Chapter 20 – Mindy
CHAPTER TWENTY
Pivoting
Mindy
I stand outside the drop-off area at the Houston airport and give my aunt a long hug. “I hope you have a great time in London.”
Her face is the picture of happiness when we release each other. “I know I will. I have the best boss ever.”
Phoenix Hale is sending my aunt to London to visit her daughter for a month, all expenses paid. Best boss indeed.
“I’m looking at apartments today and tomorrow, so I’ll be out of the way by the time the contractors arrive next week.”
Aunt Lorraine tugs on a strand of my hair. “Let me know if you can’t find something, and I’ll have the workers come another time.”
“No, it’s fine. I’ve researched several that have immediate availability.
Plus, you need to get all your plumbing replaced as soon as possible.
Two burst pipes in a month? You got issues, Auntie.
” A security guard walks by and gives my vehicle a long glare before turning his eyes toward me.
“I’m moving,” I assure him, grabbing one more hug from my aunt before hopping in my car.
At the gas station, the pump won’t take my debit card, so I go inside the store. The clerk runs it three times, but it still doesn’t work. Luckily, the bakery pays me in cash, so I use that to fill my tank, reminding myself to call the bank later.
Last time I’d driven down to Galveston to pick up my stuff from the house, Roger had conveniently forgotten and wasn’t home. So we set up time to meet today during his lunch hour. Before I waste another trip, I park next to the store and text him.
Me: Just reminding you we’re supposed to meet at the house at noon so I can pick up my stuff.
His response comes a minute later.
Twatface: I’m out of town.
I grind my teeth together until they’re aching. This fucker. Loosening my jaw, I text back, doing my best to keep my tone professional like my lawyer suggested.
Me: Is Rose there so I can stop by? It will only take me a few minutes.
Twatface: No, she’s with me. We took a little vacay to the Bahamas.
Me: When will you be back? I’d really like to get my things.
Twatface: Not sure. At least a couple weeks.
Don’t say anything smartass, Mindy. Any communication can potentially be turned over to the judge, and you have to at least appear to act like a grown up.
With that reminder in my head, I click out of the text app and phone my divorce lawyer.
“Chase and Associates, attorneys at law,” a friendly voice chirps. “This is Jessica.”
“Hi, Jessica. This is Mindy McCoy. May I please speak with Doreen Smoak? It’s about my divorce case.”
There’s a pause before the woman speaks again. “Actually, Ms. McCoy, I was just about to call you. There was, um, a problem with your payment.”
My eyebrows lower. “What kind of problem? I wrote you a check at my initial visit.”
“Yes, ma’am. I tried to deposit it this morning but…” Her voice lowers. “The check was returned for insufficient funds.”
“What?” Those lowered eyebrows migrate almost to my hairline. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m so sorry. Do you have another form of payment?”
Remembering the debit card issue from a few minutes ago, I expel a long breath. “Let me check my banking app to see what the problem is.”
I put her on speakerphone, and a few seconds later, the problem becomes evident. And. I. Am. Pissed.
“He drained the account.”
“Excuse me?” Jessica asks.
“My husband. He emptied our checking account.” My voice is a tightrope, taut with tension and frustration, but I close my eyes and do my best to rein in my temper and panic.
“It’s okay, I have money in my savings account.
I’ll just transfer some over and then pay you over the phone with my debit card. Twenty-five hundred, right?”
“That’s the retainer fee, yes,” she replies politely.
But when I check my savings account, all the blood seeps from my face, leaving it numb and cold. The account balance is one dollar. One. Fucking. Dollar. All the money I’ve saved for my bakery is gone. Just… gone.
“It’s… it’s empty too,” I croak, sounding like I’ve swallowed a golf ball.
“Oh my god, Ms. McCoy. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” I say, my voice suddenly turning fierce. “Sorry I ever married that motherfucker. Who, by the way, is currently living it up in the goddamn Bahamas with his mommy-wife.”
Ignoring that loaded statement, she softly asks, “I’m assuming your husband’s name was on both accounts?”
“Yes. We had a joint checking account that we both contributed to, but the savings was all my money. Twatface—I mean Roger—put both our names on it when he started the account, and I didn’t think anything of it.
We were newlyweds, and I thought…” My words trail off as hot, angry tears stream down my face.
“You thought you could trust him because he was your husband,” Jessica finishes quietly, and I nod, even though she can’t see me.
“I’ve seen it happen time and time again.
If both your names are on the account, one party can’t fully close the account without both of you signing off on it, but either of you can add and remove money at will. ”
“Yeah,” I breathe, “I know how that works. I used to work at that bank.”
“Can you tell how the money was removed?”
Duh. I’d been so frozen in shock, I didn’t even think to check on that, so I click on it and see the posting. “It looks like it was transferred to another account last night. I don’t recognize the number. He must have opened another account.”
“Crap,” Jessica says. “It will all get straightened out once you go to court, and the judge will divide the money as he sees fit. I know that doesn’t help you right now though. I’m so sorry.”
A thought strikes hollowly in my chest. “My savings could be considered marital assets, right?”
I can hear the cringe in Jessica’s voice. “Yes, ma’am. Without a prenup, it could.”
I smack my forehead with my palm. Hard. “So Twatface could get half of everything I’ve saved up. Half of the money my parents left me.”
“Hmm, I’m not a lawyer, but I know that generally inheritances are considered the property of the person inheriting it.
Unless the funds are commingled, and then they become community property.
In some cases, the judge can rule differently, but I’m just not sure.
” She pauses for a long second, and I resist the urge to bang my head on the steering wheel at my stupidity. “I do have a tiny bit of good news.”
“Hit me with it, Jessica,” I say, swiping my hands down my cheeks and staring out the windshield at the convenience store in front of me. “I could use some good news right now.”
“Ms. Smoak was able to expedite the name change you requested, so you’re now officially Mindy Espinoza again. You should receive the papers today at your aunt’s address.”
Tears of gratitude seep down my face. It’s such a small thing, but it’s also a very big thing. Enormous. I may not be divorced yet, but I no longer have Twatface’s surname.
“Thank you, Jessica,” I say, doing my best not to weep. “And apologize to Ms. Smoak for me. I’ll do my best to get that money to you as soon as possible.”
“The docket for divorce court is pretty long right now, so it will be months before your case comes up. I’ll leave you as active in our system right now, okay?” she asks, kindness surrounding her every word.
“Thank you,” I repeat. “I’ll… be in touch.” As soon as I hang up, I text Roger a scathing message and stare at my phone, waiting for a response. The dickhead leaves me on read.
I toss my phone onto the seat beside me, and that’s when the tears overwhelm me, escaping my body in heaving sobs. I haven’t cried like this since my mother died. My hands stroke around the steering wheel, the exact spot Mama touched when driving this car. It brings me a modicum of comfort.
How the hell could I have been so stupid? How could I have trusted someone with the money I’ve been saving for years? And why the hell didn’t I open a savings account at a different bank and transfer my money out right after leaving Twatface a couple weeks ago?
Granted, I’ve been dealing with a lot… moving from Galveston to Houston… trying to replenish my wardrobe Twatface destroyed… becoming a single, independent woman once again. But still. Protecting my money should have been my first priority.
But I never in my wildest dreams thought quiet, unassuming Roger would literally steal from me. Another bout of tears drains down my face and onto my pink T-shirt. Reaching over to the glove box, I pull out a wad of Whataburger napkins Caroline had stuffed in there last time she rode with me.
I suddenly want to call my friend, but I pause and shake my head. She and Brayden are in New York City for their anniversary, and I don’t want to disturb them.
A tap sounds on my window, and I almost leap out of my seat as I whirl around. A woman stands there, a look of concern on her face.
“Are you okay?” she mouths.
Her blonde hair is pulled into a ponytail, and she’s wearing a bright yellow shirt with denim shorts. Assessing that she doesn’t seem to be a threat, I roll down my window. The warm August air battles for dominance against my air conditioning, and sweat instantly dots my forehead.
“Hi, sorry,” I say, blotting at my face. “Just had a difficult phone call.”
Her lips twist to the side. “Okay, I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need any help. I’m sorry I scared you.”
I manage a watery smile and say, “Divorce shit,” without further explanation.
Her eyes roll heavenward. “Sister, I’ve been there, done that. It gets better, I promise.” Then she pauses, as if in thought, before reaching into her plastic bag and pulling out a Twix bar. “Here. You take this. I think you need it more than I do.”
With more gratitude than I know what to do with, I take the candy, the foil wrapper crinkling in my hand.
“Thank you,” I say, overwhelmed by this simple kindness from a stranger.
“No problem. Sometimes the path we’re on leads us straight to Shitsville, and in that case, it’s okay to pivot,” she replies. Then she winks and shoots a finger gun at me. “Keep your chin up, babe, and remember it’s not you. Most men are as useless as the g in lasagna.”
That makes me laugh, and I watch as she turns and walks to her vehicle before I roll up my window and open the Twix.
I eat it the proper way, scraping off the top layer of chocolate and caramel with my teeth and saving the cookie for last. It gives me a little boost, and I lick the remnants of melted chocolate from my fingers.
It’s okay to pivot. The woman’s message rings in my ears, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.
My pivot is a big one, namely starting from scratch on my apartment search. Gone are my dreams of hardwood floors and an amazing tub. Now I’m dealing with reality, and to be honest, it kinda sucks donkey balls.
It’s only temporary, I tell myself, looking around the shabby studio apartment that smells strongly like asparagus pee.
The floors are carpeted in an avocado-colored shag that looks like it’s been there since the Nixon administration.
And there’s no tub, clawfoot or otherwise, only a small shower stall with a moldy curtain covering the opening.
“You want it?” the landlord, who identified himself only as Apollo, asks gruffly. He doesn’t look like an Apollo. He looks more like a Norman or perhaps a Clarence.
“The deposit is only a hundred dollars?” I clarify.
The injudiciously named Apollo scratches his belly, which is barely contained by a stained wife-beater that might have been white at one point.
One of his eyebrows is significantly bushier than the other.
It seems to have its own life force, and I’m pretty sure it’s staring at me. I look away just to be safe.
“Yup.”
I walk around the space again, which takes approximately five seconds. The paint is chipping off in several places, and there are a few dead bugs around the baseboards. I don’t spot any crickets though. That totally would have been a deal-breaker for me.
It’s only temporary. I’ve deemed that my new mantra.
I could deal with this for a few months until I get a few paychecks under my belt.
The rent is dirt cheap, which is exactly what I need right now, and it comes furnished.
Well, kind of furnished. There’s a bed with a surprisingly clean-looking mattress, a tiny dining table with one chair, and a lime-green bean bag.
“What’s the shortest lease I can sign?”
Apollo pulls up his shirt a couple inches and picks some lint from his belly button. At least I hope like hell it’s lint.
“Four months,” he replies in a bored tone before stuffing his belly button treasure in the pocket of his cargo jeans. Jesus.
“Okay, so it will be up in December,” I muse, doing the quick calculation.
Worried that my current state of unemployed-ness will keep me from being able to rent, I jerk a thumb over my shoulder.
“I’ll take the apartment, but I need to run to my car to get proof of employment.
I mean, I don’t actually start the job until next week, but I brought my contract with me so you can see that I’ll be making enough to pay the rent here. I promise it—”
He cuts off my nervous rambling with a simple statement. “Don’t give a shit. Just pay by the fifth every month or you’re out.”
“Alrighty then,” I reply in my best Jim Carrey impersonation. The eyebrow of doom rises, which I think means it’s impressed. It should be.
“My name recently changed,” I tell Apollo as we head down the rickety stairs to the first floor of the building. “I was going to go to the DMV when I’m done here, but for right now, my ID is under my old name.”
He sighs heavily as we walk into his office. There are at least eight cats lounging on various surfaces. “Look, lady. You can put Santa Claus on the lease as long as you pay your rent.”
Well. He’s certainly a lot more flexible than my new bank.
After leaving the convenience store earlier, I stopped by Aunt Lorraine’s house and found the name change paperwork in the mailbox.
Then I headed directly to Reliant Bank and Trust to start a new account with the cash I had saved up.
Even with the paperwork, they insisted on putting McCoy as my last name on the account because I didn’t have proper identification with Espinoza listed but assured me I can easily change it later when my new license comes in.
We make quick work of the lease agreement, and Apollo hands over the keys to my new shitty apartment. But to me, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world because it represents my independence.
Next step? Get some cleaning supplies. Including an industrial-sized can of Lysol.