’t be meeting him and pissing him off,” she says in a rush, panicked, because she knows me too well. My lips clamp shut, rolling around my teeth as I recall the few words we spoke.

“Shit, you didn't?” she asks, her shoulders slumping.

“I may have called him a… dickwad…” I tell her, swallowing roughly, feeling slightly bad that I have insulted the only person who can literally change our life circumstances right now.

“Dickwad? What are you? Twelve? What the hell is wrong with you!” Jillian whisper-yells at me.

“I didn’t know it was him. Besides, he was a dickwad. I could’ve said worse,” I whisper-yell back with an eyeroll.

“But we need to get him on our side! You need to apologize,” she says with a huff, folding the newspaper onto her lap.

“I am not apologizing.” Shaking my head, my stubborn self isn’t budging.

“You need to. You need to go to his office next week and fall to your knees and beg him not to take our shop.”

I nearly laugh, but there’s no ounce of humor staring back at me.

“You have got to be kidding me!” I hiss. “I am not getting on my knees! Especially for that man.”

“Take one for the family, Haylee. Buy him a sunflower or something. Mom and Dad always say sunflowers are the best flowers to brighten someone's day.” Her tone is unwavering. She really wants me to go beg for forgiveness.

“You can’t be serious? A sunflower?”

“Dead serious. We need to keep the store; otherwise, you will be selling your art at the flea market, and I will be balancing books at the local plumbers down the road, and you will never move out.” That hits me right in the gut. I love my sister, but I never thought I would be in my mid-twenties and sleeping on her pull-out sofa bed. But ever since Jaryd and I broke up, I have been struggling to save money and find somewhere to live that doesn’t cost me my entire paycheck.

“I will stay with you and make your life a misery at home, as well as at work,” I say a little too loudly, our sibling banter gaining a few nosy looks from nearby passengers.

“Well, do you have a better plan to save the shop, then? Because this is the first potential idea we have. You met him, so we have an opening. An apology visit is the perfect opportunity for you to see him again and beg him to not increase the rent and to leave us alone.”

I can see the pleading in her eyes, and it has my resolve cracking.

“I don’t want to apologize,” I tell her, knowing she is right. It does give me an in with him. A chance to talk to him businessperson to businessperson.

“Oh, stop your whining. You’re both giving me a fucking headache,” Deloris says, spitting her words at us before she takes a sip of what looks like a bottle of brandy that she had hidden under her jacket. A bit dribbles down her chin, and she swipes it with her sleeve.

And just like that, I smile. Because Deloris doesn’t have much, and she survives. And so will we.

5

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