“I’m sorry,I don’t think I heard you right.” Wren turns away from the tacky Christmas sweater rack she was flicking through. “Married? In ninety days? You have to be joking.”
“Nope, not joking,” I say, my disdain for the whole unfortunate set of circumstances evident in my tone.
The three-month timeline was yet another kick in the teeth. I’m nearing thirty, and I’ve never had a boyfriend. I couldn’t be further away from getting married if I tried. But the lawyer explained that I’ll need to find a husband in ninety days, or else the café will get auctioned off as part of the estate.
“I guess there was some clause left over in the deed from when it was first built. Back when it wasn’t even a café. It saidthat whoever was in possession of the building needed to be either a man, or a married woman.”
Wren shakes her head. “That’s so fucked up…”
I pick up a sweater with kittens in Santa hats and hold it up to show her. Our annual Friendsmas dinner is coming up in a few weeks, and we’ve spent the last few hours shopping for our secret Santa gifts and vintage sweaters from the Shirt Shack. My favourite tradition.
“Cute,” she says, “very you.”
I tuck the hanger under my arm and continue looking through the rack in case I find something I like better.
“So, what are you going to do?” Wren asks, her smooth dark hair swishing across her back as she turns towards the rack of sweaters.
“What is there to do?” I don’t ask the question in the hopes of getting an actual answer. I’ve been wracking my brain ever since Craig walked out of the café, having turned my life upside down. So far, I’ve come up with nothing.
Wren abruptly stops browsing again and whips around.
“You’re going to fight it right? This is grounds for a lawsuit, Pops.” Her dark brown eyes widen in shock.
“Oh, sure, because that’s easy.” I’m not normally one to sass my best friend, but my frustration with the whole situation has been mounting. Because I’m watching my dream of owning Thistle + Thorne slip away with every minute that ticks by. “Unless you’re secretly an estate lawyer and you’re offering to do itpro bono, then no, I don’t think I’ll be fighting this.”
Aunt Dahlia wasn’t exactly financially savvy, and most of her money ended up tied up in the café. Her estate consistedof the deed for Thistle + Thorne, and the two-bedroom apartment above it. That’s it. Not a penny more to her name.
Her philosophy in life was to enjoy the money you had, while you still could.Can’t take it with you,she’d sing-song as she filled our apartment with knick-knacks, and her closet with gaudy sequinned dresses.
“Okay, so, what then?” Wren throws her hands up, exasperated. “You’re just going to let them auction it off?”
A sharp, stabbing sensation needles my ribs. I’d thought about the prospect of losing the café, but it hadn’t occurred to me what would happen to it.
Would it be sold off to someone who cherished it as much as I did? As much as Aunt Dahlia did? Or would the new owner renovate it and rid it of all its charm? Or worse, demolish it and build an entirely new, modern structure in its place?
“No…” I can’t speak past the lump in my throat, and I turn away, pretending to look at a different rack of sweaters so Wren can’t see how my eyes are watering.
“Then I guess you better get on the dating apps,” she says, and I give her a resigned nod as I try to focus on our Christmas shopping.
Anything to distract me from my growing panic at the thought of dating.
CHAPTER 3
JETT
Cheers and hollersring out as I walk onto the rooftop patio of The Grizzly Paw.
My sponsor, Nuclear, bought it out for my après event. Win or lose, they didn’t hold back. A twinge of guilt nabs at me that they’ve gone to all the trouble. They weren’t exactly my first choice for sponsorship, and I made that known during contract negotiations. But after my last season ended, they were my only choice.
The village below is blanketed in snow, but the rooftop is warm thanks to several propane heaters. People are dancing under the glowing string of market lights dressed in everything from winter coats to bikini tops.
There’s an electric energy here tonight, amping me up as my heart drums in time with the music.
As I look across the crowed space, I spot my team. Pushing my way through the throng, I’m greeted by congratulatory handshakes and by my coach and manager Dan’s firm hand on my shoulder.
He pulled me away from the reporter after myrun, before I could clarify that last comment, when she asked about the recentallegations.It’s not like I haven’t faced public backlash before, but something about how she said it has been weighing on me. The fact that she thought it might get in the way of me going to the World Cup.
“Hell of a win today,” Dan shouts over the music, handing me a pint of beer, and bringing me back to the present moment. His greying moustache and the cacophony of noise muffles his words.
