Page 10 of Chasing the Wild
New gloves are going to be one of my first purchases.
First, I have one more week to get through before my paycheck from Shipton arrives, and that should tide over the payments for Evaline. I swipe open my emails on my phone and hit reply to the conversation I’ve been having over the past few weeks with the administration office. They’d been kind enough to give me an extension on December’s payments, but that means January is going to need to be repaid at double the usual amount.
I tap out a quick one-liner explaining that my new job is confirmed and that I’ll be able to cover the overdue fees within the coming week. Then, I email my course supervisor to let him know that I’ve secured my next veterinary placement, along with forwarding him their business details, website, and other administrative information they need to register in my file.
One step closer to being graduated come August, fully qualified, and securing a permanent position somewhere.
While there’s no requirement for me to complete my work placements within a set period of time, there is a minimum of twelve months of on-the-job apprenticeship training required before I can become fully certified. As of this winter, I’m in a race against my own life to become a graduated, qualified veterinarian. And with that comes the security of being able to finally land a job with a full-time salary, guaranteed hours, insurance, and medical. I simply don’t have the luxury of taking my time while surviving on part-time wages and picking up as many bar shifts to supplement my income as possible, like other students my age.
The financial weight of supporting not only myself, but taking care of the woman who was a better mother to me than my own, is drowning me slowly day by day. The home Evaline isin has been the only place able to meet her needs, but it comes with a price.
I need this job, and just need to survive these next seven months until the earliest possible moment I can graduate.
As I sit here waiting for my fingertips to thaw, my phone buzzes in my lap. Without looking at the screen, I answer the call—expecting it to be Shipton Stables ringing back about some other detail for my impending arrival.
“Hello.”
“Am I speaking with Miss Birch?” A clipped voice appears on the other end of the line.
My stomach sinks. This isn’t the woman I was speaking to moments before.
“Yes, I’m Layla Birch.” As I reply, I angle the phone so I can see the number on the screen.
Restricted caller ID.
Fucking brilliant. I mentally chide myself for picking up. Calls like this terrify me, and I usually send them straight to my voicemail graveyard. These people only ever call for one reason, and it’s almost always to do with owing money.
“This is Bonnie Wilton from Gratitude Finance.” My nose wrinkles like I’ve just stepped in pig shit. Even the name of the company sounds slimy. Gratitude for what? Being scammed out of money by promises of instant loans and insanely high interest rates. Ugh, these people are vultures.
Good news is, I’ve never heard of them before, and certainly would never take out finance with a company like that, so they must have the wrong person.
“I’m sorry. I think you must have the wrong number.” I can’t be fucked being polite. I’m freezing and want to get on the road to my new job, ASAP.
“Is your last known address 3488 Devil’s Peak Road, Miss Birch?”
Why does that sound familiar?
“In the town of Crimson Ridge?” The woman persists.
My stomach hits the floor.
“Uhh. No.” My insides flop like a fish on dry land as I picture Kayce and the ranch and him sitting on the porch with a beer when I last saw him over the summer.
“Well, the information I have on file here says you have an outstanding amount of two thousand, five hundred and eighty with us. And you’ve missed your last three repayments.” She thinks I’m lying. I can hear it in her tone.
“That’s not me. I haven’t taken out any finance, I promise.”
“Can you provide me with proof of your permanent address?” She taps at a keyboard in the background.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Unfortunately, I can’t, you see I’ve been—”
“We would need copies of utility bills covering the past six months, or something to indicate where you have been residing to prove that isn’t your address.” The woman on the other end of the phone sounds bored. Like she’s heard it all before and doesn’t give me a chance to even finish speaking.
My hands are trembling. Did she say two thousand dollars?
“Without being able to provide us with that proof, we need to settle the amount in full, otherwise our team will have to move to the next stage of enforcement action.”
