Page 95 of You'll Love it Here

That night, I stay up far too late piecing everything together. It feels like the good old days, when I’d pull an all-nighter designing a presentation for a particularly demanding client.

I choose music that didn’t feel manipulative. Just honest. I put the photos in a sequence that tells a story—not just of a building, but of time. Of care. Of belonging.

Then I build the website. A clean, simple GoFundMe page. I title itHelp Rebuild Valleyview. I write a few paragraphs about the fire, the displaced tenants, a community in limbo. But mostly, I let the photos do the talking.

Before I can second-guess myself, I post it.

And then I share the link on Instagram. I’m social-media friends with a lot of my former clients. I’m hoping at least a few of them will repost. Supporting a feel-good local story is always a good look for a company’s image.

I find a community Facebook group, and a neighborhood subreddit where everyone usually just complains about parking, and post the link there too.

I open the Valleyview Slack thread on my phone. I hover my thumb over the chat bar, then swipe the app closed.

I sit back and stare. For the first time in days, my heart feels full. Not hopeful, exactly—but grounded. Like I’ve done something right.

Or at least something true.

Sami’s Sammie

Two months later...

It’s the last week of August, and summer feels like its on borrowed time. For the first time in months, I make my way to the street I used to know so well.

I never come here anymore. My new month-to-month rental is well north of the river, in a building with one broken elevator, a screaming child, and a guy who owns a literal punching bag. But it’s in my budget and close to my new job, and all mine—for now.

My mom did offer to let me stay and save some of that money to get ahead, but things are going so well with us now—other than the constant stream of aunties she hosts who seem to compete for who can scream the loudest in Farsi—that I had to leave to keep things healthy.

I’m holding a manila folder cupped against my chest like a small trophy.

As I make my way up the block, a weird sort of nostalgia tugs at me. Most things are the same, but a few more orange construction fences have sprouted up. I shift my folder under my arm to give the latest addition the middle finger. (It’s what my favorite diner guy would want, after all.)

“What the hell, lady!” Shit. I didn’t realize a construction worker was leaning against the fence drinking a can of Monster when he caught my stray finger.

“Sorry! Thought you were my ex!” I call back. The guy shakes his head and goes back to guzzling his drink.

Irene’s waiting for me in front of Valleyview Apartments—the entrance still covered in tape with a big sign declaring it illegal to enter. As I approach, Ernest starts to go bananas, squealing and wagging his tail so fast I’m slightly worried he might go airborne.

A jittery buzz builds in my chest as I make it closer to the building, closer to the diner. By the time I reach the park, I’m practically vibrating.

“Mona,” Irene greets me. She’s wearing a floral top and sweatpants, and her hair is longer. She looks good, though. “I hope the big envelope means good news.”

“Hey!” I say. “How’s it going at Sami’s?”

Irene ended up taking the spare bedroom above the diner, and from what she’s told me, the family has been more than gracious, giving her both space and plenty of food (especially ice cream).

“Oh, they’ve been lovely landlords,” Irene says. “Though the noise has been getting worse lately, with the dinner crowd.”

Finally, after a bit of pain, we were able to get insurance to agree to a settlement that would cover the repairs (which hopefully will start next week) and leave some breathing room for the months of lost income.

Finally, I look at the diner across the street. A new sign has been pasted above the entrance—light blue and white with a cleaner font.

Corner Coffee & (Normal!) Food

I can’t help my grin. Through the window, I spot the silhouettes of patrons gathered in the front booth, and two more at the bar. For an afternoon, I’ve never seen it so busy.

“Looks like business is good,” I say wistfully.

“Thanks to you,” Irene says. “Our little scheme has brought all the young people out. Apparently old things are cool again, so long as you have a couple of exposed Edison bulbs.”