“Fuck, Cory,” I mutter to myself. I guess I kind of expected he wouldn’t go around telling people I’m having business issues. No wonder Myles is offering to do the site for free—Cory probably asked him to. And now Myles feels like he has to help out the pathetic woman who can’t get her life together. And I don’t like that one bit.
I finish my coffee, rising to my feet. “Look, I appreciate the offer but I think I’ll pass. I’m going to sort things out on my own, and I don’t want any pity or charity.” I turn to go, and pause. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Then I head off to work, no more relaxed than I was this morning.
8
Geoff might have been way off with the meditation, but he was right about one thing: working on my own designs is definitely making me feel better. I’ve made two dresses and three skirts in two days. It’s the most productive I’ve been in months.
Still nothing from Shane. It’s a shame, because he was so cute and nice and, well,normal. I guess I put him off with that terrible date. That whole evening was a mess.
Actually, I’ve been avoiding Bounce the past couple of days. I’m still annoyed that Cory told Myles—and God knows who else—about my business. It’s humiliating.
Hayley, however, has been spectacular. Take this, for example: while I’ve spent the past two days glued to my sewing machine at the back of the store, stress-sewing, she’s been coming in early and making fliers to hand out around the East Village, reorganizing the store to give it a fresh look, creating a sale rack to put out the front, redoing the window display and coming up with all kinds of ideas. She’s brilliant.
The truth is, though, I’m not sure we’re going to be able to do it. We have less than sixty days to increase sales by twenty percent and it just feels impossible, even with Hayley’s enthusiasm and creativity. It doesn’t matter how many fliers we hand out, how many items we add to the sale rack—some things are just meant to fail. I’m beginning to wonder if my business is one of them.
Around lunchtime on Wednesday, I send Hayley home for the day. She’s doing so much extra work—work I can’t afford to pay her for—and I know she’s got other things to do. What, I’m not sure exactly, because she’s a bit all over the place (last month it was dog-walking, and a few months before that she was painting portraits, plus I know she does some temp work) but either way, I’m feeling super guilty at all the time she’s putting in here.
I smile gratefully as she heads out. “You know I appreciate everything you’re doing, right?”
“I do,” she says, pulling her long braid over her shoulder. She’s naturally pretty—curvy, with strawberry-blond hair and blue-green eyes—and she has the dorkiest laugh, which I love. Even though she’s in her early thirties, she’s got this fun, happy-go-lucky nature that I envy. She moved here from the UK a few years ago, and hasn’t lost the accent one bit.
She squeezes my shoulder. “I’m only a call away if you need anything, remember that.”
“Thanks, hon.”
Once she’s gone I return to the counter and sit down, taking out my ham and cheese sandwich. It’s not the most appetizing lunch, but given I need to watch every penny, it’s all I have.
The bell at the door rings and I glance up, smiling, to greet the customer. Maybe they’ll come in and spend a fortune and all will be saved.
But it’s not a customer. It’s Myles.
He pushes into my shop, wearing a white tee over ripped jeans and a black, flat-brimmed baseball cap on his head. He doesn’t look over at the counter; instead, his eyes are drawn to the display table, currently boasting an assortment of vintage salt and pepper shakers. He steps up to it, a smile playing on his lips as he picks up a salt shaker. It’s a tiny, yellow, ceramic owl. They’re my favorites.
I set my sandwich down with a sigh. I bet Cory sent him. Cory has texted me several times over the past couple of days and I’ve ignored him, so he knows I’m pissed.
Myles returns the salt shaker to the table and his gaze slides to mine. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
He wanders toward me, shrugging a messenger bag off his shoulder and placing it on the counter, not saying anything.
“What are you doing here?”
Pulling his cap off, he places it beside his bag and rakes a hand through his messy curls. “I’ve come to work on the website.”
I frown. “I said—”
“I know what you said.” He opens his bag and slides out a Macbook. “And I’m going to do it anyway.”
“I don’t want any charity, Myles.”
“God, you are so stubborn.” He sets his laptop down on the counter and looks at me squarely. “This isn’t charity. It’s a friend helping another friend, because they can.”
There’s a pinch in my stomach at his words, because the last time I trusted a “friend” to help me, it landed me in shit.
“And don’t forget that doing a website for you helps me, too,” he adds.
