Chapter Two
Having absolutely zero disposable income really takes a hit on your social life, let me tell you.
Which is why I now spend the majority of my nights off at home with my mom, watching reality TV.
Tonight, like most nights this summer, we’re watching Love Island, which of all of the reality shows on TV, is my mom’s favourite.
“Cleo, come on, it’s starting,” my mom calls from the living room.
“Coming.” I shove a packet of popcorn into the microwave. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I’m not surprised to see that it’s “Michael Kateb” from the “First Union Bank” calling about my “loan” again. He’s nothing if not persistent. I silence the call.
Mom has never renovated. I doubt she’s ever even thought about it.
Not just because she doesn’t have the money, but more that she is, at the best of times, a little checked out of the world.
I wonder if she even sees how worn the linoleum on the kitchen floor has gotten, or how badly the cupboards need a coat of paint.
I remove the bag of popcorn from the microwave, holding it by the corner, and I tuck a bowl under my arm.
I thread two wine glasses between my fingers and retrieve a half-empty bottle of pinot grigio from the fridge.
I’m actually kind of excited for this evening, for watching TV with my mom.
When I was living with Dylan, I never got time like this with her.
And while conditions are less than ideal at the moment, at least I have the reassurance that she’s okay. It’s a sad sort of progress, I guess.
By the time I sink down next to her on the worn plaid sofa, the couples on Love Island have already set out on their dates.
“These two,” my mother groans, indicating to the two hot people on the screen.
The girl has a high ponytail and has been cast as the Villain for the season, and she’s been paired with the Pro Athlete for only the last few episodes, managing to avoid elimination by claiming that their “journey is just beginning.”
But even my mom sees through the bullshit. “You can tell they don’t really like each other because they aren’t looking at one another. And they should be smiling. You know if they’re smiling like fools then they’re really in love. But these two? No way.”
She’s right. The two hot people on the screen are saying all the right things to one another, but there’s an emptiness to their words.
They’ll be accused of committing the cardinal sin of reality TV—being there for the Wrong Reasons—and that will ultimately be what comes between them and the cash prize, which, I notice, is nowhere near $250,000.
My phone buzzes again. Okay, that’s enough. This guy has been badgering me for months, and it’s time to put him in his place.
I point to the illuminated screen of my phone and roll my eyes, for my mom’s benefit, but she doesn’t even notice. She’s entranced by the Villain and the Pro Athlete slow dancing in the town square while a group of men in tuxedos serenade them on violin.
“Yes?” I say hotly into the phone as I slip into the hallway.
“Cleo Des Rochelles?” he says, pronouncing both Ss in my name, like he’s never heard of the French language.
“Yes?”
“My name is Michael Ka—”
“I know who you are, and I want you to leave me alone.” I lock eyes with myself—my ninth-grade self, hanging in an 8x12 frame on the wall of the hallway. She has braces and frizzy hair, and she seems utterly over whatever is happening in the moment.
Same girl, same.
“I would like that also, Miss Des Rochelles, but there is the question of your loan payment, which is now one hundred and eighty days in default. I’m afraid if we don’t resolve this matter soon then we will have to send it out to Collections to settle it.”
“I don’t have a loan with First Union, and I need you to stop calling me. You’re not getting a penny out of me. You’re wasting your—”
“I can see in our records, Miss, that the primary borrower was a Mr. Dylan Rausch.”
My ex’s name stops my indignant tirade in its tracks.
Michael Kateb goes on. “But given that we are unable to locate Mr. Rausch, the onus is on you as co-signer to ensure the payments are made in a timely fashion.”
“Excuse me?” I sputter. The words he’s saying have the disorienting effect of being both completely absurd but also scarily familiar.
“Miss Des Rochelles, you acted as a co-signer on a loan for Mr. Dylan Rausch, executed on July 18th, 2023.”
I did?
I did. The memory comes back like a slap in the face.
How none of the VCs he’d met with had any vision, how no one would take a chance on such an obscure technology, how he just needed me to believe in him.
I’d felt so bad for him. He’d been working so hard, and he really needed my help, and so I co-signed on the loan.
He’d said it was nothing, just a formality, and that I’d never have to think about it again. And I haven’t. Until now.
“Okay,” I say slowly, for fear of recriminating myself in some way.
“Cleo, they’re swimming with stingrays! You have to see this!” my mom calls.
I cover the phone with my hand. “Just a sec!” I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
“If the principal borrower is unable to make the payments, then we look to the co-signer, which in this case is you.”
“I—” I start, but I don’t know how to follow. “How much?” I blurt. “How much is the loan?”
“The current balance is one hundred and three thousand, six hundred and fifty-one dollars and eighty-six cents.”
All of the air suddenly goes out of the room. I look at my ninth-grade self. You’re fucked, she seems to be saying.
“I don’t have that,” I sputter. “I don’t have anything.”
“Of course, we don’t expect you to pay the full balance, but we do need assurance that you are able to furnish the monthly payments, including the months that are in default.”
“And how much is that?”
“The monthly payment is two thousand four hundred and ninety-three dollars, which means that we need just under fifteen thousand from you at present, with the next monthly payment due in nineteen days.”
I slide down the wall, locking eyes with ninth-grade me. I’m ashamed for her to see me crashing out like this. “I can’t,” I say. “I don’t have any money.”
“Miss Des Rochelles, do you understand that if you are unable to make the payments, we will be forced to collect on your assets.”
“What assets?”
“I’m referring to your house.”
And then I snap back to reality. This is a scam. A sophisticated one, no doubt. They somehow found out about Dylan and are using that against me, but they’ve gone too far.
“I don’t have a house,” I say, my big Gotcha moment.
I hear the rustling of some papers in the background. “I’m sorry, perhaps there has been a misunderstanding.” My jaw unclenches with relief. “My records show that you own the house at the address 3240 Thistle Thorn Lane, is that not correct?”
“That’s my mother’s house,” I say, but the words have no sooner left my mouth than I’m hit with the cold shock of realization.
My mother’s house is my house.
I mean, it’s her house, but it’s my name on the deed.
My grandfather updated his will shortly before he died so that the house would go to me.
Mom was in a bad place at the time, and they worried she wouldn’t be able to handle the responsibilities of home ownership, so they left it to me.
The deed was transferred a few weeks after my 18th birthday.
But it was only ever symbolic. The house is my mother’s. The plan was always that she would live here, and then maybe I would, eventually, but I’ve never thought of it as my house.
But apparently Michael Kateb at the First Union Bank does.
“You can’t take the house,” I breathe into the phone.
“I assure you that we do not want to.”
“No, you can’t. You just can’t,” I say, more firmly. Because this is the truth. This house has been a safe haven for my mom, a place she can live comfortably on her piddly disability benefit. If she loses the house, she’ll be on the street.
“I’ll get the money.” My own voice sounds very far away, as if I were underwater. “Can you give me some time?”
A hissing noise, like he’s sucking air in through his teeth.
“Miss Des Rochelles, you are already six, almost seven months behind.”
“I understand. And I’ll get you your money, I just need some time.”
A long silence from the other end of the phone. I hold my breath. And then, “You have thirty days.”
I exhale. “Sixty.”
“Forty-five, or I escalate this to Collections right now.”
“Forty-five,” I say, nodding. “Thank you.”
I hang up, and hug my legs into my chest, resting my forehead on my knees.
Forty-five days. How am I supposed to come up with fifteen thousand dollars, plus finish paying the landlord back, plus make payments on my credit card, plus pay the other outstanding bills and buy groceries and pay for my bus pass and also find another two grand and change for the next loan payment, all in forty-five days? !
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Cleo, you’re missing everything, come on!”
I pull a deep breath in, hold it, and then slowly let it go. “Coming!” I push myself to my feet, steadying myself against the wall.
In the living room, my mom is transfixed by the TV. It’s the only new thing in the house, a modern flat screen that seems out of place amidst the ceramic kittens and the floral print wallpaper. But given how much time she spends watching it, she had to get something good.
“What’s happening?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t notice the tremble in my voice.
She doesn’t. She launches into a detailed description of all the drama, but her words don’t land.
I try to listen, but my eyes keep sliding around the room.
This room where she grew up, and where I grew up, too.
The framed family photos faded yellow by the sun.
The watercolour painting of three purple lilies that a client gave her, back when she still worked at the insurance company.
The brown corduroy recliner where Gramps used to sit, the armrests and seat cushion shiny and threadbare.
Who would my mother even be without this house? Where would she go? How could she manage paying rent and starting over when she can’t even hold down a job?
But then there’s something that gets my attention.
A woman with a breathy voice is saying “Are you ready for your next adventure?” An image of a campfire burning on a sandy beach fills the screen.
The camera pans out slightly, and in the background, there is a couple sitting with their foreheads touching, blissful smiles on their faces.
And then it fades to black, before a web address appears. My breath catches as I realize what it says:
“Camp Couple-Up,” my mom says in a small, high voice. “That sounds fun.” I nod in reply, too shocked to form words.
I’m not one to believe in signs or any of that shit, but is this a sign? I think about the card the Silver Fox gave me. I’d almost thrown it out, but I shoved it into the pocket of my purse instead. I can almost feel it there, like it has its own gravity.
It’s definitely a sign. I have to call that number.
Maybe I won’t make the show. Or maybe, if I do, the guys will sense how much I secretly despise them all, and they’ll send me packing before the end of the first episode.
Maybe I’ll find myself back on this couch before the end of the summer, still with no possibility of paying back the money. Maybe.
But there are two hundred and fifty thousand reasons to try.