It was the day after that unpleasant encounter with Chase Blastoviak, and I was back in the coffee shop, where the morning rush had already come and gone, just like the coffee shop's owner, a woman named Abigail, who owned another business across town.
As usual, I'd tucked my cell phone into my apron pocket. And now, with nobody else in the shop, I was using my cell phone's earbuds – the kind with a microphone included – to talk to Natalie while I wiped down the tables.
I had to remind her, "Hey, I just found out this week."
"Yeah. On Monday, which was four whole days ago."
"Yeah, so?"
"So you should've told them by now."
I wasn't sure if she meant the festival committee or my parents, but my response was the same either way. "Tell them what? That the festival's screwed? I can't do that."
"Why not?" she asked.
"Because that's admitting defeat. And I still have a few more sponsors on my list."
"You mean potential sponsors."
"Okay, fine. Potential sponsors, then."
"So, how many have you contacted?"
Reluctantly, I said, "Almost all of them."
"And?"
I sighed. "And they all said basically the same thing. They can chip in a little, but not enough to make a difference."
I'd been disappointed, but not surprised. The local economy wasn't terrific, and times were tight for everyone, especially small, local businesses.
And yet, just down the street from where I stood right now, there was a huge business – a global business with local owners. This should have been a no-brainer. Blast Tools would've been the perfect sponsor for all kinds of reasons.
Unlike the other businesses on my list, Blast was on a huge upswing. Thanks to that reality show, their brand had become a household name, not just here in Bayside, but all over the globe.
The company was privately owned, too, which meant the decision could be made on the spot – if only someone, anyone, at the company would give me the chance to make my pitch.
Until yesterday, I'd had zero luck in securing anything resembling a meeting. I'd called. I'd emailed. I'd even stopped by in person – only to be given the brush-off by the main receptionist.
That was part of the reason I'd been so excited to see Chase Blastoviak standing out there on the sidewalk. As everyone knew, he was the one who handled all of the promotional activities for Blast Tools, which meant that he'd been the contact of my dreams.
Some dream.
Our encounter had been a total nightmare.
Even now, as I gazed out the same front window, I could practically hear his voice in my head, telling me, "Look, I don't want to fuck you, okay?"
The jerk.
And yet, I'd actually managed to be polite and professional, even after he'd been such an arrogant tool.
On the phone, Natalie was in the process of encouraging me yet again to tell everyone what had happened when a soft thud from somewhere behind me made me turn to look.
When I did, I spotted Abigail standing behind the coffee counter, looking seriously ticked off.
I wasn't even sure why. Was it because I was talking on my cell phone? I felt my brow wrinkle in confusion. Did she even realize I was on it?
As far as I knew, there was no rule against talking on my personal cell, especially in an empty shop.
And yet, I could tell by Abigail's scowl that I'd done something to displease her. After all, she'd seemed perfectly happy two hours ago, when she'd left the coffee shop to open her fabric store across town.
Still, I tried to smile as I said, "Oh hi." I glanced toward the back room. "So I guess you came in through the back, huh?"
Abigail was around my mom's age with short black hair and an upbeat demeanor, well, usually, anyway.
Not now.
In a strained voice, she replied, "Yes. Is that a problem?"
It shouldn’t have been a problem. I mean, it was her shop, not mine. But obviously, something was a problem. With growing unease, I asked, "Is something wrong?"
She eyed me with obvious disgust. "You might say that."
In my ear, my sister had gone totally silent, which was probably for the best. With my boss glaring daggers at me, I chose to ignore the microphone near my face as I said a silent prayer that Abigail would conclude that I was simply listening to music or a podcast.
Or maybe this was frowned on, too.
I wasn't quite sure. All I knew was that I'd obviously done something wrong. With a nervous smile, I held up the damp cloth and explained, "I was just wiping down the tables."
"Good," she said. "When you're done, you can leave."
I glanced toward the nearby clock. It was barely ten-thirty in the morning. My shift didn't end for six whole hours. "So…you're letting me go early?"
"No. I’m letting you go, period."
On the phone, I heard my sister gasp. Or maybe that was me. I didn't get it. Even if the phone thing was a problem, surely I'd get a warning before I'd be fired.
By now, my heart was racing. Even though this wasn't my dream job, I was too mortified to speak. I'd never been fired before. Even the thing with the bank, that was part of a mass layoff. It wasn't personal or related to my performance.
But from the look on Abigail's face, this was personal and then some.
Somehow, I managed to say, "Can I ask why?"
Her eyes narrowed to slits. "You know why."
I reached up and practically yanked the earbuds from my ears. As I stuffed them into my apron pocket, I said, "Is it the phone thing? Because—"
"No," she snapped. "It's not the 'phone thing' – whatever you mean by that."
I shook my head. "So what is it?"
She crossed her arms. "Did you, or did you not, make a run for Chase Blastoviak?"
I blinked. "Make a run?"
"Yes," she said. "As in chase him
