Chapter 8
AURORA
I have to set up an entire account with this credit union just to put a payment plan in place for the remaining balance on this stupid business loan.
I undergo this obnoxious process when I get home from work, along with going to the bank in person, something I only have time for because Roman told us to be done for the day once we finished in the town square.
All in all, it’s not what I want to do on a Friday afternoon.
My nerves have finally calmed down some, however, now that the shock has worn off and my reasonable side has caught up.
This situation sucks, but at the end of the day, I have enough money to get started, and I have another job lined up.
I’m safe, my family is safe. My living situation is up in the air, yes, but it was already up in the air.
So I have gone from anxious and angry to just plain old angry. And, if I’m being honest, slightly concerned. There are valid reasons to default on a loan, even if they’re few and far between—something Juliet pointed out, and something I had to grudgingly agree with.
“Like what if he’s in a coma or something?
” she says reasonably while I fume over getting this payment plan together.
She’s seated on my bed, lounging like it’s her own, while I work at my bedroom desk.
“Or what if”—she glances around as though afraid of being overheard—“what if he died?” She says this last word in a whisper.
“That would be very sad,” I agree, breaking the lead of my pencil when I press down too hard as I jot a few numbers on a sticky note, “but as it’s unlikely, let me be annoyed right now, please.
If I find out he’s in a coma, I will behave penitently.
” I toss the pencil to the side, frustrated, and then lean back in my chair.
“Have you tried to get in touch?” Jules says, twirling a few strands of her hair absently around her finger.
“Yes,” I say. “I called him twice in between calling the bank and calling the credit union and calling the collections agency. He didn’t answer.”
“Did you text?” Jules says.
“Of course.” With minimal threats or virtual yelling, in order to increase the chances of his response. So far nothing. “I’ll probably just figure out if he’s still living in the same place and go over there. I need to talk to him somehow, even if I have to break down his door.”
“I would not recommend breaking down any doors.” It’s India, whose head pokes into the room followed by the rest of her. She crosses to the bed and slumps down at the foot of it before flopping onto her back and staring at the ceiling. “Do you guys want to get dim sum for dinner?”
“Yes,” Jules says emphatically, and I nod.
“That sounds amazing,” I agree. “And let’s call Poppy. I haven’t seen her in a while.”
“I haven’t either,” India says. “Cy says she’s been doing a lot of school stuff lately to finish up her program.”
“Well, let’s do one last dinner,” I say with a sigh. “Before I go broke and can’t afford to eat anything but ramen.”
“We’ll be your sugar mamas,” Juliet says, and I laugh, my mood lifting slightly.
“You’ll take care of me in my old age?”
“We will,” she says, and India laughs too.
“We’ll pass you back and forth when you get difficult,” Indy says. “You can be the crotchety old aunt.”
I don’t know if I should be touched that they’d take me in or hurt that they think they’d need to. I can’t blame them; I haven’t shown any inclinations toward matrimony, which means children are probably out of the picture for now too.
“You look like a crotchety aunt right now,” Jules says, but her voice isn’t teasing; it’s sympathetic.
When I take stock of my face, I realize she’s right. My brief levity has vanished, and a gloomy, grouchy expression has settled over my features as I stare at my computer screen, my eyes on the Autopay button that’s taunting me.
“I’m going to do it,” I say in an unmistakably glum voice. “I’m going to make my first payment.”
“You could wait until Monday,” Juliet says, but the words are halfhearted. “Since it probably won’t go through on the weekend anyway.”
She knows as well as the rest of us that I don’t want to wait. “I need to get it over with,” I say. “Rip the Bandaid off.”
“Boo,” she says, and India sighs.
“Are you doing it right now?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” I hear a shuffle of blankets and then she and Jules come to me, wrapping their arms around me and resting their heads on my shoulders. “We’re ready,” India goes on.
I don’t feel like I’m ready. But I don’t see how I’d ever be ready for something like this. So I close my eyes, take a deep breath…
And then I click the button. A virtually silent motion that somehow echoes like the slamming of a door.
“Hello, more debt,” Juliet says in a sad little voice as the payment confirmation pops up on the screen.
“Hello, more debt,” I repeat dully. “Hello, worse debt-to-income ratio.”
We’re silent for a moment, and then I feel some sort of motion—India nudging Juliet, I think, after which Jules begins to chant.
“Dim sum! Dim sum! Dim sum!”
India joins her until I’m surrounded by a chorus of dim sum, dim sum, dim sum echoing in my ears, and both of my sisters’ faces are obnoxiously close to mine, waiting for me to smile. I hold it in as long as I can, just on principle, until finally it breaks free.
“Fine,” I say with a tired laugh, banishing my anger for the time being. I’ll get in touch with Tyler no matter what, but right now he’s not answering, and I’m hungry. “Dim sum.”
They jump up and cheer, more exaggerated than normal, but I’m grateful anyway. I’m grateful for the distraction, for the little balloons they’re tying to the sinking feeling settling in my chest. I’m grateful for the knowledge that they would take me in if I had nowhere to go.
I’ll never let that happen, of course. If anyone takes care of anyone, I’ll take care of them.
But it’s nice, knowing they love me enough to do the same.
“Go call Poppy,” I say now, leaning back in my chair. “Does everyone want their usual?”
I’ve never ordered anything different. But now, for reasons I don’t understand, I find myself wondering what the dumpling soup tastes like, or maybe the pineapple buns.
Everything else is changing anyway, out of my control. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try.
Considering all Roman’s talk about buying people out and naming my price, the address he texts me is attached to a relatively small home.
His grandmother’s house, I think he said, and it looks like a grandmotherly place—old-fashioned with horrible brown siding and a distinctly retro air.
If my guess is correct, there will be wood-paneled walls and shag carpet inside.
A musty smell, definitely, and dust motes dancing in the morning sun as it streams through grimy windows.
Grimy for now, anyway. They’ll shine when I’m done with them, and it will bring me a satisfaction that will temporarily drown out the pain of taking on a payment and losing the housing prospects I hoped for.
I glance down at my outfit, jeans with a t-shirt tucked loosely in.
If I were doing this on my own I’d be in leggings or yoga pants, but I’m not comfortable enough with Roman for that.
It still feels too casual, and I have to remind myself that I’m dressing properly for the job I’ve been given before I press the yellowing button that rings the doorbell.
The front door has an ornate oval window in the center, but the glass is textured enough that I can’t see inside.
I do see Roman’s shadow as he approaches, though, and a second later the door lurches open to reveal him looking as casual as I do.
I breathe a little sigh of relief at that, ignoring the way his t-shirt stretches over his chest and broad shoulders.
It’s the perfect level of tightness, if I were to assess such things about my temporary boss.
Which, of course, I wouldn’t.
“Aurora Marigold,” he says, looking down at me.
“Roman Drake.”
“You’re right on time.” And even in saying this, he seems to find something amusing, although I can’t tell what.
“Promptness is part of my fifty-dollars-an-hour package,” I say flatly, reminding myself not to shift under his scrutiny. “Are you going to keep me out here all day?”
“My apologies.” He steps back and opens the door wider, letting me in. I emerge into a small foyer lit with a dim yellow glow, and I frown.
“You need light in here,” I say, looking at the dining room to the left and the closed French doors to the right. “It’s depressing. Let’s open some windows.” I move briskly to the dining room window, and the blinds are halfway up before I realize I’m bulldozing ahead without asking permission.
I freeze in place and then turn around to look at Roman. His hair is still perfect—how is it always perfect, without any sign of product?—and his arms are folded as he watches me.
“Can I?” I say.
He gestures at the window, his gaze keen on me. “By all means. No need to ask for permission.”
And it’s interesting, the differences I see here compared to what I’ve seen at work. I barely know the man. But he’s more casual now, and yet somehow more…
Confident? Self-assured? The way his eyes follow me, the way he leans comfortably against the handrail of the staircase that descends into the little foyer—he’s comfortable here, relaxed, more at ease.
Which is saying something. All of his behavior at work is lounging and laid back, too. But here his aura is different.
I snort at this thought, because I’m the last person who would ever talk about someone’s aura. But it’s the only way I can describe it.
“Something funny?” he says, pulling me from my thoughts.
“No.” I open the blinds the rest of the way and then crack the window too. “It’s not good for a house to get stale. Open windows and blinds every now and then.”
He nods, his lips twitching. “Duly noted.”