Page 35 of Off the Wall

Chapter Eleven

Nori

On Thursday morning,I scan the repair estimate from Spring Valley Auto, praying there’s been some kind of a mistake, but the numbers don’t lie, no matter how much I wish they did. Apparently, parts for a thirty-year-old Lincoln Continental could take weeks to arrive,afterthey’ve been ordered. And when I do the math, those parts plus the labor add up to more than three thousand dollars.

That’s three-zero-zero-zero.

As much as I love Dorothy, I couldn’t have sold her for three grand even before the breakdown. Same if I’d had her towed to the junkyard and stripped for parts. Not that I’d ever want to strip Dorothy. But still. What do I do now? A new car will cost more than these repairs. And I can’t exactly apply for a loan. Not when I’m trying to buy Serendipi-Tea.

My credit’s already stretched to the limit.

I drop onto the window seat with a second cup of coffee, hoping the caffeine will help me turn off the worst-case-scenario part of my brain. Sunshine streams through the glass, leaving streaks of light on the hardwoods. And as visions of dollar signs dance in my head, I try to think positively.

Hmmm.

Blown gasket head.

Warped engine block.

Weeks for parts.

Worst. Case. Scenario.

This isn’t working.

I check the time. Just past ten o’clock. Hayden’s in class right now—probably about to start third period—so I can’t call and ask her for advice. This is my one day off work, so I don’t want to go into Serendipi-Tea for some good old-fashioned distraction. Maybe Keeley’s free. If so, she’d probably be up for a little problem-solving session.

I’m about to text her when an unknown number lights up my phone screen. Normally I don’t take calls from “maybe spam” but the area code’s the same as East and Becca’s. They could be calling from the landline at her parents’ house. Maybe they needmefor a change. So against my better judgment, I answer.

“Hello?”

“Good morning!” someone chirps. “Is this Nori Sinclair?”

“It is.” I check the phone screen again. “Who’s this?”

“I’m Jemma Lane, head of marketing at Swipe Rite. Ever heard of us?”

I sure have. Just last week, Hayden sent me one of their video ads with that absolute earworm of a tagline:You can’t go wrong with Swipe Right.

“You’re a dating app.”

“Not just any dating app,” the woman says. “We’rethepremier site matching singles up with their perfect partners.”

Ugh. Their telemarketers are cold-calling poor, love-starved people to get them to sign up? Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t afford to join. “Sorry, but I’m not interested in hookups,” I say.

“Swipe Rite isnotfor hookups,” the woman insists. “Thereare plenty of other apps for that. Our company’s mission is to bring more true love into the world.”

I press out a skeptical laugh. “Andto make money.”

“Well, yes,” the woman admits. “Someone has to pay my salary, Nori.”

My stomach does a little leap at hearing her use my name again. The fact that this stranger knows who I am kind of freaks me out. Maybe she got my number from that silly Spring Singles potluck I went to a couple months ago.

“Please take me off whatever call list you found me on,” I say. “I really can’t pay for your services right now.”

“Money won’t be an issue, Nori.”

“Maybe not for you,” I say. “But I can assure you, money is an issue for me. A big one.”

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