Ollie considered the question seriously, then nodded. “I think so. Eventually. One day at a time, right?”
“Right.” Finn hesitated, then added, “Call if you need anything. Anytime.”
“I might take you up on that,” Ollie said, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Fair warning.”
“I hope you do,” Finn replied, meaning it more than he could safely express.
SIX
Ollie stared at the ceiling, watching shadows chase across the plaster. His phone read two thirty-seven a.m., but sleep remained stubbornly out of reach. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw mold spreading across wooden beams, insurance forms multiplying, and his parents’ disappointed faces.
What if I can’t fix this?
What if this is the end of everything I’ve been trying to save?
He’d been fielding calls all day—his parents, the insurance company, even Keaton checking in. Each conversation left him hollower than the last, the weight of responsibility pressing against his chest until breathing felt like an act of defiance.
Rolling onto his side, Ollie grabbed his phone. The screen’s glow illuminated his small bedroom, casting everything in harsh blue light. He opened his messages, thumbs hovering over the group chat with Jules and Sam. He’d feel bad texting them so late if he didn’t know both of them had closed at Brew & Barrel tonight.
He’d been thinking a lot about what Finn said. Maybe it was selfish, but he wanted to prove to his parents that the bookstorewasn’t a lost cause. Find a way to come up with the money for the deductible without draining their savings even more. Yes, times were tough for independent bookstores, but there were also new ones popping up all the time. Maybe what they needed was for Ollie to force them to see that change wasn’t bad, that their business model was the issue, not the business itself.
Hey, anyone up for an emergency bookstore brainstorm tomorrow?he typed, then immediately deleted. Too casual. Too fake.
I need help. I can’t do this alone.
Too needy.
Delete.
The store is officially fucked. Mold everywhere. Insurance is dragging its feet. I don’t know what to do.
His thumb hovered over the send button. The words felt like surrender, an admission of weakness he’d spent years avoiding. Ollie was the helper, the optimist, the one who lifted others up. He wasn’t supposed to be the one drowning.
But he was.
With a shaky exhale, he pressed send, then dropped the phone onto the mattress like it had burned him. The quiet ping of replies came almost immediately, but he couldn’t bring himself to look just yet. The relief of reaching out mingled with shame, creating a cocktail of emotions that tightened his throat.
“Get it together, Ollie,” he whispered to the empty room. But for once, he wasn’t sure he could.
His phone pinged, drawing his attention back to the screen.
Jules:We’re here. Always. You know that, right?
Sam:Dude, why didn’t you call one of us? I would’ve brought whiskey and questionable advice.
Ollie’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. The lump in his throat made it hard to swallow.
Jules:Sweet & Simple tomorrow morning? 9 a.m.? We’ll figure this out together.
Sam:I’ll bring Maya. Library girl has connections, and she’s good at the whole “organizing community support” thing.
The rapid-fire responses loosened something in Ollie’s chest. He took a shaky breath and typed back.
Ollie:You guys are the best. 9 a.m. works. I’ll try to look less like a disaster by then.
Sam:Don’t bother. We like you disaster-adjacent.
Jules:Try to get some sleep, ok? Tomorrow, we make a plan.
