CHAPTER TWO #2
My stomach tightens. Even though I knew this was coming, I was hoping it would be longer in getting here. “I’m pretty sure I already know what you’re going to say. When do they want the advance back?”
She sighs and says, “This can wait.”
“I can tell by the look on your face that it can’t. How long do I have?”
“Thirty days to start making installments unless you can come up with the entire forty-five thousand at once. Or maybe …” She pauses and gives me a hopeful yet terrified look. “You managed to write an entire novel without mentioning it?”
Thirty days. My entire body goes numb and I want to sink into the couch and pull a blanket over my head. Instead, I give her a confident nod. “No problem. I can write them a check.” I think.
“They’ve been at me for almost six months now, and I’ve held them off as long as I could,” Lauren says. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I just can’t seem to ...” My voice is barely audible, even in my own ears.
“Erica said that when you start writing again, she’ll look at anything you do. Of course, they want you to finish the Duchess series, but if that’s too hard right now and you want to write something else, they’ll read it. She said to tell you she’s sorry, but accounting is on her ass about it.”
I stare out the window for a moment as I let this information sink in. “The thing is, Lauren, it’s kind of hard to write lighthearted historical romance when nothing is remotely funny anymore, and after you figure out there is no such thing as happily ever after.”
Nodding, she says, “So maybe try something new. Just keep the historical part and write, I don’t know … horribly depressing drama.”
I manage to curve my lips upward for a second, then let them drop. “There’s just no part of me that wants to create anything. I honestly don’t know if I’m a writer anymore.”
“Oh, Abby, don’t say that. Maybe you’re not ready to go back to it at the moment, but you can’t give up. It’s who you are.” She rests her hand on mine. Her palm is warm and soft and the feeling of another human touching me brings an unwelcome swell of emotion.
“Maybe you could try something else—just for a little while—until you feel inspired again. Work in a flower shop or a bookstore or something. Anything so you’ll have—” She stops herself when she sees the glare on my face.
“A reason to get up in the morning?” I quip, pulling my hand away. “He’s gone.”
Lauren sighs, and the look on her face says she’s as defeated as I intended her to be. Her cell phone buzzes and she glances at it. “Shit. I need a new assistant. The one thing I needed her to do was reschedule my three o’clock, but it looks like she hasn’t managed it.”
“You were going to take the afternoon off for me?”
Lauren nods.
Don’t I feel like a total bag? “That’s really not necessary. I’m doing fine.”
“This isn’t healthy, Abby,” she says, standing and picking up her briefcase. “You need to get out and be around people.”
“I have Walt. He’s people.”
“The other kind of people—human beings with opposable thumbs who can hold up their end of a conversation,” she says as she starts for the door. “I don’t know. Maybe you should try getting a little wild and having some fun for once.”
“I have fun all the time.” Spying my plate from breakfast, I pick it up off the coffee table and lick Pop-Tart crumbs off it. “See? That was wildly wonderful.”
She slides on her coat. “I’m serious, Abby. You can’t go on like this.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I can.”
“You’re going for a late lunch with me this Friday. I’ll be here at one-thirty to get you.”
“I won’t go with you, but I promise I’ll be alive.”
She laughs reluctantly. “You’re such a shit.”
“You love that about me.”
“I do, and you are leaving this apartment on Friday, even if I have to drag you out by your ankles.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Oh, I can do it, lady. Just make sure you shower and put some clothes on.”
“Nah, I’d rather make you take me out like this,” I say, opening the door for her. “But I insist we go to the Russian Tea Room.”
She walks out into the hall and turns to me, her face full of the pity I’ve grown to hate. “If you need help with paying back the advance—”
“That’s very kind of you, but I could never allow that.” I shake my head at the notion. “I can manage it.”
The elevator bell dings and the door slides open, allowing Mr. Puente, the co-op board director who I’ve been artfully avoiding to catch sight of me. Son of a bitch.
“Abby, finally,” he says with a loud sigh. “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”
“Let me guess, someone wants to re-open the great welcome mat debate of 2016,” I say, giving a discreet eye roll in Lauren’s direction. She gives me an ‘oh brother’ face and winks before she hurries to catch the elevator.
“Those mats were a tripping hazard.” He rushes toward me with his perfectly straight posture.
He’s dressed in tan slacks, a starched white button-up, and a pea soup green sweater vest I’m sure he spent twenty minutes ironing this morning.
“Have you been away? I’ve tried emailing, calling, and stopping by repeatedly. ”
“I’ve been very busy.”
His eyes travel to my slipper-clad feet, and when he looks back up at my face, it’s with sympathy. “I see. Can we step inside for a minute? I’m afraid I have bad news.”
“Perfect, because it’s bad news day at Casa de Carson.” I gesture for him to come in, then start toward the kitchen. “Tea?”
“No, thank you. I’m wondering if you’ve read any of the letters the co-op board has sent.” When I turn back to him, he’s staring at the toppled pile of envelopes on the counter.
“I’ve gotten behind on my paperwork lately.”
Mr. Puente takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a second. “As you may or may not know, we’re up for another major rent increase later this year. The board has been pulling together the funds to purchase the land from Killborn. All the co-op owners either need to pay their share or sell.”
Shock vibrates through my bones, followed by a sick, panicky feeling. I should not have been ignoring things for so long. “How much?”
“For your unit, it would be a four-hundred-and-eighty-thousand-dollar buy-in.”
My knees grow weak and I suddenly wish I were sitting down. “Who has that kind of money?”
“Some have it. Some have managed to get financing. It’s a great investment if you can swing it.” He glances at my slippers, then continues. “If not, we found a realtor who offered to drop his commission for anyone who needs out.”
“But the market is ...”
He nods. “Yes, you’ll be lucky to get three-hundred-thousand out of it.”
“How long do I have to figure this out?”
“That’s the thing. You need the money by next Friday.
” The way his face twists shows that he’s torn between pity and irritation.
I’ve put him in this incredibly awkward position by ignoring what surely must have been the only thing my neighbors have thought of for months now.
“I’m very sorry, Abby. I really did try to reach you. ”
“No, it’s okay. It’s not your fault.” I shake my head, and, much to my horror, tears spring to my eyes without my permission. Oh, perfect.
He stiffly makes his way over to the coffee table, returning with a tissue box. “Here.”
I take two and hold them up to my face, trying to cover the evidence of having actual feelings. “Thanks.”
“I can only imagine how hard this past year has been for you, and I know this won’t make it easier.”
I nod and blow my nose, which is now running at record speed. Not very dignified, Abby.
Mr. Puente digs in his pocket and hands me a business card. “This is the realtor I mentioned. He’s quite good. He’ll take care of everything for you.”
And just like that, a ball has begun rolling down a steep hill, and there will be no catching it. No ignoring it. Only chasing.
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