“But?” The word escapes before I can stop it.
She folds her hands on the desk. “But I’m afraid we can’t approve your loan at this time. Your credit score is significantly below our lending threshold.”
Suddenly, the walls start closing in and my heart thuds heavily against my breastbone. “I have three years of steady income. Growing income. I brought my tax returns, my projected revenue?—”
“I can see that.” Patricia’s voice is gentle, which somehow makes it worse. “And your business plan is impressive, but your credit history shows multiple late payments over the past two years. That coupled with your student loans?—”
“I’m making payments on that,” I tell her, no doubt sounding pathetic. “And the late payments were all under thirty days. I’ve never missed a payment entirely.”
“I understand, but the algorithm doesn’t distinguish between fifteen days late and twenty-nine days late. It sees late payments, and that affects your score.” She slides a piece of paper across the desk. There, on top, is my credit score in bold numbers: 587. “We require a minimum of 680 for commercial loans of this size.”
I blink at the number as my whole body deflates. It’s nearly a hundred points short. “What if I got a cosigner?”
Patricia’s expression morphs. It’s not quite hopeful, but less final. “A cosigner with good credit could work. Final approvalwould depend on their financial profile, but it would bypass the issues with your personal credit history.”
My heart kicks up. Okay, so the door isn’t completely closed. I just need someone to walk through it with me. I run through the mental list automatically: my parents are out of the question, my sisters are both still paying off their own degrees, and my friends are all in the same boat as me: millennials with student loans and gig economy jobs.
As the silence stretches, Patricia’s smile flags, turning sympathetic.
“No,” I admit finally. “I don’t have anyone.”
She nods and laces her fingers. “Then I’m afraid your only option is to rebuild your credit. Pay down that collection account and keep your payment history clean for the next twelve to eighteen months and then reapply.”
With those words, the door swings shut and the opportunity slips away. In eighteen months, the perfect pastry kitchen will be long gone, rented out by someone with better credit, and the wholesale accounts I’ve been courting will have gone with other bakers. I can grow my credit history in that time frame, but I certainly can’t grow my business in my tiny kitchen.
“Ms. Caplan—Kennedy—I really am sorry. Your passion is clear.” The statement is a hollow one.
I close my portfolio, the leather suddenly feeling cheap under my fingers. “Eighteen months.”
“I wish I had better news.”
I stand, my legs unsteady. “Thank you for your time.”
Outside the bank, red and yellow leaves gently drift down onto the sidewalk. Normally, a beautiful fall day like this would lift my spirits. Today, not even the fall foliage can cut through the defeat that’s swamped me. I pull out my phone as I walk to my car and open the email from the realtor about the Maple Street property.Perfect for a bakery, it read.Won’t last long.
I delete it.
Then I tap on my calendar and look at next weekend’s orders: two birthday cakes, a wedding dessert table, and four dozen custom cookies. All of it to be made with my temperamental oven and limited counter space, just like always. I unlock my car, slip into the driver’s seat, and lean forward, resting my head on the steering wheel.
I’m usually a glass half full kind of gal. It may be naïve and it may bite me in the ass from time to time, but I prefer to look on the bright side, to make the best of bad situations.
But right now, all I want to do is curl up in a ball and cry.
I stay like that, my energy sapped, until my phone rings, startling me.
The call is from an unknown number, and as optimistic as I am, as impossible as the scenario is, it’s hard not to hope that it’s the bank calling me to say, “Just kidding, we’re totally going to give you that loan.”
Unlike most people, who send unknown numbers to voicemail or immediately block them as spam, I always pick up. Fucking with telemarketers and scammers brings me a unique kind of joy.
But rather than answer with “Thank you for calling the FBI wiretap division, this call is being recorded,” I simply say, “Hello?”
“Hi, Kennedy, it’s Sloane,” a familiar voice says. “I didn’t have time to say hi to you at the charity gala, but we met at Cole’s Fourth of July party over the summer. Not sure if you remember or?—”
“Yes, of course,” I reply, her face popping into my mind easily. “Sophie painted your kid’s face like a lion, right?”
She laughs, the sound carefree. “Yup. Anyway, I’m calling to see if you’re available on Friday night for your charity dinner with Cameron.”
Ah, yes. Because taking me out is charitable.
