Page 52 of The Re-Proposal

“No.” I slide the padlock through the bars and secure it. “But I’ve left a million messages with his secretary.”

“We can’t have a grand opening without sponsors.”

I clear my throat. “I’ll find new ones.”

“In a week?”

My shoulders slump.

“Is there no other option?” She gives me a pointed look.

“No. None,” I say firmly.

“It’ll work out,” Ms. Phoebe glances at the dusky sky. “These things have a way of doing that.”

“Maybe,” I say. But inside, the pressure mounts.

Am I doing the right thing by driving Cody away?

One side of me argues that I am. He intentionally blocked all the charity’s funding so we had no choice but to call him. He made us vulnerable. He used his power to put us in our place.

How can we work with someone like that?

But what’s the alternative if we don’t?

I can’t let my selfishness ruin the co-op.

It’s because of me that we’re in this mess anyway. If I wasn’t running point on the Do More project, Cody wouldn’t have gotten involved at all. My past is causing this mess. It’s not fair to the women who are completely innocent.

The debate runs circles through my mind. I’m heavy and thoughtful all the way to my tiny studio apartment.

Inside, I shuck out of my sneakers and fall face-down on the couch.

“What do I do?” I moan to the silence.

If I was waiting for a voice to hand me the answer, it’s not forthcoming.

At my wit’s end, I do the only thing that makes sense—I call my mother.

She answers on the third ring.

“Hi, Rissa.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling a wave of comfort. Mom’s voice conjures images of cooking noodles in the park over an electric stove and a pot filled with fountain water. It reminds me of dollar store snacks. Gas station showers. Two days of Christmas—the actual day and the one we celebrated when mom was off-shift.

My mother has this magical quality about her. She could twist the most devastating moments into gold and make a struggle feel like an adventure.

When I was younger, I never knew we were poor. I thought we were normal. I thought we were happy.

It wasn’t until I got older that I realized how much mom suffered. And it wasn’t until recently that I recognized how hard it must have been to smile and pretend we were happy through that kind of pain.

“Mom,” I grab one of my fluffy cushions and pick at the threading, “I need your advice.”

“Give me a second. Let me put this soup to boil.” In the background, there’s the click of a stove.

My mother is a traveling Good Samaritan.

That’s not her official title, but I don’t know what else to call it. She travels small towns and forgotten cities, volunteering and giving back to the community. I rarely get to see her, but I also know that she’s doing what she loves.

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