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Five

Chapter 5

Arin

“I’m sorry, Ms. Wilson, but your credit history leaves much to be desired.” I sit across from Marnie, a financial advisor with Tillman-Hopkins

National Bank, anxiously reminding myself to take deep, calm breaths. The

contents of my portfolio are spread out over the surface of her desk, detailing every single step in my proposed business plan. I’ve even brought in a few sample pieces I made to show her I’m not all talk. I was told having proof of concept was something bankers like, after all.

Swallowing the lump in the back of my throat, I say, “I know my credit is

—”

“Next to non-existent?”

“—a work progress. But like I told you, I graduated from the Fashion

Institute of Technology two years ago, and I’ve spent the last year interning at Ralph Lauren. As you can see from my designs, I’m ready to launch my own label. All I need is a loan of twenty-thousand dollars to provide my business with enough capital to—”

Marnie collects the documents before her, gathers them into a neat pile, and taps the edge against her desk before slipping everything back into the folder. She adjusts her glasses and sighs deeply. “Your designs are beautiful, Ms. Wilson, but I cannot approve this loan. According to your bank statements, you barely make enough to cover your bills and the minimum payments to keep your loan in good standing.”

Desperation claws at my lungs, my heart beating frantically. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for ages, and I can feel it slipping from my grasp. “Isn’t there anything I can do?” I ask. “Please, there has to be something.

Fashion Week is coming up in September. I’m hoping to launch my label by then and use the event to drum up hype. If enough people learn about my designs, maybe they’ll buy enough to pay back my loan and then some.”

“That’s the thing, Ms. Wilson,” the financial advisor says, resting her

elbows on her desk. “Maybe your launch will be a success, and maybe you’ll have enough interested customers buying your pieces… But banks don’t operate on maybes.”

She stands, a silent signal that this conversation is done.

I rise, my chin held high. I knew this was going to be a long shot, but no one can say I didn’t give it a good old fashion try.

“It’s nothing personal, Ms. Wilson,” Marnie says, giving me a sturdy handshake. “For what it’s worth, your dresses really are beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I mumble before turning on my heels to leave.

I step out of the bank, heart still pounding loudly in my chest. Got my hopes up for nothing. I tuck my carefully prepared business plan beneath my arm and start down the street, glaring at the ground like it owes me money. Back to square one.

New York is loud and bright, an anonymous sea of faces I’ve learned to blend in with. The sound of traffic fills my ears, a cacophony of rumbling engines, distant sirens, and insistent honking. The streets are crowded, not just with passersby going about their business, but with massive piles of black garbage bags awaiting collection on the curbs. It’s a sweltering day in mid-July, the heat of the sun exacerbated by the mirror-like windows of the towering skyscrapers all around us. I’m greatly looking forward to the cooler, crisper months of fall.

I take the subway and walk the rest of the way home, taking in the colors of the city as I go. The streets are yellow with a seemingly endless stream of cabs. The sides of buildings are a beautiful mosaic of graffiti. The people I pass are colorful, too, the stories of their lives reflected in the clothes they choose to wear.

Marnie was right. I make just enough to cover my bills from month to month. The money Granny Ruth left me went to finance my education. Do I wish I made a little more? Obviously. But I have to remind myself that I’m doing fine. I’m making it on my own, and I’m immensely proud of that fact.

I’m just about to climb the stairs to my apartment on the third floor when Mrs. Jones hobbles up the front steps of the building, a small grocery bag in hand. She’s got an entire stack of coupons in the other, several of them already clipped out.

“Arin!” she greets. “How are you doing today? Did your meeting at the bank go well?”

I smile stiffly. “They’re going to… get back to me.”

“Ah. Not so well, then?”

“It’ll be fine. I’ll figure something out. Can I help you carry up your groceries?”

“That’s quite alright, my dear.” She hands me her stack of coupons. “I dog-eared a few pages for you. Saw some things you and your little one might like.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jones. That’s really sweet of you.”

She reaches into her pocket next and pulls out a business card. “And this

is just in case the bank doesn’t get back to you.” “What is it?”

“The number of a private lender.”

I turn the card over, reading the golden embossed lettering. Lorenzo Marroni. “Private lender,” I repeat. “You mean a loan shark? I don’t know if that’s such a good idea…”

“I know, I know,” Mrs. Jones said, a flash of something sad misting her eyes. “His interest rates are through the roof, but if it’s money you need, they rarely say no to anyone. Plus, there’s a really nice young man working there right now. He helped give me an extension—”

“You made a deal with a loan shark?” I gasp. “I’m sorry. That sounded really judgmental.”

“These are desperate times, my dear. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.” Mrs. Jones gives my hand a gentle pat. “You’re under no obligation to call. I just thought it could be helpful.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jones. I’ll… keep it in mind.”

“See you later, dear. You’re coming to the block party next week, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

I take the stairs two at a time and reach the door at the very end of the hall. On the other side, I hear the familiar sounds of “Paw Patrol” playing on the TV. I enter quietly, all my troubles forgotten the moment I see my daughter. Felicia sits on Lana’s lap, watching with focus as the characters get up to their usual shenanigans. She immediately loses interest when she spots me out of the corner of her eye.

“Mommy!” she cheers, hopping up to rush over to me.

I drop everything on the small hallway table and pick my four-year old up, kissing her cute little cheeks. “There’s my favorite girl in the whole world!”

Lana, my roommate, laughs. “I thought I was your favorite girl in the whole world.”

I roll my eyes, hugging my daughter close. “Believe me, you’re in close second. If anything changes, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

The three of us share a two-bedroom apartment in the Downtown Eastside. The building’s one of the older ones, pushing seventy-five with questionable dingy carpet. The once dark green wallpaper has faded with years of sun exposure, there’s an ever-present musty smell in the hallway, and the kitchen is cramped as all hell. Still, it’s home. With the rent split between Lana and me, it’s honestly not the worst place to live.

Our furniture is a mishmash of different pieces, nothing belonging to its original set. Our dining table and rickety wooden chairs were picked up off the curb, the couch we got from a neighbor moving out almost a year ago, and many of our mismatched cutlery and plates we scored at the local flea market. It’s messy and a bit chaotic, and I definitely yearn for a bit more space, but at least it’s mine.

“How’d it go?” Lana asks me, brushing off the back of her jeans. My silent head shake is enough of an answer.

Lana shrugs. “Tillman-Hopkins is shit anyway.” My little girl gawks. “Auntie Lana said bad word.”

I laugh. “Do you think she should put a dollar in the swear jar?” “Yeah!”

Lana sighs dramatically. “When will I ever learn?”

Setting Felicia down, I pat her gently on the back. “Can you please clean up your toys and wash your hands? I’m going to get started on dinner in a minute.”

“Okay, Mommy!” she exclaims, waddling off toward the living room to pick up her various knickknacks.

Lana takes her place beside me, smiling nonchalantly as I shrug off my coat. “Water bill arrived earlier today. So did the electric and phone. Need me to spot you?”

“I’m not going to take money from a friend.” “You know I don’t mind.”

“You already do so much for me. I can cover my half of the water bill, don’t worry. Do you remember the Gomez family that commissioned me last month?”

“Yeah. They had, like, triplets or something?”

“They loved the dresses I made for their girls’ quinceañeras so much that they referred me to a couple of friends of theirs. I’ve got two dresses lined up. That’s a grand a pop. If I can figure out how to sell one more, I’ll be golden this month.”

“That’s good to hear, babe, but…” “What?”

Lana gives me a side hug as Felicia puts away the last of her toys. “You’re working yourself to the bone. I don’t want you to burn out, that’s all. Are you sure you can’t reach out to the father and ask for a little support?”

I take a deep breath. Lana and I met at the Fashion Institute of Technology. When we discovered we were taking most of the same classes, we very quickly became friends. She was surprised when I walked in on my first day, baby Felicia on my hip. She was one of the only ones who offered to help me when she’d start crying or if I had a presentation to give at the front of the class. She knows I’m a single mom, but I’ve never told her the full story.

I think about him often. Dominic. It’s the only name I have to go on. That creepy guy on the jet freaked me out so much I didn’t even think to ask for Dominic’s last name or his contact information. Imagine my surprise when, a month later, I discovered that my period was late. The rest was history.

Keeping Felicia is a decision I’ll never regret. Yes, sometimes things get hard. The thought of raising a baby alone was daunting, but so very worth it. My daughter is one of my biggest motivations in life. I’m determined to make it as a fashion designer so I can give her the life she deserves. The way I see it, if I can bring this beautiful little girl into the world all by myself, I can do anything if I put my mind to it.

“You know he’s out of the picture,” I whisper to her. “But it’s all good.

Everything’s going to work out.”

Lana kisses my cheek. “You’re a damn inspiration, you know that? You should get a book deal or something.”

I snort. “Maybe we can get Oprah to add it to her book club.”

“Mommy, ‘m hungry!” Felicia announces from the living room. “I want ice cream.”

“Ooh, I want ice cream, too,” Lana says, hurrying over to scoop my daughter up.

“You know the rules, sweetie. Eat all your veggies first, then you get one scoop.”

“Aww,” Lana whines. “But I’ve been good all day!”

Felicia places her hand over Lana’s mouth and frowns. “Rules!” she says, exasperated.

I laugh as I head to the kitchen, running my fingers along the edges of the business card hiding in my pocket.

Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

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