Page 58 of Absolutely Not in Love
There isn’t much to look at. There are several stacks of pallets pushed against a back wall, a single table sitting in the center of the room, and concrete columns every twenty feet or so, making the space feel a little like a parking garage.
A very empty, very boring parking garage.
I don’t know what I was expecting—this is just a warehouse, after all—but Felix did say he wanted to show me something. Why would he want to show me this?
He reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together. “I know it doesn’t look like much. But come see.”
He tugs me toward the table while I try not to freak out that we’re actually holding hands. When we reach the table in the center of the room, he drops my hand, then reaches for several large rolls of paper. He unrolls them, using his phone to hold down one side, and his hand to hold down the other.
I pull my own phone out of the pocket on my leggings and offer it to him as an additional paperweight.
“Thanks,” he says. Once the paper is stretched out and secure, he steps to the side so I can lean in and take a look.
It looks like some kind of design rendering of a clean, open office space. It must be what he intends forthisspace because I immediately recognize the pattern of the columns. There are couches and chairs, long conference tables surrounded by chairs, as well as smaller workspaces, little alcoves where someone might work privately. On the other end, there are a series of smaller rooms—offices, maybe?—but the walls are fully glass, keeping with the open concept vibe of the rest of the space. A wide hallway cuts between the offices, ending at what looks like some sort of large kitchen space.
“It’s beautiful,” I finally say. “What’s it going to be?”
Felix pushes his hands into his pockets, a hint of vulnerability passing over his features. “The Elizabeth R. Jamison Creative Center.”
“Your grandmother?”
He nods. “It was her money. Seemed like a good idea to name it after her.” He points at the drawing on the table in front of us. “The idea is to provide a space for start-ups and other entrepreneurs and freelancers to work.” His fingers slide over the drawing. “So, larger tables over here for collaborations, a conference room for when people need privacy, and plenty of spaces where people can sit and work or write or whatever it is they need to do. Then over here, these little private rooms I thought could be used for musicians, maybe. For practicing, or even teaching lessons. I just emailed the architect to see if we could also add a recording studio—nothing fancy, just a basic booth with minimal equipment, but it would be enough if someone wanted to make a demo. I should have those drawings back next week.”
Finally, he points at the kitchen space at the far end. “And this would be a commercial kitchen. When people are just getting started, selling baked goods or making cakes or whatever, you have to have a kitchen that’s commercially certified, which is a barrier for a lot of entrepreneurs in the food business. A lot of bigger cities have kitchens people can rent out for a certain amount of time, but they’re often cost prohibitive, and there’s nothing like that here in Harvest Hollow.” He breathes out a shaky breath. “And I guess I just…thought there should be.”
My eyes drift back to the soundproof rooms he mentioned, and I point. “So, if I wanted to teach cello lessons in one of these, I could?”
“That’s the idea.”
“There’s a music store on the other side of town that has teaching rooms you can rent,” I say. “But you have to contract through the store and agree to teach at their advertised prices, which, when I only have a few students, it doesn’t really feel worth it.”
“So something like this would be perfect for you,” he says.
“What will you charge?” I ask. He probably hasn’t thought that far in advance, but it’s the first place my mind goes because my budget is already so tight.
“Hopefully nothing,” he says. “Or, I don’t know. I might have to charge something, maybe something tiered based on income, if there are too many people wanting to use the space.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m still working through the logistics, but I plan to apply for grants from the Jamison Foundation and use those funds to keep it running. I just don’t want anyone who wants to start a business to be stifled because they don’t have adequate workspace.”
My eyes move over the drawing one more time, and I imagine what it might feel like to have a place like this to meet my students, or even to record a few things with my quartet. A little over a year ago, we spent close to a thousand dollars to rent a studio to record a few sample pieces for our website. We only had the space for two hours, and it was so stressful trying to get everything done in such a limited amount of time.
“This is amazing.” I lift my eyes to Felix’s. “It’s an incredible idea.”
He smiles, his eyes dropping for the briefest second, like he’s genuinely happy to have my approval. “You really think so? You’re actually the first person I’ve told. Aside from my architect.”
A flush of heat rushes through me. I’m the first person he’s told? “I really think so. I love it. I love all of it.”
More than the space and idea, what I really love is the care and thoughtfulness behind it. The more time I spend with Felix, the more I’m starting to see the layers to him, each one revealing more of a good, good man. The kind of man who, if I’m not careful, I could fall way too hard for, way too fast.
He breathes out what sounds like a sigh of relief, and I wonder how long he’s been sitting on this idea, planning, hoping he might be able to make it happen.
“Will you still love it if you know it’s the reason I agreed to keep the old plumbing when I was renovating upstairs?” His mouth lifts into a sheepish smile. “I wanted to save as much money as possible to make sure I had enough to make this happen.”
I prop my hands on my hips. “Finally, something to blame for my ruined furniture.”
He smirks. “You couldn’t just blame me?”
“Nope. You might have made me stay somewhere else, and the bed I’m sleeping in at your place is a million times more comfortable than mine was.”
This is possibly the understatement of the century. The bed I was sleeping on before was something I bought from a fellow teacher when they downgraded to a smaller house and got rid of the guest bed they’d had for years. The mattress was old and springy and creaky in all the worst ways, but it was free, and free trumps just about everything else.
