Chapter 5 Erin
Erin
A stroll around Central Park does a little to clear my head, but the dark sense of helplessness still lingers like a bad smell.
A year is hardly anything. I can’t move Paige and me into a place of our own on the promise of just one year. Who knows if I’ll find a job that can sustain me after that money runs out?
It’s clear. We have to stay put at my mother’s until I can retrain and find a job that pays decent.
My heart sinks. I have no experience to speak of—my resume is non-existent. Who on God’s earth is going to employ a middle-aged single mom who’s hardly worked a day in her life?
My tear ducts swell but I blink them into submission. I refuse to cry. Gerard doesn’t deserve my tears, and I need to be strong for my daughter.
I remember Mallorie’s text. I’ve been putting off meeting her because I don’t know how to be around myself and my family anymore, let alone my best friend since kindergarten.
But, after that shitshow of a mediation I need someone to talk to who isn’t going to judge me or hate me for dragging her away from everything she knows.
I pull out my phone and see the missed calls—Gerard isn’t the only one who’s pissed that I left.
His eldest aunt whom I probably spent more time with than my husband is finding my departure difficult.
I press play and hold the hand at arm’s length.
A wall of sound comes at me from the tiny device. None of it in English.
I locate the translate button for convenience and listen to the interpretation.
“Erin, when are you going to stop this nonsense and come home? Gerard misses you…”
I snort.
“I miss you. I don’t know how to operate the dishwasher and the plates are all piling up.
I had an accident in the bed, Erin. It is embarrassing.
Where are the clean sheets? And the woman you organized to do my groceries, she is terrible.
She shows up too early when I am not awake, and she leaves the groceries outside the door and my ice cream melts… ”
Sighing, I end the message. As tempting as it is to hate myself for leaving her alone, Gerard’s aunt Katerina is not my responsibility. I have cared for her on and off for years, and though she won’t admit it, she’s perfectly capable of looking after herself.
And she knows exactly where the clean sheets are.
Still, I fire off a quick text to Gerard’s neighbor to ask if she would kindly check in on Katerina for me. It’s about time Gerard realized I did a lot more for him than laundry and raising a child.
The house feels warm when I step through the door. Laughter comes from the TV room, making my heart flutter. If there’s one thing to be grateful for, it’s the fact Paige really likes my mom, and the feeling is mutual.
I place my jacket and shoes in the closet.
“Hey Mom.” Paige looks up as I enter, her usual scowl replaced by a smile.
“Hi love.” I walk across the room and give my daughter a kiss on the cheek.
“How did it go?” Mom’s bored tone gives me pause but I push it to the back of my mind.
“As well as to be expected.”
I don’t want to give her the details because whether it went well or badly, it would all be my fault. It’s for the best that I keep some information to myself.
“The bad news is I won’t be able to get a place for Paige and me just yet, but the good news is I can begin to contribute to the household finances.”
Something catches the corner of my eye and I turn slightly to see a large box beside the sofa.
My heart feels like it’s being strangled. Gerard had better not be sending clothes and stuff to Paige to try and win favor. I had friends back in California who went through divorces and, inevitably, it all became about who could win the most favor with the kids.
Had I ever anticipated Gerard and I getting divorced (and the thought never crossed my mind) I expected we’d be above that kind of petty war-waging.
I turn back to see my mom raking her eyes curiously over my outfit. Then we both speak at the same time.
“What are you wearing—?”
“What’s in the box—?”
I huff out a breath and try to pad down the bulkiness around my hips. The stranger’s shirt drowns me.
“I went to grab a coffee on the way to my lawyer’s office. Some guy walked into me and his coffee went all over my blouse.”
I feel the beginnings of a blush crawl into my cheeks.
“I explained I had a mediation to get to and he gave me his shirt.”
I’m leaving out a lot of information here, but I mean, that is pretty much what happened.
“What?” My teenage daughter scrunches up her face, looking deeply appalled, in that way only teenage daughters can. “So he just happened to be carrying a spare shirt?”
I shift from one foot to the other.
“No, he—he wasn’t carrying it. He was wearing it.”
Gosh. When I say it aloud, it sounds a little… dubious.
Paige lowers her phone to give me her undivided attention, something I haven’t been granted since 2022.
“What, he just stripped off in the middle of the coffee shop?”
“I suppose so. I wasn’t really paying attention.” Oh, the lie. “By the time I noticed, he’d pulled a jacket on.”
“Goodness!” Mom flaps a hand in front of her face. “Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”
I allow myself a small smile. “I guess not.”
“That blouse needed to go,” she adds. “Even a man’s shirt several sizes too large for you looks a damn sight better than that thing you had on earlier.”
I take a long breath in, then remember the box.
“So, what’s in there?” I ask, pointing to the package taking up a reasonable portion of the room.
“It’s addressed to you,” Paige says.
I prod a finger into my own chest. “Me?”
Paige stands and comes over to me as I locate the address label. She’s right. There’s a large sticker with my name, Erin Applebaum, right there in the center.
“It got here a couple hours ago. I’ve been dying to find out what’s in it.”
I cross to Mom’s writing desk and locate a pair of scissors, then I set to work opening the box. Confusion sets in when there’s yet another box inside it. Only this one has a logo I recognize printed across the top. Saks Fifth Avenue.
What? Who would be sending something to me from Saks?
The friends I had in California could certainly afford to, but they were dismissive of New York stores.
Nothing could ever compete with Rodeo Drive, darling.
Mallorie has never shopped there in her life, and Gerard wouldn’t buy me anything now, on principle.
I guess some people mail things using boxes they’ve received themselves. It doesn’t mean that whatever is inside this box actually came from Saks.
Then I open it and know, unequivocally, every item in here did indeed come direct from the Manhattan designer department store.
There are approximately twenty or so items neatly folded and wrapped in pristine white tissue paper. I unwrap the top one and my heart manages to simultaneously dance on the ceiling and drop to my knees—where it might one day join my tits if I don’t buy myself a better bra.
Made of the softest, most delicate silk georgette by none other than Michael Kors, is the prettiest blouse I’ve ever seen. And it’s exactly my size.
I place it gently to one side and lift out the next. Another luxe silk shirt, this time by Ungaro, in pale oyster with a long tie.
“These are beautiful, Mom,” Paige whispers breathlessly. “I recognize those designer names. Wait a second—”
She leaves me to marvel open-mouthed at the gorgeousness in my hands while she flips open a magazine and starts scouring the pages.
While she’s doing that, and under the watchful eye of my mother, I lift out a couple more. A neatly pleated shirt in bright white by Proenza Schouler and a plain and simple cotton button-up by Ralph Lauren.
“Look!” Paige lands beside me on the floor and lays out the magazine. The double page spread is of a high concept fashion shoot featuring impossibly beautiful models and entirely unwearable clothes.
“See here?” She points at a list of garment prices in a box to the left of the page. “That Ungaro top, right there, is selling for two thousand dollars.”
She flips forward a few pages to another fashion image and prods at the words. “And that Michael Kors jacket is worth five thousand.”
She flicks through the box, counting the layers, then sits back on her heels.
“There are twenty shirts in this box, Mom. Even if they only cost a thousand each, we’re looking at twenty thousand bucks here.”
Only a thousand bucks each?
“Are you sure?”
Paige leans forward and searches again through the box.
“Another Ungaro, Chloe, Burberry… Prada! Fuck!”
“Paige!”
“Sorry Mom, but this is insane. These shirts are worth a fortune. Who would send them to you?”
My heart dives into the bowels of my stomach, filling my mouth with nausea. It must have been the stranger from the coffee shop. I gave him our address so he could return my dry-cleaned blouse. Not replace it with twenty high end designer alternatives.
“Mom, you okay?”
I blink into space. “Yeah, um…”
“You’ve gone pale. Is it the shirts? What’s happened? Where did they come from?”
I take hold of the outer box and inspect it for a delivery slip. There must be details of the sender on the package somewhere.
When no slip falls out, I scan the surface, returning to the label with my name on it.
There is no other name anywhere. It’s been sent anonymously. But it has to be him.
Until five minutes ago when I told Mom and Paige, he was the only person who knew my blouse had been ruined, and had my street address.
Maybe I should feel grateful, or elated even, but I don’t. I feel like one big fat hairy failure. A charity case of epic proportions. And of all the people I’d like to have take pity on me, he is the last.
“I’m not accepting these,” I say, firmly.
Mom straightens then speaks around a mouthful of chips. “I will.”
I shoot her a warning look. “No, Mom. They’re going back to the store.”
“What?” Paige splutters. “Why? This is a gold mine! This could buy us a vacation. I could buy an airline ticket for Killian to visit.”
The hope and excitement in my daughter’s eyes makes me feel like a prize asshole, but I can’t accept these shirts. They were sent out of pity. Clearly, the guy took one look at the label and figured I have no money. He felt sorry for me.
Well, Mr. Rich, Annoyingly Handsome Stranger, I am nobody’s charity case. You can take your beautiful blouses and give them to your no-doubt many girlfriends.
I gather up the shirts and place them back inside the boxes. “I’m sorry Paige, I can’t accept them.”
She grips her cheeks, dramatically. “Why not? Who are they from?”
“I’ll bet I know,” Mom snickers on the sofa.
“It doesn’t matter who sent them.” I take my phone out of my purse. “We can’t accept something so ridiculously extravagant. You could buy a boat with all this.”
Mom wrinkles her nose in my periphery. “A small one.”
I shoot her a glare before dialing the number I’ve just pulled up on my phone’s browser.
Mom and Paige stare at me as I make the call.
A pleasant enough woman answers the phone.
“Yes, hi. My name’s Erin Applebaum. I have just received a package of shirts and I would like to send them back please.”
“Mom, please! They’re a gift. Just sell them. Take the money.”
I frown at Paige to be quiet, then walk out of the room into the kitchen. I give the woman my address for collection.
“Can I ask why you are returning them, ma’am?”
I loop an arm around my waist. “I didn’t order any shirts and I don’t need any shirts. Can you tell me who sent them please?”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. That information is confidential. Buyers usually send a note with the package.”
“There’s nothing.”
“Well, ma’am, whoever it was paid a premium to have them delivered by bike today.”
My chest swarms with conflicted feelings. On the one hand, this is an incredibly generous and thoughtful thing to do, but it makes me feel like something to be pitied, and I refuse to allow anyone to make me feel that way.
Not when I have myself to do it.
But I know exactly who sent these. A six foot something, marble-chested, salt and pepper speckled Adonis with more money than sense.
“Are you there, ma’am?”
The woman’s voice makes me startle. “Um, yes, sorry.”
“Do you still wish to return the items?”
I hug my arm a little tighter. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Then I will arrange collection first thing in the morning. Thank you for your time, ma’am.”
I stare at the phone long after I’ve hung up.
Will he be upset that I sent them back? Will I ruin him for any other selfless deed he might want to make in future? Will it cause him to lose faith in humankind?
Then I remember the amused glint in his eye as I realized he’d stripped out of his shirt. He knew exactly what he was doing by sending these to me. He was toying with me, asserting his rich, arrogant manliness over me.
Well, fuck you, coffee shop stranger. I don’t need your hand-outs and I’m nobody’s toy.
And with that, I grab my phone, bid a curt goodnight to my mother and daughter, then head straight up to bed.