What I want is no longer available.
It’s all been too much, and it doesn’t help that I’m worn out. I strip and get into the shower, needing to wash the sticky day off.
When I get out, there’s a ping on my phone with a message from Raiden.
Today was awesome. Crowds finally gone home. Thanks for forcing me to talk. See you tomorrow.
It’s almost seven and Raiden just wrapped up now. For all I know, Saturday night was just as busy. My eyes scroll over the few times we’ve messaged each other in the past. There aren’t many texts, given that we lived and worked and slept together, but in the later ones I have, he always ended his messages with three Xs for kisses.
Now there are none. Tomorrow is the last day I’ll ever have with him. After the auction, there’ll be no more reason for us to stay together. We’ll go our separate ways. I toss my phone onto the bed, at last caving in to the ugly heartbreak tears that have been building under pressure over the past few days.
40
RAIDEN
I wanted to win this tiny house competition for several reasons—foremost of all to open the bank manager’s door to me, but there’s also other exposure that’s guaranteed to the winner: articles in various design and architectural magazines, blogs, and other influencer accounts.
In the beginning, I didn’t take into account the TV show and how that could put a business on the map, as Georgiana pointed out. Spending the day at the convention was a massive eye-opener. I’ve seen the crowd’s love firsthand. I’ve spoken with potential customers and fellow enthusiasts, and I know I can take this to the next level without waiting for the announcement of the competition winners at the end of the TV show.
I’m nervous and edgy as I wait for Georgiana to arrive. I’ve been here since nine and now it’s already eleven thirty and still she isn’t here. The crowd is dense, the convention center packed and buzzing with excitement. It’s as if the whole space is holding its breath for the next hour to see how the auction is going to pan out.
Jack and his team, ever-present but fortunately out of my face, are done rigging their cameras and are testing the sound system now. The auctioneer’s elevated lectern stands ready at the first house. I’ve watched the auctioneer pacing the space for the past two hours, inspecting each tiny house and getting familiar with his product.
The latest addition to our houses is numbers, and we’re last in line. For some reason, we’re number ten, and I bet it has to do with our unpublished disqualification. Or maybe they’re doing this alphabetically and we are last, being from Vermont.
A moment of intense sadness floods through me. I don’t know what I’d do if Georgiana doesn’t show for this. If she decides to cut the cord and not even be here to see our little build for the last time, the one thing that brought us together. I hate to see it go too, and giving our tiny house a name took it to the next level of emotional attachment.
The tiny houses have been closed for further viewing and now I can’t even be distracted by questions from people who I’ve realized value what I have to say, in whichever way the words come out. I scan the crowd and I groan in relief when I see her making her way through the cordoned-off area.
“You’re here,” I breathe, burning with the need to take her in my arms.
“I came to see how it goes today…and to say goodbye to our Tic Tack Tiny.”
There’s not a lot to read between the lines there. She came to say goodbye to me too.
I’m such an idiot. I have to make this right, somehow.
“Georgiana…y-you’ve been—” I break off. How do I say what I need to say to go back to Thursday afternoon before this whole explosive weekend?
“Where’s our desk?”
“In my truck. Some administrator asked me earlier to remove it to open up the area for better viewing.”
“Okay.” She crosses her arms, putting a barrier between us. “I checked the inbox this morning.”
“Inbox?”
“Your website has an email signup and there’s also a contact email for further enquiries. I’ve emailed all the details to your usual email address.”
“You know I never check my inbox.”
She shrugs and takes in the crowd. “There’s a lot of people here. I hope they’re here to spend some money. In any case, you might want to check Tic Tack Tiny’s inbox regularly. There are seven people who’ve been to the convention and want quotes for custom builds.”
My eyes pop. “You for real?”
“Very.” A sweet smile plays on her lips. “They’re from Boston and New York and want to have a call to discuss details, so you see, you don’t need to win this competition to start your own business.”
My brain is digesting this at full throttle, trying to figure out what to do with this information and where to file it. Seven custom builds—that’s a year’s work, give or take, depending on what they want. I drag my hands through my hair and stare at her, flabbergasted. “I don’t know what to say—”