I blink. What? She can’t wait to hear how it goes? “What do you mean?”
“I mean, do keep in touch. And best of luck, Summer.”
Ohhhhhhhhhh.
My shoulders slide toward the floor in the slumpiest slump of all time. “You’re not granting the loan?” I ask in a dead tone.
She shakes her head, still grinning, which seems kind of cruel. “No, but you’re one of our most regular and valuable customers, and we so appreciate you saving all that money with us.”
“But I need more.” My voice cracks, and I swallow that awful splintering sound. Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe she’s just messing around. “I’ve been a good customer for ten years, and now I need a loan to make this gym the best it can be. To be competitive.”
Electra pumps a fist. “And we are fired up to see how it goes with all that you have saved here. You go get ’em, girl.”
Girl.
She just you go, girled me.
She hasn’t even uttered any of the warning words that come before crushing your hopes and dreams. Words like however, but, with that said, or unfortunately.
She’s turned me down with pep and vigor.
“Is there anything else I can do?”
“The risk is just too great.”
With a deep sigh, I gather my purse, say a wooden thanks, and leave.
A deep sadness cloaks me as I walk across the stone floor of the bank toward the ominous exit.
Maybe I didn’t present a compelling enough pitch. Maybe I asked for too much. Maybe I asked for too little. But I need that extra money. Need it to get me over the hump. Need it to show I can do this on my own.
All I’ve ever wanted is to do this on my own.
And now I don’t have enough to open the doors.
Now I’ll have to table my dreams for months while I save up the rest.
As I trudge to the street, my phone rings—my mom is calling. I answer it half-heartedly, wishing I could muster my normal pep.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, trying to sound cheery, trying to focus on her. “How’s everything going with you? Is it Book Club Monday? Do you have everyone hooked on the newest Nora Roberts?”
“Of course I do. I’m a master at picking books. I should be running book clubs all over town. But that’s not why I’m calling. How did it go?” She sounds like she’s been holding her breath with anticipation.
“Oh, you know. It went . . .” But I can’t even spin a tale. “They turned me down.” My throat catches.
“Sweetie, let us help you.”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’ll make this work.”
“Summer, I want to help. We want to help,” she says, her tone upbeat. “I’m very good at helping, as you know. I’ve done it for years.”
And that, right there, is why I don’t entirely want it.
What if I take it and feel indebted? Annoyed? Resentful? She says she likes helping, but why does she always bring it up? Because she wishes she were still running her bookstore, I suspect.
“I know, Mom. But this is just a little speed bump. I’ll figure it out.” I check my watch. I need to go to Sunshine Living in two hours, so I’ve got one-hundred-and-twenty minutes to process my disappointment. I refuse to bring it to work with me. “I have to go to work in a little bit. I’m going to go for a walk. But I’ll text you later.”
“Do that. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up, walking toward the park, trying to work through these obstacles before I clock in with Travis.
The moment I hit Fifth Avenue, my phone trills again—my brother this time. I’m tempted, so damn tempted to ask him for a loan. The words are on the tip of my tongue. He has the money.
He also has a six-year-old and the scars from a painful and expensive divorce.
And if I won’t take it from anyone else, I won’t take it from him.
I sigh so heavily it’ll send the Dow Jones plummeting. I’ll just wait a little longer, save a little more. It’s all I can do.
“Hey, Logan, what’s going on?”
My brother is cackling. “Sexy. Ex. Boyfriend. Dude, that is the funniest thing you’ve ever written.”
My brow pinches. “What are you talking about?”
But when I click on Twitter, I see I’ve made so much more than a grammatical error.
12
Summer
I. Am. Trending.
Or rather, “America’s Worst Boyfriend” is.
It’s all over Twitter. The letter I wrote. The dissection of it. The whodunit. And there is little social media loves more than a good outing. How was it even published? But I don’t have time to figure that out because right now, I need to rubberneck at my own ten-car pileup.
I scroll through a river of comments hashtagged #AmericasWorstBoyfriend as I walk, head bent, face buried in a mess of my own making.
