Page 2 of Hate You Later
We arrive at The Onion fresh from work. Kenna drives because the “unicorn,” my ancient, white Prius, is completely full of dog hair and Kenna is wearing black. This is fine with me. I suspect I’ll need more than one drink tonight.
The Onion is exactly the sort of place you want to go to when you need to bitch about something. The booths are a little greasy. The bar is a little grimy. The floor is a lot sticky. The bar food is not so great, but it’s also not so terrible. It’s exactly the sort of place you want to go to drown your sorrows. And since misery loves company, it’s always packed.
There’s always a battle over the playlist on the old-fashioned jukebox. But one thing everyone can agree on is their universal loathing of anyone who wears “positive vibes only” tees or employs a life coach.
I love The Onion. The Onion is a safe haven from the plague of toxic positivity afflicting my generation. Which is not to say I’m pro-negativity. I’m just a realist. No bullshit. No false hopes waiting to get dashed against the cliffs of reality.
Kenna slides her skinny, Levi’s-clad ass onto the barstool beside me. She’s shed her barista apron and traded her colorful daytime scrunchie for a black bandanna that matches her simple, black sweater. Her silver stud earrings are mismatched. There’s a coffee cup on the right and a camera on the left. And she has on an elaborately knotted friendship bracelet that I’m pretty sure I made for her a decade ago.
This is about as fancy as my beautiful friend gets. There’s a charming simplicity to her minimalist style.
Kenna orders two micheladas and pays the bartender in cash, tipping generously.
“So, what are we going to do about the rent hike?” she asks.
“Hmm. Rob a bank? Turn tricks? Buy a lottery ticket?” I offer flippantly.
Notice about the rent hike had come around noon today. It landed like a carpet-bombing. Email and text messages blew up my inbox mere moments before the perky FedEx guy showed up at my door with the written notice. I’m certain there will be a certified letter arriving at Celestial Pets via snail mail as well. No claiming I didn’t get this.
It’s a significant increase—nearly 30 percent—starting on November 1st. Just a month and a half away. Is that even legal?
I’m livid but not entirely blindsided. Ever since the rumors started about the Farm & Holm Company doing some upgrades to the dump of a historic building, where we’ve both been working since we were teenagers, this sort of scenario seemed inevitable. Who needs mom-and-pop shops when you can rent to Starbucks and Urban Outfitters?
“Can’t you ask Xander for help?” Kenna suggests.
I shake my head and fold my arms defiantly across my chest. Not happening. I’m not going to beg for charity from my little brother.
It isn’t just the rent. It’s everything. Celestial Pets is a philanthropic shop. This means most, if not all, of our profits go to support our local pet shelter, Kismet Rescue. And at the moment, Kismet is in dire straits. They’ve been displaced by another one of the Farm & Holm Company’s renovation projects over in the industrial part of town.
“This sucks so much.” Kenna drums her fingers on the bar. “You just finally worked out the relocation plan for the shelter.”
I’d found the perfect property outside of town at a farm that had a barn with existing kennels. But there is a lot of work to be done to upgrade the kennels for year-round use and to set up office space. Expensive work. Work that Kismet is relying on my shop to fund. Work that I’ve already taken out a mortgage on my house to fund.
It’s something I cannot think about right now without risking a full-blown panic attack. My heart beats jumpily, a caged bird.
“I’ll figure it out. I’ll just have to cut something.” As if there’s anything left to cut. Or borrow against.
“Seriously, Georgia. You should at least let Xander know.” Kenna fixes me with the exasperated look of someone who’s well aware her advice will probably be ignored.
“Xander and Mac are already doing so much.” I fold my arms across my chest. My brother’s partner has been keeping several homeless pets at his veterinary clinic. He even set up a temporary desk in the office for Angie, the shelter’s admin, to use to make calls and work on placements.
“You’d think that with the Holm family’s history of selling pet supplies, they might have given a little more time and warning before evicting an animal shelter!” Kenna shakes her head.
I can’t argue with that. But the Holms had hardly seemed to give a shit. Bryce Holm’s heartless tweets were all over the local news.
My phone dings with a text, and I reach around for my bag. It’s hanging on the back of my barstool, along with my favorite shaggy, faux fur jacket. Pro tip—the best way to disguise pet fur is to wear faux fur.
I dig around to retrieve the phone in the depths of my cluttered, vegan-leather bag.
The message is from Xander. He’s sent a link to his latest viral video and a paragraph’s worth of star and champagne bottle emoji surrounding the text.
One million views!!!
Holy shit. That dog he groomed to look like a Pokémon character has received over a million views? As usual, I’m completely baffled by social media, but I’m so thrilled for him.
Before putting my bag back, I collect three weeks’ worth of loose change from the bottom to toss in the tip jar. My oversize ring catches on a crumpled-up flyer for the online Petfluencer Challenge I am doing with my dog, Cookie. The challenge is being run through a local pet fancier’s group and is sponsored by a high-end pet food brand that we carry in the shop.
I smooth out the flyer on the bar. I’d agreed to help distribute the flyers, but then I’d signed myself up on a whim. It couldn’t hurt to play along. They have some mega-influential moderators dishing out the weekly tips and post prompts.
