Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Monica
Age 30
"I don't understand," I sniff as I swipe an errant tear from my cheek. My finger comes back smudged with mascara. Great.
"Listen, babe, it's not me. Oh, fuck. I meant, it's not you," Carter says as he nonchalantly winks at a passerby and then very clearly stares at her ass.
"What do you mean?" I ask miserably.
I've been dating Carter for seven months. I thought we were good. We haven't spent much time together over the last month, but I chalked it up to busy schedules. Evidently, I was wrong.
"It's just not gonna work out, babe," he says as he rolls his eyes at the guys sitting at the next table. "Can you stop crying? You're embarrassing me."
Oh, hell no.
Do you know how some people have that moment when their life flashes before their eyes when they have a near-death experience? I'm having something like that right now. Except it's a quick synopsis of the last seven months with Carter. The fact that I've never spent the night at his apartment. Or met any of his friends. The number of times he's commented on my physical appearance or requested I change before we were out in public. Or the fact that I was never allowed to access his phone, and somehow he turned it around to make it my fault as to why he wouldn't give me his passcode. Gaslighting, anyone?
A wave of peace slides over me as I see Carter in a new light. I honestly think I was blinded by his hotness. The sex wasn't even that good. Granted, he usually did make me come, but it wasn't every time. And certainly never more than once. I swear, I think men who get women off multiple times only exist in romance books. I'll have to ask Nana. She still reads that shit.
I can see Carter beginning to stand, and I realize he's totally going to jet outta here and leave me with the bill. Hell no.
"Oh, Carter. You know what? You're absolutely right. I should leave," I tell him as I motion for him to remain seated. A contented grin covers his face as he sits back down, and I take the opportunity to grab both our drinks and dump them in his lap.
"What the fuck, Monica?" he shouts.
"Damn. It slipped, honest," I murmur, giving him a sweet smile. "But you should know that you'll regret this one day. We both know I'm the best you've ever had. That thing I can do with my tongue? Mmm. You're gonna regret this, Carter. But that's okay."
I make a show of removing my phone from my purse. Then, pulling up my contacts, I block Carter's number with gusto.
"And, blocked. Done. Whew! That's a relief. Now I don't have to pretend to come anymore. Toodles, asshole!" I outlandishly blow a kiss at him before sashaying out of the restaurant. I vaguely hear clapping as I leave.
I make it to my car before my hands start to shake. God, I feel so stupid. I'm typically so hesitant to trust a man, and somehow Carter got through my defenses quicker than he should. Just goes to show that I can't be trusted to make good decisions when there are orgasms on the line.
I'm making a vow to myself. I'm never getting married. Relationships aren't meant for me.
Two months after the epic breakup with Carter, I'm summoned to my grandmother's retirement facility. I found a great place for her after she finished rehab for her hip. It's a step facility where she has an apartment, but there's also a full medical staff on-site if needed. Nana immediately fit right in and became a social butterfly. The bills are tight, but I'm making it work.
"Hi, Nana, what's up? I don't have much time. I have a showing in an hour," I tell her as I breeze into her apartment and collapse on her couch.
" Bambino . Where's Emily-bemily?" she asks.
"At school. You can't summon us in the middle of the day and expect her to show up, Nana. They frown on the teachers just leaving their classes to fend for themselves," I say dryly. Nana's brow furrows.
"Oh. I didn't realize it was a weekday."
"What's going on, Nana? You're a tad more spastic than normal. "
"The love I feel from you, child. It's really spectacular."
"You know what I mean. You're not yourself. You got a bomb to drop on me?" I joke, but the smile drops from my face when Nana's face pales. "Holy shit. Nana."
" Bambino ."
"Rip the band-aid off, Nana. What is it? Did La Famiglia contact you? Did this place raise its rates? Are you dying? What?"
"No, no, and not exactly."
"You're not dying …" I trail off as I stare at her. She gives me a sad smile.
"I have cancer, bambino ."
"What?" I whisper.
"I found a lump six weeks ago in my breast. They did a mammogram and then a biopsy. It has spread, bambino. I have to do chemotherapy and radiation, but the doctors aren't optimistic. I'm sorry, bambino ," my grandmother says softly.
I stare at her.
This can't be happening.
She's all that I have. My only family.
"Nana," I whisper brokenly, "Nana, I can't lose you."
"Monica. Dolce bambino . I don't want to leave you, but the money …"
"What about money?"
"Medicare only covers so much, child. We're already barely making ends meet. I can't ask for you to do more. You already do so much," Nana says as she wipes her tears away.
"I would do anything for you, Nana! You gave away so much for me years ago. Don't you even think about giving up. I will figure this out. I'm not letting you die, do you hear me?"
"Monica, you don't need to shout. I'm old, but I'm not deaf," my grandmother hisses. I didn't realize I had started to raise my voice .
"Schedule the chemo. What do you need from me? I'll get it all figured out."
Nana sighs.
"If you sell a kidney or become a hooker, I'm calling your father," she mutters.
"No, you won't."
"I might have to. If I think you're doing something illegal to get money for my medical expenses, I'll do what I have to do. I won't have you screwing up the rest of your life to try and save a few more years of mine, Monica Rose," my grandmother threatens.
"I won't do anything illegal. I promise," I tell Nana.
She nods as she accepts my promise.
My fingers were crossed behind my back.
I'll do anything to save my grandmother.
God dammit.
I can't even figure out anything illegal to do that doesn't involve me selling organs on the black market. I looked up stripping, and no one wants a thirty-year-old tiny Italian. One strip club owner called me a midget. I'm just over five feet tall. I'm not a midget. And that's a horrid term to even use. When I yelled at the misogynistic owner and basically called him a discriminatory bastard, security escorted me off the premises. It wasn't my finest moment.
After an awful week that included five no-show clients, a closing that never happened due to the title company messing up, letting my apartment leasing agent know I'd be vacating the space due to the cost of rent, and not being able to take Nana to her first chemotherapy session myself, I commiserated with a bottle of tequila by myself. I'm still living in the same apartment I shared with Emily years ago, but she's moved in with her nasty boyfriend, Dan. I don't like Dan. I support my friend, and I trust her judgment, but Dan gives me the heebie-jeebies.
I vaguely remember performing a rousing rendition of Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" before drunkenly drunk-dialing a bunch of people.
I may or may not pass out on the floor next to my couch.
A buzzing noise wakes me up. Or maybe that's my brain making the noise. I'm really not sure. I roll to the side and see my phone vibrating on the floor. Ah, that's the buzzing noise. Great. At least it's not some weird brain tumor. I definitely don't have the money for both of us to go through chemo.
When it stops vibrating, I grab it. Yeah, I'm one of those people. I'm letting you go to voicemail if I don't want to talk. Then I'll text back and say something like, "sorry I missed your call. What's up?" Today is one of those days. I don't think I can be social. But looking at the screen and the fifteen missed calls from one of my sisters makes me jump up. I immediately regret the physical move as pain slices through my head. Okay, maybe there is a brain tumor. No. That's just the hangover. I think.
Fuck.
Why did my sister call me so many times?
Did I call her?
Shit.
I check my voicemail and see she's left one message.
"I shouldn't be doing this, but you've left me no choice. I've wired you the only money I can. Don't call again, Mon. I miss you, but I can't get involved. My kids are too important. I hope you're well, and please give Nana a hug from me. But don't tell her I helped. It can't get back to Father," Isabella whispers.
Tears fill my eyes. She has kids? Oh my God, I'm an aunt! Isabella is three years younger than me, and she already has kids! She's probably an amazing mom. Much better than our own mother. I wonder who she was forced to marry. At least I know it wasn't Joseph Angelino. A shudder rips through me as I remember his unseeing eyes that last night in Dallas. I'll never forget that night.
I open my banking app and see a deposit has been made. I don't want to know how Isabella figured out where I bank, let alone my account and routing numbers. Hell, in my drunken stupor last night, I may have given it to her.
"Holy shit!" I shout.
Fifty thousand dollars was deposited into my account.
How the hell did Isabella get ahold of that much cash? Should I be worried?
I check the deposit info, and there's no tracking information. It doesn't appear there is any kind of paper trail. Holy hell. How did she do that?
A knock at my apartment door has me gasping as I immediately fear the worst. The police. A hitman. La Famiglia coming to get me.
"Mon? You there?" a familiar voice calls from outside the door.
I exhale deeply as I run to the door and yank it open. Emily stands there holding two drinks and a box of Dunkin' Donuts.
"Hey," I say.
"How ya feeling?" she asks as she hands me my coffee. Emily doesn't drink coffee, so I know her cup contains hot chocolate.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because you called and left me three voicemails last night that mostly contained you singing and shouting a bunch of gibberish about the cost of medicine and stupid family members. Just a hunch that you might have a hangover," she says quietly as she steps into the apartment and closes the door. "Why all the boxes?"
"I have to move," I say as I shove a donut into my mouth.
"What? Why?" she cries.
"I need to save some money."
"What's going on, Mon?"
I take a deep breath and try to school my expression as I turn to her. But seeing Emily and her compassionate eyes, I immediately break down into sobs.
"Nana has cancer, and she needs chemo and radiation, and medicare only pays so much, so I need to move and get a smaller apartment that costs a lot less so I can pay for her treatments, and I'm so fucking tired, Em," I babble. Her quick intake of breath lets me know she heard everything.
"Oh, Mon," she murmurs as her arms come around me tightly. "I'm so sorry."
"We just can't catch a break, Em. I'm tired of this. I can't lose her."
"I know. We'll figure it out. You know I'll help, right?" Emily says.
"You don't need to. I guess after drunk dialing you, I called one of my sisters. She sent me some money."
"What the fuck?" she shouts against my ear, and I wince. "Oh, shit. Sorry. Hangover. You called your sister? Which one? Were you allowed to do that? What did she say? How much money did she send? Are you gonna get in trouble? Is the mafia gonna come after you? Holy shit, Mon!"
I explain what happened. We go back through my call log and see that I only called Isabella once, thankfully. The call was only two minutes long, so I'm guessing I left her an unintelligible voicemail. The fact that Isabella figured it all out and managed to get the money wired into my account so quickly is remarkable.
Em stays with me the rest of the day and helps me continue to pack. Even with the funds from my sister, I want to downsize and save every last penny I can to ensure I have emergency funds if needed.
Within the week, I've located a studio apartment that is five hundred dollars less per month than my two-bedroom apartment. It's in a less-than-stellar area of town, but it'll have to do. It's closer to my grandmother's retirement home, anyway. I managed to sell off some furniture I won't have space for and padded my wallet slightly. Em and I celebrate by hitting up our favorite Mexican restaurant for queso and margaritas.
I only hope the money Isabella sent me lasts for a while and both of us don't have any repercussions from it from La Famiglia .