Chapter 6
My mind should be on work today, but instead I’m mentally calculating how much of my paycheck will go toward the house without tenants paying rent.
The mortgage is paid off, but there are still taxes, utilities, and insurance.
Basically, it’ll be like I’m still repaying my debt to Mom and Dad.
The debt I just finished paying off. Not ideal.
That evening, I decide to call my parents to discuss what to do. I’m standing on my tiny balcony trying to enjoy the warm evening sun but mostly feeling the chilly spring breeze. My next-door neighbor steps out onto their balcony and lights a joint.
We don’t acknowledge each other, though we’re so close that we might as well be standing in the same room.
We’ve lived next door to each other for over two years but have never had a conversation.
The most contact we’ve had is when we pass each other in the hallway and they raise their chin in a silent greeting.
I would recognize their cropped blue hair and facial piercings anywhere, but I have no idea what their name is.
“It’s not ideal that the tenants are leaving, but maybe it’s for the best. At least I won’t have to be a landlord,” I tell Mom. My neighbor’s eyes slide toward me.
“Aren’t you going to find new tenants?” Mom asks.
“Couldn’t I just leave the house empty, and, I don’t know, use it as a vacation home?”
My neighbor suddenly chokes and wheezes through a fit of coughs. Damn, that sounded bougie. I angle my body slightly away from them.
“Absolutely not!” Dad’s voice sounds distant, like he’s yelling from the kitchen. “Leaving a house empty is the best way to ruin it. You’ll be dealing with mold, rot, infestations, break-ins, not to mention—”
“Okay, okay. So now I have to find new tenants. How do I even do that?”
I rest my elbows on the balcony railing.
I am so not cut out for this. My pulse is racing from the stress of it all.
I don’t know anyone in Reina Beach aside from my relatives.
How on earth am I supposed to find new tenants to live in the house?
And what does a landlord do exactly—am I going to have to talk to these people on a regular basis? Like, on the phone?
This is so far outside my comfort zone.
“Trish already gave me the number of a good property manager that everyone uses in Reina Beach. Since the house is across the country, you’ll need the help from someone local to find tenants.”
“Okay. Good idea.” I sigh. “I didn’t know owning a house would be so hard.” I choose not to mention that I also have no idea what a property manager is. I’m sure my parents—and my neighbor—are questioning my intelligence enough as it is.
My neighbor snuffs out their joint on their balcony railing, staring unblinking at me the whole time.
I can read the look plainly enough: They think I’m upper-middle-class scum.
I feel my face flush as I avoid eye contact—easier said than done when you’re five feet apart.
I wait for them to go back inside their apartment before I speak again.
“Speaking of things that aren’t easy. Gramps is not very amenable to me taking care of him.
He barely wanted to talk to me on the phone.
And Trish is already bringing him groceries, so what am I supposed to do for him?
I honestly have no idea. I don’t know what Lottie wanted me to do.
I don’t know how to take care of an octogenarian. ”
“Have regularly scheduled meetings with him. Every day at a certain time. Have an agenda with boxes to check off, like is he eating, exercising, socializing.”
My mom is using her attorney voice. Her words are crisp and confident, and for some reason they make me cringe.
I may not know how to take care of Gramps, but I have an instinct that he wouldn’t like regularly scheduled meetings with an agenda.
Maybe it’s because of the last phone call I had with him.
It was like he couldn’t wait to hang up.
Do I really want to put us both through that every day?
“I’m not sure if that sounds like something he would like, Mom.”
“Oh, Mallory.” She sounds irritable now. It also sounds like she’s chopping a carrot that has personally offended her. “You’ll have to figure it out. You’re nearly thirty years old. I’ll send you the property manager’s number. Call us back when you have solutions instead of just problems.”
She hangs up.
I stare at my phone, stung. Excuse me. I am only twenty-eight. Rude.
I sit back in my chair and gaze out the window.
The day outside is clear and blue. The sun glints off the urban buildings of Lower Queen Anne and flashes off the Space Needle in the distance.
The idea of hiring a property manager to help me feels like a huge weight off my shoulders already, but the idea of a phone call fills me with dread.
All I have is this guy’s name and phone number.
I would really prefer to text him first. But I figure it might be an office landline, so I have no choice.
I stall for a few more minutes, placing a DoorDash order for some pad thai for lunch, and then I arrange a notepad and pen on my desk and call the number.
“Hello,” comes a man’s voice, slightly out of breath.
“Hi, is this—” I double-check the name I’d scrawled at the top of my notepad. “Daniel McKinnon?”
“Yes it is.” He pants, and I wonder if he’s having a heart attack or something. “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”
“Um. My name is Mallory Rosen?” I’m aware that this comes out like a question, something that happens a lot when I’m flustered.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Rosen?” His breathing is really distracting.
“Look, are you okay? Are you having some sort of cardiac problem? I won’t feel bad if you need to hang up and call nine-one-one.”
He chuckles, and it’s a nice mellow sound. It simultaneously calms me and makes me feel like I’ve just swallowed some warm vanilla pudding.
“I’m not experiencing an emergency, but thank you for your concern.” He sounds normal now, and I hear something like the crunch of gravel. “I was on my bike. Just walking into my office now. So please, tell me what I can help you with.”
“Right. Well, I’ve come into some property.
” Boy, that sounds pretentious. “And I need some help managing it.” Now I’m just repeating his job title at him.
Me have property, you help manage. I try to sound somewhat intelligent.
“It’s a single-family home. I asked around and you came highly recommended.
I live in Seattle, so I could use the help of someone local. ”
“Seattle, huh? I was wondering where your area code was from.” I hear the squeak of an office chair.
I have no idea what he looks like, so I imagine a generic forty-something man, possibly bald, definitely sweaty from biking in the Florida heat.
“What kind of help are you looking for, specifically?”
“At the moment, I could use some help finding new tenants. The old ones left.”
“Scared them away, did you? What, did you tell them about Seattle politics?” He laughs again, and my stomach squirms. Sweaty and balding he may be, but he has a nice laugh.
“That’s definitely something I can help you with,” he continues. “Are you aware of any repairs that need to be done on the place, big or small?”
“I’m… not sure. I haven’t exactly seen the place. In a while, I mean.”
There’s a pause. He’s surely wondering how someone as incompetent as me became a homeowner.
“In situations like this, I usually send my maintenance guy out for a quick inspection. Would that be okay with you?”
“Yes! Absolutely.” I feel a wash of relief. For a moment there, I was afraid he was going to tell me to fly down there.
My phone pings and I glance down to see a message from DoorDash.
“Oh, my lunch is here. I better go grab it before someone else does.”
“What do you eat for lunch up there in Seattle?”
“Today? I ordered pad thai. Spicy. With tofu.”
“We don’t get much Thai food down here. I’d try it, though. Not sure about the tofu, but I could be convinced.”
I feel myself grinning and fidgeting with a lock of my hair.
Wait. Is this property manager flirting with me about tofu?
Or am I delusional? Trish said everyone knows this guy—this is probably why.
He’s friendly and a good conversationalist. He’s the kind of person who can make small talk about lunch feel interesting.
“Don’t worry, I won’t try to convince you to eat tofu.” I’m still grinning. “I really just order it because they charge extra for shrimp and the chicken is usually dry and sad…” I trail off, grin nowhere to be found. Why am I suddenly talking about dry chicken? Why?
He doesn’t say anything. I managed to stump Mr. Small Talk Expert with my babbling. I wonder if there’s an online course I could take about how to win friends and influence people. Or at least how to make normal conversation. Or, heck, how not to ruin a conversation by talking about dry chicken.
“You still there?”
His voice somehow zaps me out of my humiliation. It’s just so smooth. I could listen to him talk my ear off about home maintenance, renter’s insurance, whatever it is that property managers talk about.
“I am. But my lunch might not be.”
“You better run and grab it, then.”
“Yes, I should.” I don’t know what it is about him—I’m usually in a hurry to hang up the phone, but not with him. “I’ll email you the address of the house. My aunt should be able to deliver the key to your office if that works for you.”
“That all sounds fine.” He gives me his email address, which I make him repeat twice because I keep dropping my pen.
“Great. So, I’ll email you with the details. And you can let me know when the inspection will be.”
“I will. Enjoy your tofu.” There’s a hint of laughter in his voice.
“Thanks. You too.” I hang up just as I realize what I said. My head slowly lowers to meet my desk. I simply can’t be trusted with words coming out of my mouth.
Oh no, my lunch.
Mercifully, the plastic bag containing my pad thai is still waiting for me. I’ve had so many packages stolen here that I’ve lost count. I don’t know what I would do if someone took my food. I get hangry.
Later that night, I can’t stop thinking about Gramps, about how to find out how he’s actually doing.
Finally, I sit at my desk and open my laptop.
It takes me a while to think of the words, but soon they come pouring out of me.
I let out all my thoughts and questions and frustrations and worries.
I re-read it to make sure I don’t sound too neurotic or too whiny or too anything.
And then I hit SEND on the email to Gramps.