29. Fiona
Fiona
The hallway smelled like cigarettes and industrial cleaner, with an undertone of something Fiona couldn't identify and didn't want to.
The landlord, a man in his fifties with grease-stained fingers and eyes that lingered too long, jangled his keys impatiently. "You coming or what? I got three more showings after this."
"Sorry," Fiona said. "Ready."
He unlocked the door and gestured her inside with a flourish that seemed wildly optimistic given what she was looking at.
The apartment was... small. Aggressively small.
The "kitchen" was a hot plate, a mini-fridge, and eighteen inches of counter space.
The "living area" could maybe fit a twin bed and a chair, if you were creative about it.
The single window faced a brick wall so close she could probably touch it if she opened the glass.
"Cozy, right?" the landlord said, like he was showing her a penthouse. "Perfect for a young lady starting out."
Fiona almost laughed. She didn’t feel young and she didn’t feel like she was starting out. She felt like she was starting over, which wasn't the same thing at all.
"The bathroom's through there," he continued, pointing to a door that looked like it had been painted over so many times the edges were rounded. "Shared with 3A, but they're quiet. Hardly ever see 'em."
Shared bathroom. Fiona's heart sank a little further.
"What's your situation?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe in a way that blocked her exit. "Divorce?"
The question hit like a slap. "Excuse me?"
"Just trying to get a sense of things, you know? Young woman, looking at a place like this..." He shrugged. "Usually means relationship trouble."
Fiona felt heat creep up her neck. "That's really not?—"
"No judgment," he said, holding up his hands. "Happens to the best of us. What's he do for work? The ex?"
"I don't think that's relevant to?—"
"See, here's the thing." He stepped closer, and Fiona caught a whiff of stale coffee and something medicinal. "I gotta know you can make rent. So if there's alimony coming in, or child support, that's something we factor in."
"There's no alimony," Fiona said quietly. "No children. Just my salary."
His eyebrows shot up. "Just teaching? Honey, you sure you can afford this place?"
The condescension in his voice made her jaw clench. Honey. Like she was a child playing house.
"I've done the math," she said evenly.
"Have you though?" He shook his head. "First month, last month, security deposit. Then you got utilities, internet, groceries..." He was ticking items off on his fingers now. "Cell phone, car insurance, gas, clothes..."
Each item on his list felt like a small stone dropping into her stomach. She'd calculated most of this, but hearing it laid out like this, by a stranger who clearly thought she was in over her head, made it feel overwhelming.
"Teachers don't make much, do they?" he continued. "My wife's cousin teaches elementary. Always complaining about money."
Fiona wanted to disappear into the grubby carpet.
When she'd lived with Dean, money had been abstract.
She'd contributed her paycheck to their joint account, but the big expenses had never felt like her responsibility.
Dean had handled the "real" bills. She'd bought groceries and school supplies and thought that was enough.
Now, standing in this depressing box that she might not even be able to afford, she realized how insulated she'd been. How naive.
"Look," the landlord said, his tone shifting to something that might have been meant as kindness, "maybe you should think about getting a roommate? Or finding something further out? I got a place about forty minutes from here, much cheaper?—"
"I want to be close to my school," Fiona interrupted.
"Right, right. Well..." He scratched his belly through his stained polo shirt. "Tell you what. You seem like a nice girl. But I'm gonna need two months' rent up front instead of one, given the... situation. Just to be safe, you understand."
She understood perfectly. He thought she was a risk. A newly single woman with a teacher's salary, probably desperate enough to take anything.
And the worst part was, he wasn't entirely wrong.
"Can I think about it?" she asked.
"Sure, sure. But don't take too long. Place like this, in this market? It'll be gone by the weekend."
Fiona nodded and made her way toward the door, eager to escape the claustrophobic space and his knowing smirk.
"Oh, and honey?" he called after her. "Next time you look at apartments, maybe dress up a little? First impressions matter."
Fiona glanced down at her cardigan and neat slacks—the same outfit she'd worn to teach twenty-three ten-year-olds that morning, the same style she'd worn to parent conferences and faculty meetings. Professional. Appropriate.
Apparently not impressive enough for a studio apartment with a shared bathroom.
"I'll keep that in mind," she said, and walked out.
In the hallway, she leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. The cigarette smell was almost comforting compared to the apartment's staleness.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Emma: How's the apartment hunting going?
Fiona stared at the message for a long moment, then typed back: Learning experiences.
She could afford this place. Barely. It would mean giving up coffee shops and new books and any hope of building savings for at least a year. It would mean eating a lot of peanut butter sandwiches and walking instead of driving when possible.
But it would be hers.
No one else's name on the lease. No one else deciding if she was worth the risk.
She pushed off from the wall and headed toward the exit, already mentally calculating whether she could swing the extra month's rent.
It wasn't the life she'd planned. But it was the life she was choosing.
She shouldn't have stopped at this grocery store. It was too close to the apartment she used to share with Dean, too familiar. But she hadn’t been thinking about him for once.
She’d been thinking about the apartment viewing, trying to process what her life was becoming, and Emma needed milk. And coffee.
She kept glancing toward the entrance as she shopped, half-expecting to see Dean's familiar silhouette. The last thing she needed today was to run into him while buying store-brand groceries and calculating whether she could afford the good yogurt.
Fiona was reaching for the coffee when she heard the voice behind her.
"Well, well. If it isn't the famous Fiona."
She turned. Roxanne stood in the grocery aisle, perfectly put-together in an elegant belted coat, sleek hair twisted into a French knot, lipstick flawless.
She looked like she’d stepped out of a skincare commercial.
Fiona was in the same cardigan and slacks that the landlord had already insulted. She felt suddenly frumpy by comparison.
"Roxanne," Fiona said evenly. "Hi."
"How are you holding up?" Roxanne said, gliding a little closer. Her smile was cool, carnivorous. "This must all be so... overwhelming."
"I'm fine," Fiona said, turning back to the shelves. Store-brand medium roast.
"It's so brave of you, really." Roxanne's voice lacked even the pretense of kindness. "Starting over from scratch like this."
Fiona grabbed her coffee and moved toward her cart. "Well, it was nice seeing you?—"
"You know," Roxanne said, following her, "I have to tell you about the most interesting presentation we had at work recently."
Despite herself, Fiona slowed.
"Richard was showing examples of brilliant content strategy," Roxanne continued, clearly delighted to have caught Fiona's attention. "And guess what made it onto the big screen? That hilarious account about you."
Fiona's hands tightened on the shopping cart handle.
"He had it blown up for everyone to see—a dozen people in the conference room, all admiring how 'genius' it was. Your little strawberry socks, larger than life." Roxanne's laugh was like broken crystal. "The engagement metrics, the comments section. Really impressive numbers, actually."
The thought of her private moments displayed on a conference room screen, analyzed like a case study while a room full of people who'd been mocking her for years nodded along, made Fiona feel sick.
"Must have been quite the presentation," she managed.
"Oh, it was fascinating." Roxanne examined her manicured nails. "Very educational for the junior staff."
Fiona felt something cold settle in her chest, but she kept her voice steady. "I'm sure it was."
"But then," Roxanne continued, eyes lighting up with malicious glee, "Dean completely lost it. Started ranting about how we were all terrible people for enjoying it. Called us sociopaths, if you can believe it. Very childish. Very... you , actually."
The casual insult was typical of Roxanne. Even now, even after everything, they couldn't resist making her the punchline.
Despite herself, Fiona felt a complicated twist in her stomach. Part of her was glad Dean had finally stood up to these people. Part of her wondered if he was okay.
"Must have been awkward," she managed.
"Oh, incredibly. But also hilarious, in a train-wreck sort of way." Roxanne's eyes sparkled with malicious glee.
She said it like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Fiona felt something cold and hard settle in her chest. Not anger—something cleaner than that. Something like clarity.
Fiona looked at this woman—this person who had sat at dinner tables with her, who had smiled and made small talk while secretly cataloguing her every awkward moment for later entertainment—and felt a wave of something that wasn't quite pity but wasn't far from it.
"You think everything is performance," Fiona said.
"Isn't it?" Roxanne tilted her head. "I mean, this whole conversation? You standing there with your little grocery cart, buying store-brand coffee like some tragic indie film heroine? Come on. You know we're going to talk about this the minute you leave."
"I'm sure you will," Fiona said. "You always do."
Strange how little power Roxanne had over her now she no longer wanted her approval.
Roxanne looked taken aback.
"Well," Roxanne said, adjusting, "I suppose we all play our parts. Though I have to say, Dean's been playing his quite badly lately. The whole 'tormented guilt' thing doesn't suit him. He's much better at confident and charming."
"Maybe," Fiona said, pushing her cart forward, "he's finally being honest instead of charming."
She didn’t wait for a reply. She didn’t care if one came. Fiona turned toward the checkout, back straight, cart rattling ahead, and left Roxanne—and her sharp little world of condescension—exactly where they belonged.
Behind her.
Fiona placed the coffee on the conveyor belt, followed by a few other careful, budget-conscious choices. No extras. No impulse buys. Just the basics.
Fiona pulled out her card and inserted it into the reader, mentally calculating how much would be left in her account. Not much. Maybe fifty dollars. Enough to scrape by if nothing went wrong.
The machine beeped. Approved.
She blinked.
It should’ve asked her to choose debit or credit. She glanced at the screen.
It showed her the current balance. Her breath caught.
That couldn’t be right. She hadn’t gotten paid. And even if she had, that was far too much?—
Dean .
She stared at the number, her groceries forgotten on the bagging shelf.
“Everything okay?” the cashier asked.
Fiona nodded slowly, mechanically.
She gathered her things and walked outside into the cold air, the bag of groceries tucked under one arm.
Fiona stood on the sidewalk, heart pounding. She should be angry. She was angry. He didn’t get to fix things with money. He didn’t get to pretend generosity could rewrite the past.
But also?—
Also—
She exhaled slowly.
It didn’t feel like control. It felt like support.
She wasn’t going to spend it. Not yet. Not until she was sure. But she wasn’t giving it back either.
She needed breathing room.
And now, she had it.