Crazy Thing (The Brighton Family #5)

Chapter 7

7

ZIGGY

N ew day, same story.

After another long and unprofitable day at my shop, I head out the back door, lock up, and climb onto my bike. It’s one of my most prized possessions, a bright yellow retro bicycle with super high handlebars and an oversized basket on the front. It gets me where I’m going whenever I don’t want to drive my big bus around.

But even with the nice breeze blowing my messy pink hair, I’m already regretting this particular bike ride.

I have been meditating all day at work—I had plenty of time since my only ‘customer’ today walked in to ask for directions to the coffee shop—and despite the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I know I have to do this.

Putting on a brave face, I coast out of the back alley and bike across town. I’m on my way to confirm with my landlord that I will not be renewing the lease and that I’ll begin packing my shop up to vacate the premises this weekend.

My brother, Timothy, would probably tell me to just say sayonara by moving out without giving my landlord the courtesy of a heads-up. But despite the man’s unwillingness to allow me any more time to come up with my overdue rent payments, my landlord has always been a nice guy. So my gut is telling me that coming here today is the right thing to do.

But when I park my bike on the sidewalk and amble into my landlord’s dark, shoebox-like office, he greets me with an oddly large grin. He’s grinning so big in fact, it looks like his face is about to split in two underneath that bushy, gray mustache.

Uhh. Okay. This is…different.

My brows pinch together, and I’m about to ask what he’s so freakishly happy about.Before I can get a single word out, my landlord hops out of his squeaky chair, rounds his desk, and shoves out his hand to eagerly shake mine.

“Oh, gosh. I’m so glad you came in, Ziggy.” He ushers me into a seat. “Sit. Sit. Please. Have a donut. Should I pour you a coffee? Oh, wait. Kombucha. I can run out and get you a kombucha. Would you like that?”

I’m starting to think that my gut was wrong. Coming here today was not the right thing to do. Because this man is acting hella suspicious.

“Are you doing okay, Mr. Jones?” I ask him, clutching the strap of my canvas satchel. This man had better not get too close because my homemade pepper spray is ready to go.

Yeah, yeah—peace and love. But safety first. Safety always.

Thankfully, the man returns to his chair behind his desk. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for catching up on your rent.”

My forehead crinkles with confusion. “I—I…what…?”

He starts to ramble. “You know I never wanted to send you that terrible letter. I wouldn’t have sent it, but my granddaughter needs braces—not the normal ones either. She has her heart set on those new fancy, clear ones. And both my grandsons’ soccer registrations are due next week, and we were thinking we might have to pick only one of them to play club level this season. And you know how slow things can get business wise here in Honey Hill. So, thanks for taking care of that, Ziggy, and especially for paying the whole year in advance. You’re all set now with renewal.”

My jaw is resting on the floor as my landlord word-vomits all over me. What in the prophecy stone is happening right now?

I gasp when it hits me. It’s a miracle! A miracle from the universe!

This is finally the answer I’ve been seeking. Well, this is actually light years ahead of the measly answer I was meditating on. The universe has clearly gone out, taken matters into her own hands, and completely solved my financial problems.

I’m so happy I could cry.

That is, until the landlord hands me a copy of the receipt. I read over the crumpled printout. I squint at the coffee ring stain in the middle, before skimming down to the payment details at the bottom.

And, fuck— Darius Brighton .

His name is printed right under the bank card number and expiry date.

Miracle, my ass.