Page 50 of The Perfect Rom-Com
“It’s a lot of money—”
“It’s fine,” I say again. “I have the funds. I’m not scraping by, Gran, I promise—”
“—because we’re going to shut our doors regardless.”
The funniest sensation fills my senses. It’s like all the blood has just decided to slip out of my body and go through the floors. Except for the extreme pounding of my heart. And the fact that some blood must be remaining in my body keeping it going.
“But . . .” I flex my fingers, then push them to my lap. “I know we’ve had some financial troubles. Which is why you keep going to DC searching for funds—”
“There are no funds. And the funds we have will not be renewed for the next calendar year.”
“But all your traveling—”
“I’ve hunted, yes. I’ve hunted all over. But the fact is, we are in challenging economic times. Washington’s eyes have cut to other pressing matters that are also important. It’s all important. It seems every facet of the government is sitting around a bed, and the sheet is too short to cover everyone all at once.” She presses her lips together. Exhales. “They’re cutting off our funding entirely. I plan to make the announcement to staff after Thanksgiving but before the semester starts. That should give them time to find other employment by January. As for the students, they’ll just have to go to Corwick starting next semester.”
“Corwick! That’s a ninety-minute drive!”
Half the students at least would drop out entirely. It’s too much money, too much transportation cost, too much time.
I don’t know how Madih works all night for hospice care and spends three hours each day going through classes when she has three kids at home to clothe and feed. When does she sleep? When does she spend time with her children? She couldn’t just cut out another three hours of each day for a commute.
“Bryony, calm down,” Gran says, looking at me fiercely. “Lower your voice.”
“I’m lowering,” I hiss, but inside my nerves are all tangled together and setting each other off. “How much more do we need?”
Gran’s shaking her head. “We are past that question. I’ve asked myself that question the past five years. Now it’s time to realize it’s done and go from here.”
“But how much?”
“Six million,” she says, and the number stills me. “Six million and we still wouldn’t have enough left over to fix our AC.”
“But . . . but surely something can be done?” I say, flustered. “You’ve kept this to yourself. Maybe with my help we can think of—”
“You have done enough. Believe me, honey, if there was any other way, I would have discovered it by now. The fact is, we are going under, and the very best thing you can do for me now, as your grandmother, is to hold on to your money—which is a whole other conversation we’ll have at a later time—and not waste it on a dying program.” She pauses. And then her eyes soften as she continues. “Despite how much we both love The Bridge, save it. Invest it.” She throws her hands up in the air. “Spend it if you will. Just do literally anything else besides dropping it in this fiery furnace never to be seen again.”
I stare down at my teacup. The juniper-mint tea slowly circles the cup. A little puff of steam wafts upward.
Funny how quickly bad news comes.
My entire world has been flipped upside down and the tea hasn’t even lost its steam.
“Fine,” I say at last. “But tell me one thing.” I flip through my mental files for the right words. “What would we need,” I say slowly, my voice measured, “to stay open just one more year?”
Gran squeezes her eyes shut.
Her lips press together, and I see in this moment the unspoken pain that she’s feeling too.
She opens her eyes. “A miracle.”
Silence settles between us.
It’s the most depressing thing I’ve heard in my twenty-nine years of life, outside of the most awful, dreadful day of Mom’s passing.
The silence breaks as my phone beeps with a text, and I look up at the little clock on Gran’s desk, telling me it’s five minutes to class time. I move to stand as I slip my phone out of my pocket.
It’s a text from Jack.
Have you talked to her about the book tour yet?
