Page 11 of Hate You Later
“So, G …” Xander pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps and scrolls for a moment before finding what he’s looking for. His forehead wrinkles as he frowns and places the phone on the counter. “You want to talk about this?”
I glance warily at Kenna before checking the screen, but she looks mystified and shrugs.
The image is blurry but immediately recognizable. It was taken at The Onion two nights ago. Bryce Holm is sprawled on the ground, and I’m standing by the bar, holding my fist. Kenna is sitting right behind me, eyes like saucers. It’s already a meme. The caption is: “This one really hit Holm.”
I sigh and push the phone away. “Picture’s worth a thousand words, don’t you think?”
“Does this have anything to do with the rent hike?” Xander asks.
Now I’m caught off guard. I spin to face my friend and confidante. “Dammit, Kenna! Did you tell him?”
But Kenna holds up her hands defensively. “Wasn’t me, G!”
“It’s all over the local merchant Facebook group, Georgia. What the hell? Did you think you were going to just keep that from me?”
“It’s not your problem, Xan,” I say. My cheeks are burning, and I can feel my entire body retracting, tension returning as if the hug never even happened.
“The hell it isn’t. This shop may be in your name, but it and the work we do with Kismet is our family legacy. Yours and mine. I’m setting up a GoFundMe right now!”
“No, you’re not. I don’t want your charity. Plus, it isn’t sustainable, we both know that. What happens after we run through that money?” I argue.
And what happens when I can’t make the mortgage payment?
Just then, the bell chimes again, and we all look up to see who is stopping by this early. Cookie rushes to greet Kismet’s sole, full-time employee. Sun-kissed, -faced, no-nonsense Angie was one of my late mom’s best friends. She has worked for the pet shelter since the very first day it opened. She’s saved hundreds, if not thousands, of pets.
Angie is wearing a tennis skirt, a terry cloth sun visor, and a faded sweatshirt with the shelter’s logo. Naturally, it’s covered with dog fur.
“Uh-oh. Am I interrupting something?” she asks, swiftly reading the room.
“Not at all.” I smile at her. “I’ve got your things in the back.” I’d set aside a tiny, tooth fairy cat costume and a bag of gluten-free dog food for her to deliver to a couple of the foster families who were keeping the shelter afloat during the relocation.
“Thanks, Georgia. I thought I’d play fairy godmother and run the supplies by the fosters on my way to my match this morning.” Angie smiles. And then she sees the mural. Her whole face lights up.
“Well, would you look at that!” she exclaims. “That’s a masterpiece! Georgia, honey, your talent knows no boundaries! Can you believe this girl?” Angie gestures at me, looking for corroboration from Xander and Kenna. “She is an artist, I tell you! A natural artist. As if that clothing wasn’t enough.” Angie points at the rack where my handmade pet clothing is on display.
Angie has a penchant for dressing up her pets. She loves to feature her own dogs—all seven of them—wearing my designs in the weeklyKismetnewsletter. She’s one of my best customers.
“I’m just going to have a little look through …” Angie picks up a Cinderella Coach-themed pumpkin suit. “Oh, my goodness, Georgia, these just keep getting better! You really ought to do something more with these costumes. You could start a whole clothing line. Maybe once we’re settled at the new location, we could plan an event. Like a fashion show. Or a masquerade! Your mom would be so proud of you, Georgia. I know she would!”
But would she? If she knew that I’d mortgaged the home she was so proud to own free and clear, would she still be proud? There’s no way I can make the mortgage payment, plus pay Angie’s salary, with this rent hike. The rent hike is almost as much as the two other figures combined.
Yet, I can’t bear to even think about having to let Angie go. The thought makes me feel sick and dizzy. I duck into the back room to retrieve the items I’ve set aside for her.
From the back, I hear Kenna offering Angie a muffin. And then Xander pipes up.
“Tell me more about this masquerade idea, Angie,” he says. “Sounds like it would be a great fundraiser, actually.”
“Absolutely!” Angie enthuses. “We could sell tickets!”
“Ooh! You know what? We could make it a catered event,” Kenna chimes in. “Maybe do a live auction?”
“Oh, my goodness! I love this!” Angie exclaims. “We should make it an annual thing! A tradition!”
“Just what I was thinking,” Xander says. “It could be a trulysustainableway to raise money for the shelter going forward.” He speaks louder as he enunciates the word sustainable, making sure he’s projecting his voice into the back for me to hear.
As if there’s any question about whether I can still hear him in the tiny back room of my tiny shop.
By the time I emerge with the bag for Angie, it’s as if the whole thing is decided.
