Page 9 of Lease to Love

The shop fell into its usual rhythm around us—quiet conversation near the mirror, the soft shuffle of hangers sliding along racks, the hum of the air-conditioning unit I'd been meaning to have looked at for two weeks now.

"That breakup is the best thing that could've happened to you," Mama said without looking up from her phone. "You know that, right?"

I let out another sigh.

"I know. It's just annoying to be publicly humiliated by a man who drives his mama's car while you're also trying to run a business, launch a fall collection, and convince the bank that your revenue projections are realistic. I know that much."

Mama finally looked up.

"And the landlord?"

I flinched.

There it was.

The other problem.

Mama knew my landlord had been a thorn in my ass for the better part of three years, and that our long-standing beef had gotten particularly tense now that business was tighter.

I looked down at the rack of pants.

"The landlord is a whole other conversation that I'm not gonna have right now."

Mama's expression shifted.

Less nosy hover mother. More worried mom checking in.

"How bad is it?"

"It’s not bad."

The words came out too high, too strained to be believable, so I cleared my throat.

"I promise. It's just... tight. August is always tight, and he becomes more of a bastard than usual, and then September picks up, and by November, I'm fine. I'm always fine by holiday season, and old Ebenezer Scrooge crawls back to his den of gold and leaves me alone until spring."

I’d been telling myself some version of that for three years.

When my original landlord died, and ownership of the building changed hands, the new landlord gave me one month’s notice before raising my rent.

That was it.

No introduction. No handshake. No How’s business going? No conversation about the fact that I’d been here for three years, had poured my own money and sweat into the place, and had built something worth protecting.

Just a new number on a piece of paper.

A number high enough to make my stomach drop.

High enough that the comfortable little margin I'd spent three years building disappeared overnight.

And I’d hated him ever since.

So no.

I didn't particularly care to talk about the landlord… But Mama didn't need to carry that.

Hell, I didn't even want to carry it myself.

So I changed the subject.