“I suppose you’re right,” Sadie says, smiling.
I step back and head over to where Dean’s repositioning his ladder. “Hey, man, need any help?”
“Nah, I’ve got it. I just need to get this last section up here.” He climbs back up, methodically working through the higher patches of dried paint. He pauses, lowering his voice. “Isabel still with that Ryan guy?”
My grip tightens on the ladder rung. “Yeah.”
“He’s not good for her, man.” Dean shakes his head.
“Don’t get me started.” I glance over at my sister, watching her scrub paint with more force than necessary. “She won’t listen.”
“She will eventually.” Dean climbs back up the ladder. “It just might take her a while to see it.”
Dean’s always been like this—steady, reliable, the kind of friend who shows up when you need him and doesn’t ask too many questions.
The words come off in patches. The dried sections require more elbow grease and paint thinner. Isabel and Sadie continue to work in tandem on the door, their rhythm synchronized. Macytackles the lower window sections with determination. Dean handles anything high up, his ladder shifting every few minutes.
I take care of the remnants that need a little extra elbow grease and controlled fury. I watch Sadie while I work. She’s loosening up, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. She’s not fully okay, but she’s getting there.
By the time the sun is directly overhead, we’re nearly done. The door and windows are mostly clean. Not perfect, but close.
It’s the adobe wall beside the door that’s the problem. The red paint soaked into the porous stucco, leaving ghost letters even after we’ve scrubbed it raw. SLUT and WHORE are still faintly visible, shadows of the hatred that was here.
“We might need to repaint this section,” Dean says, climbing down from the ladder. “Paint thinner’s not cutting it on stucco.”
I look at Sadie. She’s staring at the faint words, her face unreadable.
“We can get it painted today,tesoro,“ I say.
“I’ll run out and grab some paint while you guys open the store,” Dean offers.
Sadie’s eyes widen, and her voice heightens with disbelief. “I’m supposed to open the shop while those words are still visible?”
“It’s about resilience, Sadie,” Isabel says. “We’ll have it painted over in an hour. But right now? You show them you’re not hiding.”
“Okay then.” Sadie nods. “Thank you. All of you. I don’t know what I would have done without—“
“You don’t have to thank us,” Isabel interrupts. “That’s what friends do.”
Macy and Dean nod in agreement.
Sadie takes in a visible breath, pulls the key for the shop out of her pocket, and unlocks the door. “Then let’s open.”
Not even a minute passes before the first customer walks in. Lin Mendoza takes one look at Sadie and pulls her into a hug.
“I’m so sorry all of this is happening,” Lin says. “That Facebook post. The vandalism. It’s terrible, Sadie. Just terrible. But I want you to know, you have my support. Completely.”
“Thank you,” Sadie manages.
Lin buys three romance novels and a cookbook before she leaves.
“For my daughter,” she says. “She loves your recommendations.”
As Lin walks out, Mrs. Lorelei Patterson, a woman I recognize from town council meetings, walks in, looks around with pursed lips, and walks right back out without saying a word.
Sadie watches her go, arms crossed tight against her chest.
“Ignore her,” I say quietly from where I’m standing near the counter.
