Still nothing from Matthew.
I take a breath, push the disappointment down, and turn to the next customer with a practiced smile.
True to her schedule, Grace arrives precisely at noon, her cheerful energy filling the space like sunshine.
“Amy’s busy today, so it’s just you and me,” Helen says as soon as she deposits her things in the back.
“Oh, not a problem!”Grace replies, stepping up to the counter, already scanning the room.“I’ll take the next customer while you finish that cappuccino.”She glances toward me.“Don’t worry, Amy, we got this.”She beams with the easy competence I’m profoundly grateful for.
“Thanks, Grace,” I manage, returning her smile with a small one of my own.
“Okay, go,” Helen says, leaning in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.“Go find a roof that isn’t attached to my espresso machine.”She shoos me away with a flick of her hand, turning back to the half-prepped coffee.
I settle into my office chair, turn on my computer, and dive into the overwhelming world of online rental listings.
Madison.Affordable.Available now.
The criteria feel both simple and impossible.
Website after website blurs, filled with tiny photos of empty rooms and rent figures that make my stomach flip.For a few minutes, the task feels hopeless, another mountain to climb.But the memory of my promise to Helen, and of Lou’s faith in my grit, stiffens my spine.
I refine my search, focusing on a neighborhood I know, one with character.
And then I find one.
A small studio in a converted Victorian near James Madison Park.The pictures are bright.The description is refreshingly honest: “compact but charming.”Best of all, the rent is just within the realm of possibility.
A flicker of real hope stirs in my chest.
I copy the address and number onto my notepad, my handwriting firm.
Not long after, I find another.
A garden-level one-bedroom near Willy Street.
I add it to the list.
For the first time in days, I have tangible options.A potential future that isn’t a lumpy couch.
A small, genuine smile touches my lips.Then, my gaze slides to my phone, lying face down beside my keyboard.
The silence from him is still there, a dull ache in the background.But the frantic, desperate edge has softened.Sal’s words from last night echo in my head.
That boy’s got more scars than you can see.
A pang of genuine worry squeezes my chest.
What if he’s not okay?
What if this isn’t about me at all?
My fingers tremble slightly as I pick up the phone, unlock it, and navigate to our message thread of one.My apology sits there, stark and alone.Swallowing hard against the tightness in my throat, I type quickly before I lose my nerve:
Are you okay?
My thumb hovers over the send button.The fear of being ignored is still there, but now it’s tangled with a genuine worry for him.
I press SEND.
