Chapter 7
We spend the night sleeping in my parents’ guest bedroom, which used to be my room when I was living here.
It hasn’t changed much, except that the trappings of a teenage girl are gone: the boy band posters, teddy bears, and cheap mall jewelry.
We’re both adults, but it’s almost like I’m seventeen again and I sneaked him in—not that I ever let a boy into my room back then, because I wasn’t that kind of girl.
On Saturday morning, I’m awakened by Sam slipping out from under the covers, even though I know he’s trying not to disturb me.
Hardly surprising, since we’re crammed into a full-size bed.
There’s barely room for the two of us. We spent the whole night waking each other up every time someone shifted position, and I’m exhausted.
“What time is it?” I ask groggily, rolling over and rubbing sleep from my eyes.
Sam slips a polo shirt over his head. “Seven thirty. I’m going over to the apartment with your dad.”
“Why?” I’m still half asleep.
“Because all our stuff is there, and we need to get it.”
That makes sense. There’s no way I’m ever living in that place again. Not after what happened.
“Hang on.” I push back the covers reluctantly. “Give me a minute to get dressed, and I’ll come with you.”
“No need. Go back to sleep.” Sam leans down and kisses my forehead. “We’ve got this covered.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, even as I pull the covers back up and snuggle into them.
“Positive.” Sam laughs and steps toward the door. “Love you.”
“Love you more,” I mumble, closing my eyes and spreading out in the bed.
When I wake up again, it’s much later. I reach instinctively for Sam before I realize he’s not there.
All that’s left of him is a dent in the pillow and a faint scent of aftershave.
I haul myself out of bed and stumble, bleary eyed, to the bathroom.
I look awful, possibly thanks to how little sleep I got.
My hair, which normally falls below my shoulders in cascading fiery-red waves, looks dull and flat.
My eyes, which Sam once described as a pair of sparkling emeralds, have lost their luster.
They’re sunken and weighed down by heavy bags.
I pull myself away from the mirror, then shower, get dressed, and go into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. That’s when I find it. A folded sheet of paper with my name on it propped up against the coffee maker, because Sam knows I can’t function before caffeine.
It’s a note.
Try not to let yesterday get you down.
We’ll get through this. Promise.
Love you lots!
Sam
I read the note a second time and smile.
Sam is the most positive person I know. His cheery disposition and never-say-die attitude have made him a rising star at the Preservation Project, a nonprofit dedicated to saving historic buildings from the wrecking ball.
He took the job right out of law school.
Of course, he could earn a heap more money at a corporate law firm.
Somewhere that has actual, paying clients and the opportunity for him to make partner one day.
But he loves the job, and I love his passion for saving the beautiful historic buildings in our city.
I drop a pod into the coffee maker, my eyes still on the note, and open a couple of cupboards until I find a cup. Once it’s finished brewing, I take the cup and grab my laptop before settling down at the kitchen table to check my email.
It’s mostly spam, which I consign to the junk folder.
What’s left are automatic bill payment notifications and messages from mailing lists I’ve joined at one time or another.
There’s also an email from Jinny. She’s spoken to the sellers, and they’re going with a backup offer.
I’m not surprised, but it’s disappointing.
Up until now, the door was still open, if only a crack.
Now it’s been slammed firmly shut. We’re done with buying a place of our own, at least for the foreseeable future.
I sit at the table and finish my coffee, staring at Jinny’s message as if I can change the words contained within the email simply by force of will. When that doesn’t work, I trash the message, go back into the kitchen, and make another cup of coffee.
At that moment, my mother appears, and any hope of a quiet morning spent wallowing in self-pity evaporates.
My father and Sam are gone most of the day.
They make several trips between Jamaica Plain and Newton, boxing up our possessions and stacking them in my parents’ garage.
Except for the furniture that isn’t worth keeping—the ratty old couch, ruined IKEA coffee table, my desk, spray-painted television, and lumpy mattress, among other items—which they drag down to the sidewalk and drop at the curb for apartment-dwelling scavengers or the trash pickup.
After that, Sam hands the apartment keys back to the building manager, who tells him that we won’t be getting our deposit back because of all the damage.
It wasn’t our fault, which sucks, but even Sam’s lawyerly protestations fail to change his mind.
The money is gone. Just one more consequence of the robbery that further sours my mood.
By Sunday evening, I’ve reached my low point.
We’ll have to start apartment hunting in the coming week, which fills me with dread.
Boston is not a cheap place to live, and I fear that we’ll end up back in Jamaica Plain, which I used to love for its eclectic vibe and young energy but now view through a different lens.
And if we can’t find affordable housing in JP—as the locals refer to it—or another neighborhood in the city, then we’ll have to look farther afield.
I decide to call Jinny first thing on Monday morning and see if she knows of any apartments that would be willing to do a lease shorter than a year or let us go monthly—both of which are unlikely—so that we can start looking for another place to buy the moment Sam’s credit is fixed.
But she beats me to it. Sam has left for work and I’m about to sit down at the kitchen table with my laptop and a cup of coffee when the phone rings.
“Jordan? Are you sitting down?” she gushes when I answer. “Because I have some news, and I think you’re going to like it.”