Chapter Eighteen
The words on my computer screen blur as my vision drifts out the window, toward the foursome of Silver Swingers wearing the busiest, ugliest color-combination of argyle I’ve ever seen, along with the snug shorts mentioned while picketing.
Funny how that protest seems like ages ago now that I’ve made progress within the community.
Demonstrations and resident complaints are down, Jan’s given a few tours a day since our last positive article, and while interest forms aren’t exactly pouring in, we’ve bumped occupancy from sixty-two percent to sixty-five and are finally on a steady upward trajectory.
Unlike the golfer struggling with a sand trap on the seventh green or hole or whatever. Not that I could do any better, but the tantrum he throws, hacking at the sand with the rod of iron in his hands, is a definite red flag, and a protective surge goes through me on behalf of my grandmas.
The eligible bachelors of AARP are also my biggest obstacle. They turned sex into a competitive sport where female residents felt pressured to throw caution to the wind, yet they wouldn’t attend seminars, despite the invitation I extended to Bob, the head of the Silver Swingers.
“How do I get more men?” I drum my fingers on the granite desktop, snorting once I realize how it sounds. Not that I couldn’t use advice in that department…
Dr. Vasquez hasn’t texted or called since our tennis lesson last week, but he’s obviously a busy man, and it’s not like I’ve reached out, either.
I could use the excuse of checking on his progress for the First Aid Course, but that only reminds me how much I still need to do for the upcoming open house.
Three weeks isn’t much time, but it also brings us right down to the wire, as I assured Jan we could hit 85 percent occupancy by the end of the summer. It’s honestly the only option, considering there won’t be enough money to keep the property afloat after that, and I refuse to fail—not again.
Using the responses in my inbox, I finish calculating costs for alternative plans, but with so many decisions waiting on Jan, I find myself spinning my chair to face the golf course again.
At my old job, I rarely saw the great outdoors. My toes rarely touched sand, and at those events and parties at the beach, I distinctly remember being annoyed at the sinking of my heels.
I should’ve kicked them off, but the ankle strap’s persnickety, and when I mentioned I’d be faster if my feet were bare, my boss glared.
It did the trick—I moved so fast I sandpapered off a layer of skin.
A big part of me still craved that rush of adrenaline, but another part enjoyed strolling down the sidewalk and smelling the roses rather than bobbing and weaving around other disgruntled Miamians racing to the office.
Oh no. Am I growing too accustomed to a slower pace of life?
I used to literally hit the ground running, now I check off tasks at a steady but fairly lackadaisical pace.
basking in the sunny view from inside an air-conditioned office while pondering how ridiculously excited I am to head to Arlene’s this evening to help get her ready and send her off on her big date.
It’s not so much a regret of hers I’m tackling, rather fanning the spark she forgot she had and reminding her she’s still got plenty of fire left. Two more hours, and we’ll all be at Vonetta’s and Gertie’s, laughing and chatting and boosting Arlene’s confidence.
Wait. Am I actually counting down to the weekend?
As the quiet seeps in and the refresh of my inbox fails to reveal anything new, I’m tempted to pull up my saved bookmarks and go searching through sites that’ll inevitably be bad for me.
I’ve avoided caving in to it for weeks, but justifications whirl through my head, of all the reasons I should look.
It’ll keep me on my game.
Prepare me for my next job.
Leave me more aware of trends.
I’m half-tempted to call up Ezekiel to ask if he’s come up with a grand gesture I’ll likely have to veto before suggesting others, but I’m not supposed to be helping him any more than I already have.
That was the other tricky thing about boundaries—once I drew them, I needed to have the strength to stick to them.
Even if it means I don’t feel as valuable.
Then, in one of those rare moments that suggests the universe is actually listening, my phone chimes with a text from his Royal Highness himself.
King EZ just sent pictures of him and a few of his teammates at the Foster Fun Summer Sports Tournament, which I totally forgot was today. It’s bittersweet, seeing the event I set up for teens in foster care play out on the pages without me.
Pride quickly takes the lead, though, spreading a smile across my face as big as the grins of the teens in the pictures.
My chest knots at the shot with my former coworker plastered to EZ’s side, a little of my happy leaking out when I see the guy the firm’s replaced me with. He rubbed me the wrong way since my very first day, when he asked if I had a boyfriend before he asked my name.
For some reason, this feels like the greatest failure of all, knowing the biggest mansplainer in the office replaced me.
As if they need some dude-bro to handle a basketball player, like little ol’ me can’t remember all the rules when I still have the periodic table, quadratic equation, and every single track on Taylor Swift’s 1989 album memorized.
Ooh, I bet I can order the sheet music! It’s the first time I’ve experienced a rush of genuine excitement over the idea of learning a song on the piano in years.
During my extra busy junior year of high school, after months of struggling through difficult pieces I held no passion for while my mother pointed out my mistakes, I gathered my courage and told her I didn’t want to play anymore—that I quit.
Before she stormed off to not speak to me for days, she yelled that one day, I’d regret it.
A decade later, and I’m as surprised as anyone that I do kind of miss it.
I also happen to have access to a piano and a bit of free time in the evening, although musically, my grandmother holds an even higher standard of perfection than Mom.
Still, it’s healthier than doomscrolling.
I’m debating which piece of sheet music to purchase when my phone chimes, loud enough I jump.
The Cronies have added an event to my calendar, no other info besides it’ll be with Sophia and take three hours of my afternoon a couple of weeks from today. I’m not only curious, I’m terrified—the grannies have gone digital.
Another chime follows, signaling there’s a Google alert to attend to, thank God.
But when I check out the alert and accompanying link, I promptly take back everything I’ve said about needing to stay busy. My pulse throbs at my temples, my stomach bottoms out, and dread rushes to fill the pit as I slowly read the headline again.
Florida man, seventy-seven, accused of erectile intent, caught selling misbranded, illegally obtained Viagra to fellow residents of Lakeview Retirement Village.
Ugh, I should’ve known the journalist for the Herald Sun hadn’t magically seen things my way and changed her tune. It’d be so nice if people would, but after the vitriol I’ve seen posted online from behind the safety of a screen and keyboard, not much surprises me.
With a groan, I read on, irritated but not surprised that Claudia Clickbait Caldwell leaped at the chance to drag the community through the mud. And, since I’m the one who lectured her and implied her remarks were ageist, I’m afraid I have only myself to blame.
This time she deliberately skirts that box, but the final sentence is the personal jab to my unsuspecting gut.
Whether you’re looking for an eternal summer or an enduring boner, Lakeview Village is the place to find it.
At the sound of a motorized whine, I panic, shuffling papers around my desk until I realize the bad news is on my phone screen. I’ve never wanted to punch an article so hard, and where did Claudia Caldwell get her training? TMZ?
Not that it matters. Whether or not Jan knows about it, I’m going to have to address it.
She was so happy about that other article and uptick in tours, too, and why hadn’t I reached out to more journalists?
Oh yeah, because I wanted the narrative spun and contained, not farmed out to outlets who might shine more light on the property before we’re ready for it.
It’s a lesson that everyone learns in the glare of the public eye, often under the worst of conditions and whether or not you think you’ve learned it already…
The media giveth, and the media taketh away.
…
By the time I trudge up the well-lit ramp to the Harris-Wagner abode, my exhaustion’s dimmed my earlier excitement. I’m peopled out from hours of making and fielding phone calls and conveying the situation to Jan. At one point, I even ended up talking to the FBI.
What even is my life right now?
In good news, the drugs are “misbranded” due to lack of a prescription rather than because they’re mystery meds that’ll do anything besides help get-it-up. Not the best, but not the worst, and did you know the Federal Bureau of Investigation gets called in when multiple jurisdictions are involved?
I need to get a handle on my sour attitude fast, because I’ve been looking forward to this evening ever since we picked out a dress for Arlene to wear on her date.
I just wish it wasn’t so hard to prevent work stress from spilling into the weekend.
Which my grandmothers have already booked solid for me.
They’ll be watching me like hawks to ensure I don’t spend it working, too, so I aim the pointy end of my ire directly where it belongs—at that hack reporter.
This is what she wants. For me to get all flustered and mad, so I’ll hand her the viral outburst she needs to blow up an active retirement community for extra clicks and views. Well, I won’t give her the satisfaction, and this night isn’t about her.
With a resolute nod, I knock on the door and let myself in, getting a mouthwatering whiff of dinner.