I grab my phone before I can talk myself out of it.
The realtor answers on the third ring, brisk and businesslike.
“Hi, this is Eden Carver,” I say, pacing the kitchen. “Itoured the retail space on York Avenue a few weeks ago. Has it been leased yet?”
A pause. “It’s still available.”
My knees nearly buckle. I grip the counter. “That’s…great.”
“We’ve had interest, but nothing signed. Do you want to move forward?”
My heart slams. Do I? Sunlight through the front windows. The floor plan I already sketched in my mind as two treatment rooms, a small gym, and a front desk. I’ve got savings for paint and equipment. With the Defenders money, I can cover first month and two months’ security, sign a good-guy guaranty, and have keys by Friday. It’s not reckless. It’s trusting the nudge.
Not every detail is solved. But that’s the point. Leap first; let the pieces catch up. It’s me saying yes out loud.
I close my eyes, breathe, listen. It feels right.
“Yes,” I hear myself say. “If we can come to an agreement on the number.”
The conversation turns to terms. Dollars. I point out the space has been vacant for months, and when he pushes high, I push back. My voice trembles, but I hold the line. We settle on a lower figure with an upfront payment.
By the time we hang up, I’m shaky, my whole body humming. But I’m exhilarated.
I’m doing it.
I’m building my life.
My phone buzzes the second I set it down.
Nate
Just finished skate. Thinking about you.
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
Nate
How’s my girl feeling? Still wrecked?
I bite my lip, typing then deleting three different responses before settling on:Busy.
Three dots appear instantly.
Nate
Good. Stay busy. I like knowing I left you useless for anything else.
I let out a helpless laugh, dropping my forehead into my hands. He’s wonderful. Infuriating. Addictive.
Nate
Call me later. Or don’t. I’ll come find you.
My pulse kicks into overdrive. I shove the phone away before I combust.
The realtor emailsme the lease that evening. I open it on my laptop, the digital pen hovering over the signature line.
Fear coils in my stomach. What if I fail? What if no one comes? What if this dream swallows me whole?
