Page 11 of Tap Left
He's staring at me like I'm insane. "So just to reiterate, you allow her to pay you in cookies."
"Yes." This time, I sound less sure, but I don't know why.
"And what about this one?" he asks, pointing to a separate line.
"Oh, that's Rebecca. She's on a payment plan."
"A payment plan?" He sounds horrified by the idea.
"Yes," I answer firmly.
"LB, let me ask you this. Does your rent give you a payment plan?"
"No?"
"So, can you afford to be giving customers payment plans?"
"She's on a fixed income. I'm just trying to help her out. And she always comes through with the payments."
He shakes his head and closes the ledger altogether.
"This store is quaint. It's cutesy. People eat that shit up. But you’re a sinking ship."
I glare at him, and he shoots me another warning glance.
"You need to take the business online. That's where everything's at these days. You want profit, that's where it's at."
"I don't want to take it online," I argue. "That's the whole point. Brick and mortar stores are dying. It isn't about the bottom line for me. It's about the experience. People come here and smell the books and fall in love with them."
"They smell the books?" he mocks. “That’s what you think is keeping you afloat here?”
"Yes. That's a very real part of it. You wouldn't understand."
I'm getting frustrated, and he senses it, but Daire never backs down.
“I’m not going to sugar coat bullshit and spoon feed it to you. You are hemorrhaging money on this little hobby you like to call a business, and if you keep it up, you’ll be lucky if you aren’t bankrupt in the next two years.”
It hurts to breathe, and I don’t want to acknowledge what he’s saying, but I already know it’s true. My financial advisor has told me as much many times over. Avoidance can only work for so long. The shop is stagnant, but I’m too paralyzed with fear to change it.
“I don’t want to lose it.” I almost choke on the words. “I just don’t know how to fix it.”
“The market is online,” he repeats. “It is what it is, Lola. You either pull yourself up by your bootstraps, or you drown. Nobody is going to throw you a life preserver, so you better be damn sure you learn how to swim.”
My eyes sting from the bleakness of his truth, but I won’t cry in front of him. I won’t.
"We'll plan accordingly," he continues. "But for now, let’s talk about your social calendar."
"What about it?"
He's got my planner now, paging through it. His eyes glaze over at the messy scribbles and post-it notes. It's literally bulging at the seams, and I'll be the first to admit, it's not the most organized thing I own.
"Bullshit." He skims through the chaos. "Bullshit. More bullshit. You're picking up your neighbor’s groceries for them. Babysitting children that aren’t yours and planning showers for all of your so-called friends. When do you have time to date?”
"It’s not that black and white. I’ve cut back on a lot.”
“What is this?” He stares at another page in the planner. “Does this say what I think it does?”
“Yes.” I am not ashamed. “It’s my weekly cosplay group.”
