Page 6 of Daddies' Holiday Toy
“Will do. Love you.”
“I love you, too,” she replies, hanging up right after.
I tug my scarf tighter around my neck, breathing into it slowly as I eat up the rest of my time walking while stewing on my thoughts.
The streets are even quieter over this way.
Only the soft shuffle of my worn sneakers against the sidewalk accompanies me, along with the occasional hum of a car passing in the distance, breaking up the stillness.
Strings of twinkling lights drape around lamp posts, glowing white and blue in the chilly darkness.
Wreaths hang on a few storefront doors, and some windows are even painted with frosted snowflakes.
Our sleepy town is already being dressed for the holidays and it’s barely November.
Usually, the sight of it all would be enough to pull me out of any foul mood since this time of year has always held a special magic for me.
But tonight that warm, nostalgic feeling feels just out of reach.
The cheerful lights only remind me of my empty schedule and my display cases full of unsold goodies, accompanied with the deafening silence of the bell above the front door that never rings.
It’s sad, really, seeing my dreams slowly crumble like this.
I don’t tend to get too down in the dumps when it comes to the future, but right now I’m wallowinghard.
When I finally push through the glass door of my building, I stop at the row of dented metal mailboxes and fish out my key, twisting it until the door creaks open.
A small stack of envelopes stares back at me.
I scoop them out and begin thumbing through as I climb the narrow stairwell to the third floor, the dim hallway lights buzzing overhead.
Bill… bill… a crumpled flyer advertising a two-for-one pizza deal I can’t afford right now. Bill…
The last envelope stops me in my tracks at the top of the stairs.
The return address is from my bakery’s landlord.
Shit.
My pulse kicks up as I tear under the flap with a shaky finger.
Unfolding it, I find exactly what I fear: a past due notice and a hefty balance that seems to glower at me in thick, black ink.
Below it, I read a line that makes my blood run cold:failure to remit payment within seven days of this letter will result in termination of lease and forfeiture of property per your signed rental agreement.
I sag against the stairwell wall, gripping the paper tight enough to crumple the edges.
Seven days?
Seven days to come up with money Idon’thave.
Seven days before the one place I’ve poured my heart, soul, and every last dime into gets ripped out from under me.
Fuck…fuck, fuck, fuck.
My eyes sting as I blink hard against the sudden rush of tears.
This bakery had been my fresh start, my redemption, after years of scraping by and working my ass off in culinary school.
