“We’re fucking closed,” I murmur, but whoever is there doesn’t leave and knocks again.
Groaning, I shuffle to the front, and when I see the property manager on the other side, the earlier premonition grows its wings and flaps around me like an angel of doom.
I unlock the door. “Mr. Petruch, how can I help you?”
“You’re closed? I guess you heard already?”
“What do you mean?”
“The building has a new owner.”
I blow a raspberry. “Okay?”
“Look, Cora, I know things haven’t been easy, but the new owner wants to double your rent.” He hands me an envelope.
I look down at the legal-sized yellow paper andwatch my hand move toward it while my entire being screams,Don’t touch it. As if not accepting whatever legal document is in that envelope could change its consequences.
“I can’t pay double,” I say when the paper connects with my fingers.
“I’m sorry.” He shrugs.
“I can’t,” I repeat, and I’m not sure if I’m still talking about the rent only.
He gives me a compassionate look, or maybe it’s just pity, then nods and leaves.
And just like that, I lost my father’s life’s work.
“What are you doing here?” Tessa says as she opens the doors, her eyes red.
“Are you crying?” I forget how soaked I am, because of course, after weeks of sweltering heat, Mother Nature sent us a reprieve right as I was walking from the station.
“Why are you wet?”
Every conversation with my sister is a tug-of-war. Like we grew up one-upping each other, so now we fight for who leads the conversation just by force of habit.
“It’s raining.” I resign from the argument, notbecause I want to act as a well-adjusted adult. I’m just tired and, well, resigned. Let alone shivering from the cold.
“Ever heard of an umbrella?” She isn’t moving to invite me in.
“Ever heard of hospitality?”
She opens her mouth, but bites back her retort and steps back to let me in. “Why are you here?”
She’s definitely been crying. “What’s wrong, Tessa?” The air is arctic on my wet skin. How low is her AC setting?
“Like you care.” Her lip trembles.
For the love of God. “Why would I ask?”
She looks so small and broken, I want to give her a hug. The only thing stopping me is that she is wearing a cashmere sweater and I’m wet.
“Paul left me. And the girls took off with him.” She wipes a tear, sniffles, and lifts her chin. “You know, living in Florida with Daddy is so much cooler.”
“Fuck, I’m sorry, Tessa.”
“I don’t want your pity,” she snaps.
I guess she just needs a punching bag. To use someone to get her anger out of her system. I wish I weren’t freezing in soaked clothes, and too wrapped up in the middle of my own business crisis to offer her what she needs.
