by Nikki Chase
“Long enough,” I say, watching as Diana's grin begins to fade. I look around me for some inspiration and add, “Long enough for me to buy her a ring.”
“Oh my god.” Diana's whole face opens up. Her eyes get big and her jaw drops. “You’re going to propose to her?”
“Yeah. Why else would I buy a ring?” I figure it's too late to back down now.
“Oh my god!” Diana exclaims loudly in the quiet store, drawing our moms’ attention.
“What's going on?” Aunt May asks as she sidles up to her daughter. My mom flanks her from the other side.
I watch helplessly as my lie spirals out of control, grinning like I’m happy about the events that are unfolding before my eyes.
Before I can blink, Diana has shared the good news and the three of them stare at me with fucking wonder in their eyes, like I’ve cured cancer or single-handedly fed all the hungry kids in Africa.
“Wait until I tell your father,” says my mom. “He’s been waiting for years for this to happen.”
“He has?” I ask incredulously.
“Oh, yeah. He was beginning to think it was never going to happen. But you’ve proved him wrong.” Mom gives me a big smile as she says, “Take that, Dad! Who's the perpetual child now, huh?”
I give them a big grin as I figure out my next move. My first instinct is to protest the “perpetual child” label and tell them that being in a relationship is not a good measure of maturity. But that wouldn't do me any good. I’m committed to the lie now.
“When are you going to let us meet her?” Aunt May asks.
“Oh, yes, I’d love to meet her. What is she like?” Mom asks.
“Yeah, Rafe. I want to see what kind of girl finally manages to convince you to settle down,” Diana says.
“I’ll have to talk to her,” I hear myself say. “I brought it up before but she’s nervous about it. You guys can be kind of intense.”
“Oh, bring her home sometime,” Mom says. “Tell her we’ll love her no matter what. Any girl who manages to make an honest man out of my son is part of the family.”
“I don’t know if I want to spook her so close to my proposal,” I say, steering the conversation away from planning an actual meet-up.
“When are you planning to propose?” Aunt May asks.
Luckily, I’m pretty familiar with the subject of marriage proposals, thanks to my friend Seth, who has just gotten engaged. Now I’m glad I helped him pick a ring and watched him turn into a nervous wreck before proposing to his fiancee, Alice.
“When the time is right,” I say. “I’m still thinking about the perfect way to do it, actually.”
“Have you picked a ring?” Mom asks.
“Ooh, good question, Aunt Elise,” Diana says. “Let us help you choose a ring!”
I tell them I’m still looking for the right ring. They grab my arms and pull me here and there, showing me tiny, expensive things that all look the same.
There’s no getting out of this now. I’m like an inexperienced swimmer caught in a rip, dragged further and further away from the shore, unable to swim back to dry land.
After two hours going through every jewelry store in the mall, the three of them finally settle on a ring in the original store. They try to convince me to buy it, until Aunt May points out that I should give it more thought and come back when I’m ready.
Naturally, I say that’s a good idea because what the fuck would I do with a useless, overpriced piece of jewelry?
I also manage to convince them it’s not a good idea to meet my girlfriend because I’d rather they meet her as my fiancée. The cheesy line works.
Then they ask to see pictures of her on my phone, and I tell them I just got a new phone so I don’t have them. I add, “Besides, I have a feeling you don’t want to see the sexy snaps she sent me.” That works to distract them a little, but they insist on me sending them pictures of us at Seth’s upcoming wedding.
Finally, I leave the store with my watch, which is now fixed. The three of them remain in there to look at the same stuff they’ve been looking at for hours. The way women shop, I don’t understand how they manage to get anything done.
As I get into my car and turn on the ignition, I feel conflicted. On one hand, I finally find a way to get myself back into my family’s good graces and regain my position in the bank. On the other hand, how the fuck am I going to convince them I have an actual girlfriend?
I can tell stories about this imaginary girlfriend for two hours, no problem—especially when they’re distracted by shiny things. But eventually they’re going to insist on meeting this non-existent girl. What am I going to do then?
Maybe I can just bring some random girl home and introduce her to the family. Then, once I get more responsibilities at the bank, I’ll just tell them that things didn’t work out and we broke up—that should get me some sympathy. If they really think I’m heartbroken, they’re unlikely to take my job away and make me feel worse.
I could ask one of my friends-with-benefits, but I have trouble keeping things casual with them as it is. I don’t want them to get the wrong idea.
I could hire an actress, I guess. I could put up an ad online and do a little audition.
Or I could just approach some girl and ask her to be my pretend-girlfriend.
Like that girl, for example, the cute one with the blonde ponytail, the guitar, and the New Balance sneakers. Mom would hate the way she dresses, but she’s just the type I’d consider girlfriend material.
After spending too much time with the hyper-feminine females in my family, I now much prefer low-maintenance, down-to-earth girls. I just haven’t found one I’d like to keep for longer than a couple of weeks. And I actually prefer it this way, after what happened with my last serious girlfriend.
I back up the car and drive through the parking lot, looking at the women on the sidewalk, sizing them up for their fake-girlfriend potential.
“Hey!” A female voice screams as a loud smash makes me jump in my seat. It’s the cute girl with the guitar and the ponytail, and she has just slammed both her hands on the hood of my car.
“Sorry!” I shout out. With the car roof down, she should be able to hear my apology. I must’ve been looking too intensely at the sidewalk and missed the crossing, on which she’s standing.
“Watch where you’re going, asshole!” The girl holds both her hands up and gives me two middle fingers. Her big blue eyes glare at me angrily, her eyebrows pulled down.
“Sorry,” I repeat. It’s my fault for not paying attention, although I was going so slowly I wouldn’t have hurt her anyway.
She ignores me and walks away. Not one to just forgive and forget, this girl. Not one to be impressed by luxury cars either, apparently.
Many girls switch gears as soon as they find out I have money and then, voilà, I can do no wrong. Oh well, can’t please everyone.
I have more important things to worry about anyway. I need to find a pretend-girlfriend before Seth’s wedding and bring the same girl to meet my family.
Piper
I crouch down on the sidewalk and grab a fistful of coins from the bottom of my faux-leather guitar case. They jingle as I dump them into my messenger bag.
Great. A bunch of silver coins and dollar bills. They’ll go a long way toward my rent.
I let out a big sigh as I lay my guitar down inside the case. I still haven’t earned enough, but it’s time to go home now. The mall is about to close soon.
I’ve spent the whole day at the mall, trying to make some money. All around me, people are spending their money, but just not on my music. They’re happy enough to stand around and watch the free entertainment I provide, though. As I pack up, the few stragglers left from the crowd I gathered finally turn around on their heels and leave.
One guy comes up and asks me for my number. I tell him no and walk away. If I had more energy, I’d tell him I don’t give out my number to cheap guys who don’t support street performers.
&nbs
p; I make my way across the parking lot, wearing my guitar case like a backpack.
After my eight-hour shift at the shoe store today, I should get about a hundred dollars, although it’ll take exactly nine more days until I see the money in my bank account.
If I’d get such a long shift every day of the week, I’d be golden. As it is, I only get a good shift when someone else can’t make it to work. Today, I have Lori’s ear infection to thank for the hundred bucks.
I try to recall how much money I have in my bank account, mentally calculating if I can really pay two months’ worth of rent by the first of next month. That’s a buttload of money.
Ugh. Maybe I shouldn’t have promised the rental agent something I can’t do, but I had no choice. I’d already be sleeping on a piece of cardboard box on the streets if I had told her the truth. Well, maybe not on the streets, but maybe on Carly’s couch, if…
Wait, that car is going faster than it should so close to the crossing. It’s stopping, right?
When it continues to glide on the asphalt, I bring both my palms down on the shiny hood, shocking the driver into a stop.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going, asshole!” I yell out, staring straight at the guy. Just because he’s driving a flashy convertible, he thinks he owns the road. I narrow my eyes at him to take a closer look.
Whoa, he’s hot, I think to myself.
Then, annoyed by his reckless driving and my own reaction to his good looks, I give him two middle fingers. I ignore his apologies and walk away.
Today’s just not my day. I’m drained, and I’m still broke.
I should just go home and enjoy a warm bed while I still have it. Who knows, I might get an eviction notice tomorrow and officially become homeless.
I wake up to loud knocking on my door. My eyes barely have a chance to adjust to the brightness when I sit up on the edge of the bed. McClaw lifts his orange head and stares at me with sleepy eyes, annoyed that I’ve disturbed his slumber.
Don’t blame me, buddy. I’m as much a victim as you are. I’m not the one responsible for that noise.
McClaw continues to stare at me, demanding that I put a stop to the knocking on the door.
As I stumble across my small studio, I wonder how nice it would be to live as a spoiled house cat. All McClaw ever does is take naps, and all I ever do these days is work. My whole body is sore and fatigued. Who could be knocking on my door at eight in the morning?
I stand behind the door and line up my eye with the peephole, inspecting the person who has woken us up.
It’s a man. A big man. He has muscles bulging against the sleeves of his black shirt, rough stubble all over his jawline, and a pair of aviator sunglasses. He looks hot and familiar, although he’s also exuding some seriously douchey vibes.
Who is he, and what does he want?
I don’t know this guy. Did he just get the wrong apartment?
Maybe I should just go back to bed and pretend I’m not home. He’ll go away after a few minutes, and then I can sleep in peace.
“Hello?” The man knocks again and says, “Piper Ford?”
I frown. Squinting through the peephole, I take another look at the guy.
No, I don’t think I know him. I’d remember a face like that if I’d seen it.
“If you’re in there, we need to talk. It’s about your rent. We need to talk about eviction,” he says.
My blood runs cold. Shit. Did he say eviction? So they’re really going to make me move out? He’s not a thug hired to physically kick me out, is he?
I consider my options. I can stay inside and let him go back to where he came from, but I may find an eviction notice taped to my front door once he leaves. Alternatively, I can open the door and maybe persuade him to let me stay and give me a chance to pay the rent.
It’s pretty clear what I should do.
I look down at my clothes. A pair of gray sweatpants and a shirt with the logo of my college on it—not my finest outfit, but not the worst thing to wear at this time of the day either.
I tiptoe a few steps to stand in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway. Checking my reflection, I quickly run my fingers through my blonde hair and smooth down the stray strands so I don’t look too much like I’m an unkempt hobo. I don’t want to give him more reason to think I belong on the streets.
“Coming!” I shout out as I tug on my clothes to smooth out the creases.
The knocking stops.
I open the door and see a beautiful man. Like, belongs-on-the-cover-of-a-glossy-magazine beautiful. He's probably in his late twenties or early thirties.
With his sunglasses off, he no longer looks douchey. It's his eyes that make all the difference. With his brilliant green eyes in full view, he looks friendly and approachable. I have to admit they me a little weak in the knees.
“Piper Ford?” He asks, in a voice that's smooth as butter.
“Yes.” I give him my sweetest smile. I open the door just wide enough to fit the width of my body and no wider. If the gap between my legs and the door is too big, McClaw might decide to run outside into the hallway.
He cocks his head and stares at me, making me nervous from his intense, undivided attention.
Why is he looking at me like that? Is there some pillow marks on my face? Or worse, some dried drool on the corners of my mouth?
I lift my hand up to my face and act like I’m absent-mindedly rubbing my mouth.
“Have we met before?” He asks.
“I don't think so.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, smiling. He snaps his fingers, obviously happy that he has solved the mystery. “Were you at the Westfield Center last week?”
“I was, actually.” Have I really seen this hotness in front of me and not noticed?
“You had a guitar with you.”
“Yeah,” I say, lighting up. Maybe he’ll be more inclined to show some sympathy if he's a fan of my music. “Did you hear me play?”
“No.” He gives me a strange half-grin, half-grimace. “But I did almost hit you with my car.”
Before I can stop myself, I squint my eyes at him. Oh my god. He is the guy from last week, the one in the flashy convertible, the one who almost killed me.
I raise my hands up to cover my mouth as my jaw drops. Have I screwed up my chances of avoiding homelessness by giving him two middle fingers?
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I was in a… It was a really bad day for me.”
“Okay. That's not actually what I’m here for, though,” he says. He combs his hair back with his fingers and pauses awkwardly. “I’m the landlord, and I’ve been told that you were going to pay the rent on the first of the month, and I don't see the payment. You’re behind by a whole month.”
“I’m sorry. I know I’m late. I’m doing my best and I’ll pay off everything, I promise,” I say, stumbling all over my words.
“When?”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, when can you make the payment?” He asks.
“I… Uh, I get paid the day after tomorrow. I’ll cut a check for the rent right away.”
“Oh,” he says, lighting up. “Is that going to be for both months?”
“Um… That would be for last month’s rent.” I give him an apologetic smile. “It's just because this is the summer and lots of my students are going on holidays, going to summer camps… I promise you, I’ll make up for it once the summer’s over.”
“Okay, I don't really… I’m sorry you're going through difficult times, but I can't help you out, you see. I can't just wait for you to maybe come up with it in a few months, when summer’s over.”
“Are you going to evict me?” I ask quietly, bracing myself for the answer.
I’ve been dreading this very thing for weeks; it keeps me up at night. Now that it's finally happening, I don't know how to feel. There's dread swimming in my stomach, but also relief, like I’m just glad to finally see an end to this torturous limbo state between being a tenant and an evictee.
He takes a deep breath and looks away, thinking, before he says, “I’ll give you three days to pay everything in full—the rent for both months. After that… Well, that's all the grace period I can give you.”
“Can't you give me more time?” I ask.
I know I’m the one who hasn't been fulfilling my part of the deal, but he's obviously not hurting for money and a part of me resents that he’s not willing to give me a little help.
“Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I think you’ll be happier living somewhere you can afford.”
“Like where?” I ask.
This is the smallest, cheapest studio I could find that's within walking distance of my campus. I could move further away from the city, but I’d have to waste time and money on public transport. I’d end up spending about the same amount of money.
“I don't know.” He shrugs. “But my property manager shouldn't have rented this apartment out to you in the first place. Your income is not high enough, and your credit score is pretty bad.”
“My credit score?” I frown. What is he talking about?
“Yeah. You know, it's how they keep track of the way you handle debt.”
“Yeah, I know what a credit score is, but I always pay my bills on time.” I grew up with a dad who forgot his bills all the time, in a house that got its gas and electricity cut off all the time, as well.
“Just not your rent, huh?” He laughs at his bad attempt at a joke, then grows quiet when he realizes I’m just staring flatly at him. “Maybe you forgot your credit card payments.”
“I don't have credit cards.”
“Well, it must be something else, then, because your credit score is bad.”
“Or maybe you got me confused with someone else, maybe one of your other tenants. I’m sure my credit score is fine. I’m careful to keep it that way.”
“Not possible,” he says with complete confidence.
Okay, so I guess I must be the one who's wrong, then, I want to say. But I bite my tongue. He might just decide to eliminate the “grace period” and make me move out right away.