Chapter 33 #2
Jack is not like the others. I know that now.
For one, that Pirate Duke–looking douche scares me and thrills me more than anyone I’ve ever met.
And my deal-breaker with him was based on a phantom equivalence, my own fears, and some thoughtless words from him spoken in anger.
He’s seen the real me now and likes me anyway.
He challenges me, makes me laugh… But love?
“You’re the worst,” I say.
Margie just snorts and continues reading.
I draft half a dozen texts to Jack but can’t make myself send a single one.
They all feel so…weak. What the hell do you say?
What I’m feeling for you was sorta on track to enter L-word territory, and I was worried you’d turn out to be like my dad, and you saying all that mean shit felt like a deal-breaker, but if you’re sorry, maybe…
I rub at the ache in my chest and look at my incoming call. “Hello?” I answer.
“Hi, Penny. Hope you’ve enjoyed your well-deserved vacation.” Rochelle sounds like she’s on speaker, and the tone of her voice tells me she has an audience.
Vacation. Huh. “Uh, yeah. Good times. What’s up, Rochelle?”
“What’s up is some fun Friday news! I’m thrilled to advise that HR has approved a promotion! We’re getting you up to a director level. And it comes with a twenty-five percent bump in salary—retroactive to last month!”
I sit back in my chair, absorbing the words with no little shock.
Margie mouths, What?
I shake my head at her. When the silence stretches uncomfortably, I finally say, “Ah… Wow. I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“No, thank you. This is long overdue. We’ll see you Monday. Okay?” There’s a tense pause, as if Rochelle isn’t sure if the promotion and raise are enough.
I swallow. “Thirty percent and I’ll definitely see you Monday.”
I let the silence linger until I’m so uncomfortable, I want to crawl out of my skin.
But then Rochelle’s voice comes through, too bright but also tinged with relief. “You got it. Have a great weekend and we’ll see you Monday.”
I disconnect the call and sit there, stunned.
“What happened? Tell me,” Margie demands.
An email comes through. Rochelle.
Figured you’d need the attached proof of salary for that mortgage. Sorry this took me so long to get you. Your courage sparked mine. See you Monday.
Home. I’m going home.
I run up to my apartment and knock on Jack’s door. There’s no answer. I chew at my lip. He isn’t home. Okay. This will just have to wait a bit…
I open my apartment. There’s a slip of paper on the floor.
I’m sorry. More than you know.
J.
I run out into the hall and fumble with the banister cap, relieved when I see the hidden key Anna mentioned still there. I’m not going to risk him coming and going before I can talk to him. I’m going to wait inside his place and—
Boxes. Jack’s furniture is already gone. My heart shrivels in my chest, the death of hope collapsing in on itself, a tiny, sucking black hole.
I stumble out of the apartment and back into my own, and I look across the room through defeated, tired eyes.
I can see the browning leaves of my plants through the glass.
I dash to my fire escape and throw open the tall window, then race to my sink to grab water.
I murmur soothing, nonsensical things and prune the plants for the better part of an hour.
I want to cry. I neglected them the same way I neglected my… thing with Jack.
Love? For the first time in my life, I think so. We weren’t just approaching L-word territory. We had maybe already arrived while we were busy pounding on the wall and eating pizza and fixing The Hole. And now it’s too late.
My head dips. I wander the apartment. Somehow, like when The Wizard of Oz turns from Technicolor back to gray at the end, it’s lost its power for me.
It was a hiding place, a refuge I could retreat to so I didn’t have to deal with things I didn’t want to.
But now I know I don’t need these four walls to accomplish what my voice can do for me.
It took taking down a wall to give me the emotional tools to put them up wherever I need to.
Now this apartment is just a place where Jack isn’t.
I lie there on my sofa for what feels like ages, staring blankly up at the ceiling.
An ache blooms inside me. God, I miss him. He hurt me with his words, but I started the argument. And then I left. Didn’t give him a chance to backtrack, even after he started to apologize. He’s sorry. And I bailed on him.
I want him back. But any words—even better ones than my brain is currently cooking up—will ring too hollow if I can get him to talk to me. There’s no danger in saying the thing, because I can always just say some more words later and leave again. What kind of wobbly foundation would that be?
It’s a while before I force myself to shuffle down to Gence’s apartment. I still need to lock in my apartment purchase. I almost don’t want to now.
When I knock, Gence’s wife, Zoya, answers. She’s a handsome woman with gray-streaked black hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Um. Is Gence here? I need to talk to him.” My eyes well, and Zoya ushers me to a low couch in the living room. I’ve never been inside his place, but it’s clean and cozy. His wife brings over coffee and sets it down on the table. I give her a small smile, grateful as she goes to fetch her husband.
The table is covered in delicate, crocheted white doilies protected under a thick sheet of transparent plastic. It makes for a wonky surface for my coffee. Gence enters and sits across from me, frowning when I set my cup down and end up spilling a bit. I sigh. I can’t win with him.
I pull out my mortgage pre-approval docs, then set them down on my lap. I swallow hard. “Jack didn’t buy his apartment?”
Gence sits back, folding his hands on his belly. “You come here to ask me that? No. He didn’t buy.”
A thought sparks. I lick my lips. This is either the best idea I’ve ever had, or the worst.
Gence purses his lips. “You come here to drink my coffee? Maybe give me more sugary treats, katastrofe me dy kembe?”
“No,” I say, before handing over my documents.