Page 1 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

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TABITHA

My day startsin the dark. My phone alarm went off at five so I could walk three overexcited Pomeranians for Mrs. Finkelman before swinging by the bookstore at eight. Nothing new there—just making espresso drinks for the morning regulars. Pendleton’s is a bookstore slash coffee shop, and they do most of their money in coffee. The books are little more than borrowable decorations.

Now it’s noon, and I’m clocking in at Café Fontaine, grateful for the faint smell of fresh bread wafting from the kitchen. Something unkinks in me whenever that yeasty smell hits. I needed that today.

I’m already exhausted—my feet ache, and my arms feel heavy from hauling big bags of coffee beans at Pendleton’s—but I remind myself that every dollar counts.

Erin needs it. Grandma Judy needs it. I have no choice but to keep going.

After dropping my coat in the cramped employee closet, I scan the front of the bistro, which is all vintage Parisianposters and soft, ambient lighting. It’s the kind of place where couples sip wine and pretend they’re on vacation. A middle-aged woman hovers by the door, eyeing the golden chandelier overhead. I hurry to greet her with my best “Bonjour!”—the one my manager, Colette, insists we use to maintain an air of authenticity.

The falseness grates on me, but the money is good, so I roll with it.

I lead the patron to a table near the large windows, watching her settle in, as she smooths her silk blouse. Once she’s all set, I move back to the hostess stand. My next wave of customers will probably come in any minute, but for a lunch shift, it’s relatively calm.

I hate the calm.

It gives me too much time to think, which is never good these days. My mind automatically drifts to Erin, who’s at home on the couch, probably dozing after her last appointment. Fifteen is way too young to be dealing with a brain tumor, but that’s our reality.

I run through my usual pep talk:You’re doing everything you can, Tabi. You left college to help. You work three jobs. We’ll get through this.

But the knot in my chest still tightens.

No matter how many hours I pour into paychecks, it never feels like enough. We’ve already chewed through Dad’s small savings—whatever was left after he and Mom passed—and the life insurance had lapsed just before the accident. Grandma Judy tries her best, but her house is mortgaged to the hilt, and we’re going to have to sell it sooner rather than later.

A flash of movement draws my eye. Greta, one of the servers, is sitting at a side station, rolling silverware into neat napkin bundles. She’s perched on the chair like she doesn’t fully trust it, as if even placing weight on her rear end might hurt.

“Greta, you okay?” I ask quietly, drifting close enough that customers won’t hear.

Her cheeks turn pink. “I’m fine,” she mutters, focusing on a fork she’s tucking into a napkin. She glances over her shoulder to ensure our manager isn’t around. “Just…a little sore.”

I open my mouth to press her further, but she shakes her head, indicating this isn’t the time or place. With a sympathetic nod, I return to my station. We all have secrets, I guess, and I don’t want to pry if she’s not ready to talk. Still, I can’t help wondering if she hurt herself or if there’s more to the story.

Before I can dwell on it, my phone vibrates in my apron pocket. Grandma Judy almost never calls me at work unless it’s urgent, so my stomach clenches. The hostess stand is quiet, so I duck behind a divider for a shred of privacy. “Gram?” I whisper into the phone. “Something wrong?”

She takes in a shaky breath. “Tabi, the hospital emailed me the final estimate for Erin’s surgery. It’s worse than we anticipated.”

My heart drops. “Worse than… Can we still sell the house? Isn’t that enough?”

“They’re quoting more than the entire value, honey. I asked the bank for another loan—no luck. They said I’m tapped out from the previous treatments.” A pause, then a small, trembling laugh that isn’t really laughter at all. “I’m sorry, sweet girl. I wish I had better news.”

I close my eyes, feeling tears threaten. “It’s not your fault. I’ll…pick up more shifts, or something. We won’t let Erin go without the surgery.”

We exchange a few more hushed words, both of us forcing optimism we don’t feel. It’s grinding on us all, but we try to keep Erin from knowing too much. She doesn’t deserve this kind of stress on top of what she’s handling.

My body moves on autopilot for the rest of the day: greet, seat, smile. But my mind keeps looping. We’re out of loans. The house isn’t enough. Erin’s surgery is urgent. Where can I possibly get that kind of money?

I hate break time, but Colette insists we take them—she’s the opposite of every boss I’ve ever had. I should be grateful, but slowing down means thinking, and thinking means thinking about bills.

My breaks feel less like breaks and more like time wasted, when I could be earning money.

Inside the break room, which is barely bigger than a closet, Greta is perched on a folding chair, sipping coffee and wincing. She looks up as I enter, her cheeks heating. “Hey, Tabi.”

“Hey,” I say softly, pulling out the other chair. “You sure you’re alright? You look… Well, you look like you’re in pain. I don’t mean to pry, but I’m worried.”

There’s hesitation in her eyes. “Just…promise you won’t judge me?”

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