Scrooge

4. Haylee

4

HAYLEE

I ’m breathless as Jillian and I run to catch the train. Late-night travel in New York isn’t ideal, but we are together, and we step into the carriage in sync, relieved to be inside and away from the cool air.

“Hey, Deloris,” I say as we take a seat and spot another regular commuter.

“Ahhh, shut up.” She scowls, and I smile.

“We missed you too,” I say, looking at the homeless lady who has been riding this train line for years. Her skin is heavily wrinkled from being outside in the elements, reflective of the hard life she has lived.

“You’re late,” she snaps.

“The toy store needed a new window. Thanksgiving is not far away.” In exactly three weeks, two days, and sixteen hours. I’m excited for my second favorite holiday of the year.

“You got any food?” she snaps again, and Jillian pulls out the sandwich she made in the staff kitchen before we left—in case we saw her. Deloris snatches it and unwraps it quickly, stuffing it in her mouth like she is starved. She probably is.

“Where are you sleeping tonight, Deloris?” Jillian asks. We have tried to help her many times over the years. Clothes, food, shelter. She takes the clothes and food, but she has been on the streets for a long time, and as a lifer, she doesn’t like the shelters much, seeming to prefer riding the subway all night.

“None of your business.” Crumbs fall from her mouth with her response. I give her a small soft smile as the train takes on more passengers.

“Urgghhh, disgusting,” a well-dressed woman says as she walks past the three of us in her business attire and sky-high stilettos, clearly either having just finished work or heading home at the end of her after-work drinks. I frown at her acting like we are diseased.

“It isn’t hard to just shut up and walk past. No need to comment,” I mumble under my breath, and Jillian elbows me in the side.

“Don’t start anything,” she whispers and gives the woman an evil side-eye, although she isn’t looking at us anymore, her head firmly buried in her phone. I watch her as she lifts the phone and purses her lips, taking a selfie, and I roll my eyes.

“It isn’t hard for people to be nice,” I tell my sister, and she gives me a thin-lipped smile.

“So who was the guy you were chatting with on the street earlier?” Jillian asks, and my brain immediately snaps back to the well-dressed, handsome, yet irritating man.

“No one. Just another city suit.” I try to downplay the encounter, even though I’ve been thinking of not much else since it happened, his broad shoulders and his chiseled jaw still on replay in my mind. As are his smoldering eyes and the way he looked back at me as he rounded the corner.

She gives me a small smile, like she knows exactly what I am thinking.

“You know, just because Jaryd was an asshole, doesn’t mean all men in suits are,” she says, and just the mention of my ex sends a shiver down my spine and turns my blood cold. We both know “asshole” is too kind of a description of someone who decided to put his fist in my face.

“I try not to judge, and don’t want to generalize, but in this case, it’s hard not to.” I grab my earlobe, pulling on it automatically. The nervous twitch I developed as a kid is something I never grew out of, to the annoyance of my mom.

“Hmmm, is that why you are pulling your ear? You only do that when you are nervous. Did the suit man make you nervous, Haylee?” my sister teases, and I roll my eyes at her before dropping my hand, the sheer will I need for the movement almost debilitating.

“No. Not at all,” I say, moving my eyes from her to out the window. Our trip home is almost an hour into New Jersey. Our train is full of commuters just like us.

“Hmm, you need to start dating again,” she murmurs, and I huff.

“That sounds about as appetizing as being stabbed in the eyeball with a hot poker.”

“You can’t stay single all your life.”

I’m already shaking my head before she’s finished.

“Watch me. I’m going to get a cat and become a cat lady,” I tell her jokingly. I hate cats.

We’re quiet for a few minutes, but I can sense something on her mind. When I look back at her, I see her face filled with worry.

“What’s wrong?”

“What will you do when the shop closes?” she asks tentatively, biting the inside of her lip.

“The shop will not close.” I say it with confidence, rolling my shoulders. I need to find a way to keep us going.

“It’s time to be realistic, Haylee. Even if it doesn’t close right away, it will eventually. You’ve seen the decline in our sales. Kids aren’t as into toys like they once were, not with all the technology around now. Maybe you should put your creativity to good use. All those paintings you create are taking up too much room at Mom and Dad’s house anyway.”

“It’s just a hobby,” I tell her, shrugging off her comment. My ex’s voice replays in my head. Jaryd hated my paintings, said it was an immature, time-consuming hobby that I needed to get rid of if I was serious about a relationship with him. Since then, I have only painted at my parents’ place and don’t really share my work with anyone anymore.

“You are really good. You could show your work in a gallery. People would buy it,” she says, and I grab at my earlobe again, a move she doesn’t miss.

“Hmmm, confident with everything else, but when it comes to you and your own ability, not so much, eh?” Her eyebrow lifts, waiting for my denial, and I take a deep breath. Showcasing my art pieces would be a dream if I could get over the crippling anxiety I have developed surrounding it.

“Just leave it,” I tell her, sounding exasperated.

“We need a plan B. Mom and Dad will move into retirement. Any money we make between now and closing at Christmas will fund them. But us? We need a plan,” she enunciates, and I can feel myself frowning.

“ If you need to, you will find something.”

“I have two kids to support, who have a deadbeat absentee father who shows up periodically asking for money…”

“Another asshole,” I add on a sigh.

“Seems we can pick them.” Bumping her shoulder into mine playfully, we both let out a matching groan of frustration, which at least makes us chuckle.

“Why can’t you go into finance? You did that at school, and you have managed the books at the shop before,” I ask her, and she thinks it over for a moment.

“Maybe… I enjoy numbers. I like budgets.”

“It doesn’t matter, though. I’m certain we won’t need a plan B.” I sit up straighter and shift to look into her eyes. “We will keep the shop.”

“I love your positivity, even if it is misplaced this time.” As she looks back at me with a smirk, maybe even a flicker of hope, the familiar feeling of dread crawls up my chest just thinking about our predicament. I am about to look away so she can’t spot my doubts, but her eyes widen and her teasing smile drops.

“What? What is it?” I ask, slight panic filling me at the look on her face.

“Oh. My. God. Isn’t that the guy you were talking to on the street?” she asks, looking past me. I swivel and glance over my shoulder, not seeing anyone.

“Where? What are you talking about?” I’m confused, not seeing anyone who remotely looks like him on this train.

“Deloris. Can I look at that newspaper you have?” Jillian asks, and it must be the way she asks or maybe the way her face has paled, because Deloris passes it over without a smart comment or snarl.

“What? What is it?” I ask her as she grabs the newspaper and folds it so we are looking at the finance section. When I see what she is seeing, I think my heart stops for the second time today, because staring back at me is the same handsome face I saw earlier. Still not smiling. Looking a mix of broody and stubborn, his shoulders are just as wide as I remember them, his scowl just as cold. He has his hands on his hips, like he feels the entire photoshoot is a waste of his time, yet he commands the camera like no one I have ever seen.

“Who is it?” I ask, squinting as I try to read the caption.

“Holy shit…” Jillian whispers. “It’s him!” Her eyes are wide as they snap to me, but I still can’t see the caption.

“Him who?” I ask, trying to grab the newspaper from her, but she has it gripped tight.

“The son. It’s Jerry Jackson’s son. Says his name is Alexander.”

“Seriously?” I say, nerves tingling as I think back to our interaction.

“You didn’t insult him, did you? We can’t be meeting him and pissing him off,” she says in a rush, panicked, because she knows me too well. My lips clamp shut, rolling around my teeth as I recall the few words we spoke.

“Shit, you didn't?” she asks, her shoulders slumping.

“I may have called him a… dickwad…” I tell her, swallowing roughly, feeling slightly bad that I have insulted the only person who can literally change our life circumstances right now.

“Dickwad? What are you? Twelve? What the hell is wrong with you!” Jillian whisper-yells at me.

“I didn’t know it was him. Besides, he was a dickwad. I could’ve said worse,” I whisper-yell back with an eyeroll.

“But we need to get him on our side! You need to apologize,” she says with a huff, folding the newspaper onto her lap.

“I am not apologizing.” Shaking my head, my stubborn self isn’t budging.

“You need to. You need to go to his office next week and fall to your knees and beg him not to take our shop.”

I nearly laugh, but there’s no ounce of humor staring back at me.

“You have got to be kidding me!” I hiss. “I am not getting on my knees! Especially for that man.”

“Take one for the family, Haylee. Buy him a sunflower or something. Mom and Dad always say sunflowers are the best flowers to brighten someone's day.” Her tone is unwavering. She really wants me to go beg for forgiveness.

“You can’t be serious? A sunflower?”

“Dead serious. We need to keep the store; otherwise, you will be selling your art at the flea market, and I will be balancing books at the local plumbers down the road, and you will never move out.” That hits me right in the gut. I love my sister, but I never thought I would be in my mid-twenties and sleeping on her pull-out sofa bed. But ever since Jaryd and I broke up, I have been struggling to save money and find somewhere to live that doesn’t cost me my entire paycheck.

“I will stay with you and make your life a misery at home, as well as at work,” I say a little too loudly, our sibling banter gaining a few nosy looks from nearby passengers.

“Well, do you have a better plan to save the shop, then? Because this is the first potential idea we have. You met him, so we have an opening. An apology visit is the perfect opportunity for you to see him again and beg him to not increase the rent and to leave us alone.”

I can see the pleading in her eyes, and it has my resolve cracking.

“I don’t want to apologize,” I tell her, knowing she is right. It does give me an in with him. A chance to talk to him businessperson to businessperson.

“Oh, stop your whining. You’re both giving me a fucking headache,” Deloris says, spitting her words at us before she takes a sip of what looks like a bottle of brandy that she had hidden under her jacket. A bit dribbles down her chin, and she swipes it with her sleeve.

And just like that, I smile. Because Deloris doesn’t have much, and she survives. And so will we.