Chapter 17
Not My Proudest Moment
Tessa
I nearly dropped the phone. An eviction notice?
That's what Mom found on my door?
As my stomach churned, I had no idea what to say. This was bad.
Really bad.
My head was still spinning when she twisted the knife. "For non-payment, in case you care."
What, like I wouldn't?
Desperately, I tried to think.
When my lease ended in February, I hadn't renewed. I'd paid extra to go week-to-week, telling myself it was temporary – just until my promotion panned out and I could become a buyer instead of a renter.
And we all know how that turned out.
But this still didn't explain the non-payment. The rent was paid automatically by my only credit card, which I hadn't touched in weeks – not because I didn't want to, but because I'd buried it deep in my suitcase to avoid leaving a digital trail.
But now I couldn't help but wonder…had Evan messed with it?
I was still trying to figure it out when my mom said, "Do you know how embarrassing that was for me?"
By now, my nerves were hanging by a thread, and Mom, as usual, wasn't helping. I gave a bitter laugh. "Oh, so this is about you?"
"Don't turn this around," she said. "It's not my fault."
Yeah, well, it's not mine either. But I didn't say it, because that would only lead to more questions. Instead, I began stalking toward the fridge, praying I'd find something inside to help soothe my nerves.
And just for the record, I didn't mean Ryder Vaughn.
On the phone, Mom added, "Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I'm just telling you what I saw."
"I know," I snapped. But then, I deliberately softened my tone. "Sorry…I'm glad you told me."
"I shouldn't have to tell you. If you were in Chicago instead of Florida, you could've seen it for yourself."
Ah. Florida.
Miami, to be exact.
That's where Mom thought I was, because I hadn't told her what happened at work – or that I never made it to Miami.
Instead, I was here in Michigan with two suitcases, a burner phone, and enough tropical booze to stock my own tiki bar.
But forget that. Here and now, I needed to get to the bottom of the rent situation. I couldn't afford to be evicted, because for one thing, what would happen to my stuff?
I needed a lifeline and fast. Reluctantly, I said, "So, hey…can I ask a favor?"
Her tone turned wary. "What kind of favor?"
"Could you – I mean, if it's not too much trouble – find a way to pay the rent? Like…I'm sure if you wrote a check, it would be fine."
She literally scoffed. "With what money?"
Yes, I realized she had problems of her own, but her reaction still stung. "Well…what about the money I loaned you last Christmas? Maybe…you could pay me back that way?"
"With what?" she said again.
It was a good question. But I had no answer – not unless I wanted to snidely point out that her little shopping trip might've been enough to cover at least some of the repayment.
But the last thing I needed now was another fight.
Plus, I actually felt sorry for her.
Unlike my dad, who made a decent living as a professor, Mom had never worked outside the home. She hadn't needed to, thanks to her great-grandfather, who'd made a fortune in timber. But that was a long time ago, and she was no Vanderbilt or Astor.
And even if she were, it's not like she'd been the lone heiress.
Over the past few decades, the fortune had been split at least a dozen ways, leaving Mom with expensive tastes and dwindling funds.
Finally, like a thief in the night, the money was gone.
That was nearly three years ago, but she was still working hard to keep up appearances. But the fall was coming, and we both knew it. Or maybe that was only me.
Even so, I could've really used that three thousand dollars. Even when I'd loaned it to her last Christmas, it's not like I'd been swimming in cash.
I swallowed hard as I yanked open the fridge and spotted not Ryder Vaughn – thank God – but a bottle of wine already open. Moscato.
Not my Moscato. Not my fridge either, even if I did use it to store groceries – whenever I had any, that is.
Skip didn't pay me a wage, but I did get to eat whatever I wanted at the shop. It sounded good in theory, until you realized you couldn't survive on coffee and pastries alone.
On the phone, my mom's question – the one about helping with the rent – hung heavy between us. With what?
I shut the fridge and deliberately turned away from Maisie's Moscato. She and I weren't those kinds of roommates. We didn't share wine, groceries, or secrets. Mostly, we avoided each other like exes at a wedding.
Finally, it was my mom who broke the silence. "Can't you just transfer it from Miami? They do have banks there, I presume?"
Suddenly, I realized something that should've hit me sooner. "Wait a minute. You knew I wasn't there."
"In Miami?"
"No. In Chicago."
She paused. "Yeah, so?"
"So why would you stop by my apartment? It's not like you have a key."
"But I should have a key. You know…for emergencies. We talked about this."
She was changing the subject. It was vintage Mom, but I refused to be distracted. "So?" I prompted. "Why'd you stop by?"
"Oh, that," she said with a little laugh. "I guess, because…well, I thought you were lying…you know, about the Miami thing."
I froze. "Lying?"
"Yeah. The last time we talked, you were acting all fishy, just like your sister. And I figured, well…why not drive to Chicago and see for myself." She brightened. "Plus, they were having a sale at Bloomie's."
I closed my eyes. "Oh."
"Anyway," she said. "Don't worry about the rent."
My eyes flew open as hope kindled in my heart. "You mean—"
"I mean, you're a smart girl. You'll figure things out. Oh darn it! Sorry, my show's on. Gotta go." And with that, she ended the call, presumably to watch a show that suddenly came on an hour before midnight.
As for myself, I turned back to the fridge, yanked open the door, and grabbed that Moscato like a lifeline.
Like a raccoon at a trash can, I guzzled it straight from the bottle.
Was it my proudest moment?
No.
Was it effective?
Also no.
But still, it was either the Moscato or a minor breakdown.
And me? I chose both.