Chapter 10
TEN
DANI
I, in fact, did not crush that job interview.
Not getting the job makes the realization of my circumstances undeniable.
And now I know with bleak clarity that my situation is more fucked than I’d like to admit.
How impossible it is to find work here that offers the benefits that I so desperately need is soul-sucking.
Every job opening is part-time and offers little more than minimum wage and a polite slap in the face.
None of it comes close to the security I need to keep this household afloat.
It’s the worst kind of desperation, realizing you can’t do anything about it unless a drastic change is made.
Worst of all, I couldn’t stand seeing the new family in Victor’s old house.
Strangers now occupy the house where we shared our first everything.
I swear I can still hear our laughter echoing from next door, our whispered promises made in the dark, and our shared sins that continue to haunt my dreams. I see the young couple on the porch sometimes, and their children running across the lawn as night falls.
They stay out long past the children's bedtime, stargazing like Vic and I used to.
Now our favorite holiday, Halloween, is fast approaching, and the whole world is dressing up in costumes.
I don’t need to don a mask because I’m already living a lie.
I want to rip down the orange string lights and smash the pumpkins with their taunting, cruel smiles, the same ones I once loved to carve.
I want to pull my hair out, just to feel something other than the agony I feel from Vic’s absence.
It’s killing me from the inside out, and as much as I try to put on a fresh face for my mother’s sake, she knows the hurt that lies just beneath the surface.
After she confronted me about it, I told her everything—the lies, my fears, and especially how my heart is breaking without the man I love.
It all spilled out of me. I cried as she held me because I couldn’t be brave anymore, even though I don’t think I am.
Not compared to her. She is the brave one, the one who gets up every morning, praying it isn’t her last, which just makes me feel all the more pathetic.
But she continues to hold me and validates my feelings, having the grace to comfort me, as if my heartache is real pain, even though it pales in comparison to hers.
With that, I knew what I had to do. That night, after another endless double shift at the diner in my dead-end job, which smelled of burnt coffee and my broken dreams, I spoke to my mom about the reality of our situation.
As we sat at the kitchen table, I spoke of how we would need to move to the city and seek charitable assistance at a well-renowned cancer center to explore better options.
I have a job interview at that same hospital, and I have applied to the community college for the spring semester to take my introductory courses.
As if the stars were aligning, I was accepted into the college, I got the job, and we were approved for charitable care after providing documentation of our limited financial resources.
Now, all that is left is to make one call.
The doorbell rings, and I wipe my hands on my shorts, trying to calm myself.
When I pull the door open, there he is, Brandon Marx, the realtor who sold Vic’s house, and who Vic also threatened with bodily harm, standing on my doorstep.
Except this time, my boyfriend isn’t here to interfere.
Brandon stands on the front porch as the late sunlight flashes off his designer sunglasses, which he has casually slipped between his teeth as he sizes me up.
When he sees me, he flashes that obscenely perfect smile, showing his expensive veneers, because no one's teeth are that perfect.
“Hey there,” he says as I open the door fully and invite him in. Closing the door, I turn to find him watching me. But as if just remembering, he quickly scans around, searching as if he is waiting for Vic to assault him from another room.
I shake my head, keeping my voice even. “Vic’s away at school. He left months ago,” I say. He nods, but doesn’t ask anything further, which I am grateful for.
“I have to admit,” he tucks his sunglasses in the front pocket of his tailored blazer, “I was surprised that you called me.” I walk toward the kitchen.
“Would you like something to drink?” I ask without turning around.
He follows me. “I have iced tea, water, and Jarritos.” I open the fridge, letting soft light and cool air escape, making me shiver as goosebumps pebble across my bare arms. I reach for a Jarritos, the sweet fizz of the Mexican soda transporting me back to memories of open markets and long afternoons spent on family trips across the border.
The glass is slick with condensation as I pop the cap off with a practiced smack against the opener mounted beside the fridge.
I don’t wait for him to decide, as I take a long pull of the cold liquid.
The crisp tang of mandarina fills my mouth, the flavors bursting like liquid sunshine.
A small sigh slips out as the cold seeps into my hand from the bottle, and wetness drips onto my wrist.
His smile plays at his lips as he watches me.
“I’ll take one, too.” Without another word, I return to the fridge, retrieving another bottle.
I pop the cap and hand it over, tossing the caps in the trash beside the sink.
He extends his bottle to mine, and I meet him halfway, clinking the neck with mine.
“Here’s to getting you the most on this sale.
” I nod as we have a silent stare-off while drinking our soda.
A moment later, I motion with my hand, repeating words Vic had spoken not long ago. “Follow me, Brandon, and I’ll show you the house, then you can tell me what you think.”
I take Brandon on a tour of the property, and he notices every detail, offering advice for a quick fix that could increase the value. “A fresh coat of paint here,” or “A little swap of this broken faucet knob can do wonders,” I hear him say. I consider his advice and weigh my options.
We walk around the outside perimeter of the property, and I take a wilting flower into my hand, twirling it slowly between my thumb and forefinger.
He’s talking about powerwashing the siding, and I understand what he's saying, but I just shake my head. He turns toward me, patiently waiting for me to speak. “I don’t know if I can do that.” He stops to look at me, sensing the shift.
The question lies unspoken, so I address it.
I force it out before I can think about it.
“My mom is dying.” I cough, trying to force the rising bile down my throat.
Brandon’s shoulders slump, and I see the way his eyes comprehend my situation.
“Vic doesn’t know.” I look down, kicking at the grass, attempting to give myself something to do instead of standing still, feeling useless.
“Why didn’t you tell him?” Brandon asks curiously. His voice is soft, non-accusatory, and it’s a valid question. So I give him the truth.
“I didn’t want him to put off medical school to stay back and help me,” I say, still twisting the limp flower until the petals begin to fray.
“He’s too smart for that. He got a full ride for his undergrad, so I guess he’s allowed at least one good thing in his life.
” The words hang heavy between us, and I know Brandon is from here, so he must be familiar with the story surrounding the house and Victor’s parents' death. It’s not something I will ever talk about, no matter who it is.
Brandon must sense it, too, because he changes the subject.
“So that’s why you need to sell the house?” he asks. “To care for your mom and cover her treatments?”
I nod slowly, pondering my following words. “Yeah,” I say barely above a whisper. “It won’t save her life, but it could prolong it, and that’s all I can hope for, and that she doesn’t suffer.” Instead of asking further questions, he does something unexpected. He offers me help.
“I can help you fix up a few of those things I pointed out, and I’ll do something further.
” He glances away, rubbing his chin with his hand like he’s trying to work something out in his head.
“I can cut my commission to the bare minimum, and that will let you keep more of the money to help with your mom.” For a moment, I just stare at him, wondering if I heard him right.
The flower falls to the grass, forgotten.
Tears well up in my eyes at the kind gesture.
“Thank you so much, Brandon. You don’t realize how much I appreciate that.” He smiles and then turns around, assessing the property further.
“You know,” Brandon says, sweeping a final glance at the house, “I think we can get a good price for this place.” I huff out a laugh.
With that, we walk toward the front of the house to where his car is parked in the driveway.
“I’ll pull the comps tonight of similar properties in the area,” he adds, reaching for the car handle.
“I’ll let you know, okay?” As he smiles at me, my eyes meet his, shimmering with unshed tears.
“Okay,” is all I can manage at this point.
He opens the car door, but pauses midway.
“You know,” he says, turning fully to face me, “if I were Vic, I wouldn’t have been able to leave either.
Not if I knew.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, because what could I possibly say to that?
I stand there still as a statue as he slips into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.
He gives me a small wave before pulling out onto the streets, and then he’s gone.
The sound of his tires on the asphalt fades, but his words linger, making me second-guess my choices about keeping this from Vic.