by Nikki Chase
“Dad, I’ll be spending the summer in Rockvale, okay? I’ll buy a bus ticket tomorrow and take the morning bus home.”
“Uh…” Dad stalls, like he doesn't want to answer me.
What could it be? Why would he be reluctant to let me go home?
I wonder if he has a girlfriend. That would be so weird. I wouldn't be mad or anything, though.
It has been more than a year since Mom died. Maybe he's lonely, living on his own after decades of being married.
They had a traditional marriage, I should add, in which he never had to lift a finger at home. Mom used to be responsible for all housework and childcare.
As sexist as it sounds, maybe he needs a woman to take care of him. Perhaps that's just how his generation works. Does it make me ageist to think that way?
But I'm getting carried away. I need to focus on the task.
“Dad, you can tell me what's going on.”
He remains silent, although I can hear his breathing. He takes one particularly long inhalation and says, “Promise you won't get mad?”
“Just tell me,” I say, almost snapping.
I don't really care if he has a girlfriend. Honestly, I'm a little offended that Dad thinks I’ll get upset. I'm not a little girl anymore. I know he's not just my dad, but also a complex human being with his own flaws, wants, and needs.
“Okay. I’m losing the house,” Dad says.
I stand in shock in the middle of my studio apartment. My jaw drops and I stay frozen, trying to come up with an answer that makes sense.
“You mean you’re selling it?” A lump in my throat makes it hard to continue talking, but I press on. I need answers.
How could he sell the house? I grew up there, and Mom spent her last days there. Doesn’t it mean anything to him?
“No,” he says.
“No, you’re not selling it? Then what do you mean?”
“They’re taking it away from me.”
“Who?” I ask, my voice louder and higher than I intended, frustrated by the lack of real answers.
“Holt Bank,” he says, in a tone that tells me he’s just as annoyed by my stream of questions.
“What do you mean, Holt Bank?”
“Well, it’s the name of a bank that—”
“I know what Holt Bank is!” My blood pressure rises. Of course I know what Holt Bank is. Every Californian knows what Holt Bank is. Dad has always been bad with money, but surely he’s not this bad. “You own the house free and clear, don’t you?”
“We took out some loans against the house to pay for the hospital bills.”
“How do I not know about this?” My head feels like it’s about to burst. The room starts spinning. I’d better sit down on the bed before I fall on my ass.
“You were a kid, Piper,” Dad says.
“So what are you going to do?” I massage my temples with my fingers, but the headache persists. “Where are you going to live?”
And where am I going to live?
“Steve says I can sleep on his couch,” he says.
“Steve? The divorced guy who lives in a one-bedroom apartment?”
“Yeah. He has a sofa bed in the living room. He says he doesn’t mind, says he’d like the company.”
“What are you going to do when he gets sick of you?” I ask.
“I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”
Shit. I can’t sleep in Steve’s living room. What am I going to do now? And isn’t Dad being way too casual about this whole thing?
“Aren’t you going to do anything about the house? You’re just going to let them take it?” I ask incredulously.
“What can I do?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Get a job?” I ask as my voice gets higher.
“I still wouldn’t be able to afford the payments. They’re so much more than what your mother and I used to pay.”
“So you’re just going to go down without a fight? I can’t believe this.”
“There’s nothing I can do, Piper. It’s useless.”
“Yeah, so might as well spend your time drinking with Steve, right?” I ask sarcastically.
“I don’t see anything wrong with that plan.”
“Can’t you borrow money from somewhere? Can’t your drinking buddies help you out?”
“Nobody has any money. You know how the economy is,” he says.
Yeah, right. The economy.
For as long as I’ve known him, Dad has never had his shit together when it comes to money. It has nothing to do with the economy.
I take a deep breath in a useless attempt to calm myself down. My heart rate has gone way up, and my head is throbbing with every heartbeat.
Obviously, this conversation is not going anywhere. Neither one of us has any money, or knows anybody who has that kind of money to give away.
Carly has money, sure. But she only has enough for herself to live on. Even if I can bring myself to ask for her help, how much can she really lend me? And for how long? Maybe she wouldn’t mind helping with the payments for one or two months, and then what? We’re still going to lose the house in the end.
“Dad, did they tell you when they’re going to kick you out?” I ask with resignation.
“Yeah, I have a couple more months.”
“Okay.”
“Why? Do you have the money?” Dad asks.
“No.”
“Okay,” he says, like he doesn’t really care about the outcome.
How could he not care? Ugh. Talking to him gets me so angry sometimes, but this is by far the worst thing he has ever done—or not done, actually.
“Bye, Dad.” I hang up the phone without waiting for his answer.
I drop my back onto the bed and let my feet dangle over the edge. I stare at the ceiling, hoping the spray-on popcorn treatment will arrange itself into some kind of answer. Nothing happens, of course.
My head feels better, though, now that I’m lying down and no longer talking to Dad.
I close my eyes. Maybe I’ll feel better after a little rest. Maybe I’ll think more clearly once I’ve had some time to deal with the new situation.
Piper
Thank you so much, Carly. You’re such a good friend.” I struggle to say the words out loud with the lump in my throat.
“Don’t worry about it, Piper. This is what friends are for, right?” Carly asks over the phone.
“But you moved out so you could be alone with George, and now I’m just going to be there, cramping your style.”
I know Carly has been looking forward to living with George. This is a big step in their relationship, and I can’t believe I’m going to ruin it for her.
Now they have no privacy. What’s the point of moving out on your own if your roommate is a useless parasite who needs you to survive and follows you wherever you go?
“It’s not like you want this, so stop feeling guilty, okay?” Carly says.
“Yeah, but George is allergic to cats, right? God, Carly, I’m going to be such an inconvenience. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. He’ll just take some pills. It’s only temporary, right? Stop worrying about us. You have so many more important things to worry about.”
“Yeah, I’m definitely going to move out once my students are back from summer break. I’ll get a room with some roommates, or rent another studio,” I say.
“See? You have so many things on your mind right now, so I don’t want you to waste any space in that brain worrying about us. We’re going to be fine. I’m just doing what you would do if our positions were reversed.”
She makes a good point. If Carly were one step away from ending up on the streets, and I could stop that from happening, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Except, in reality, I don’t know if I’ll ever get a chance to repay Carly for her generosity.
“Just finish packing up and we’ll pick you up tonight, okay?” Carly was already planning to come here to get the furniture, but now she has to pick me up, along with the stuff.
“If you thank me one more time, or apologize one more time, I’ll put you on the streets myself.”
“Alright, alright. I’ll see you later, then.” I laugh. That’s the first thing to cheer me up since the phone call with Dad this morning.
As I hang up, I hear knocking on the door.
Weird. I’m not expecting any guests.
I get up from my bed and cross to the other side of the apartment in a few steps. I look through the peephole and my stomach drops. At the same time, my heartbeat picks up.
It’s Raphael. The landlord. The hot-as-hell landlord, standing just on the other side of this door.
What is he doing here? I have another day to move out, don’t I? This is only the second day since his first visit.
I look back over my shoulder to check where McClaw is. He has a habit of bolting out the door whenever he gets the chance, and I don’t have the energy to be running around after him, after everything I’ve been through today.
I scan the apartment with my eyes, and finally spot him sleeping soundly on a pile of clean clothes I’ve just washed, dried, and folded.
Nice. I’m going to end up with random orange cat hairs on everything. There are so many different spots where he could sleep in this apartment, but of course he has to pick that spot. Little asshole.
Okay. I need to know exactly what to say so I don’t get distracted by Raphael’s good looks and just stand there like an idiot.
I open the door. Without giving Raphael a chance to speak, I say, “You’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow.”
I know I should probably try to be nice to him, just in case he’d be more sympathetic to my plight. But at this point, I don’t see what he could do for me anymore. It would be better for me to just move out and not have anything to do with him anymore.
Like Carly said, I have way too many things to worry about now. Too many to spend any energy trying to figure out why seeing my landlord makes my heart rate go up.
“I know, but I’m not here to make you leave,” he says with a friendly smile.
I didn’t expect that. He’s supposed to be kicking me out, so why is he being so nice? It’s weird and suspicious.
“What are you here for, then?” I ask. Suddenly, I remember something I’m supposed to do today. I raise my hand up to cover my mouth. “Oh my god. I’m supposed to pay you last month’s rent today, aren’t I? I’m so sorry. I can go to the bank right now and deposit it into your account. I wasn’t planning to run away, I promise. I wanted to pay you this afternoon, but then something happened and I forgot. But I’m going to do that now.”
Raphael watches me as I prattle on, amusement dancing in his eyes. He doesn’t look angry.
“Have you had lunch?” Raphael returns my question with another question—an unexpected one, at that.
“Uh, no,” I answer reflexively, thrown off balance by the sudden change in the subject of our conversation.
“What do you usually have for lunch? I don’t come to this area very often,” he says.
“I, uh, cook my own food,” I say.
Most people wouldn’t consider what I do with food as cooking.
Most days, I just throw together cheap sandwiches made of stale bread, cheap ham, and the store-brand version of Kraft Singles. Sometimes, I have canned tuna on the bread instead of ham and cheese, but opening a can hardly counts as cooking either. Neither does boiling water for instant ramen, which is what I do when I feel like having a hot meal.
“That’s what I thought. Want to go out and get something to eat?” He asks.
“What, like, right now?” I ask dumbly.
“Yeah. Wanna go?” He raises his eyebrows and gives me a friendly grin.
He doesn’t look dangerous. And I am hungry. I haven’t even had a chance to think about food, much less actually eat. It’s been ages since I last ate out. I don’t really have anything to lose here.
“Okay,” I say. “Wait. You’ll be paying, right?” I pause, my face growing red with embarrassment. I can’t believe I just said that out loud. “Uh, I mean, are we going to split the bill? Because you know I don’t have any money.”
“Yeah, don’t worry about it.” Raphael chuckles.
“Okay, let me…” I look down at my clothes. I’m wearing an old, stretched-out shirt and the same sweatpants I opened the door in two days ago. “Let me change first.” I look back at McClaw, who is waking up from his nap. He yawns, then stares at the narrow gap between the door and the doorframe, looking like he’s plotting an escape. “Do you want to come in and wait inside?” I ask Raphael.
I don’t know if it’s a good idea to invite a guy I barely know into my apartment—which doesn’t have anything other than one big room, so I’m automatically inviting him into my bedroom as well.
I’ve never invited any strange guy to my bedroom, so I don’t know the etiquette. I hope I’m not giving him the wrong idea.
“Uh, I’m worried my cat might run out if I leave the door open,” I say, providing an explanation he never asked for.
“Sure.” Raphael shrugs.
I walk toward the dining table and push McClaw off the pile of clothes that are now warm from his body heat and covered with his orange hairs. He meows in protest as he walks away. I grab a pair of jeans, a pink blouse, and an animal-print belt. Raphael follows behind me and closes the door.
“Sit anywhere you like,” I tell him. I wonder if that’s the right thing to say to the landlord, considering he owns this place. As he takes a seat at the dining table, I go inside the bathroom to change.
I quickly slip off my house clothes and put on the blouse and jeans. I stand in front of the vanity and put on a little tinted moisturizer and mascara.
Then, I stare at my own reflection.
What am I doing? What is happening to my life? What the hell is going on right now?
I was just supposed to move back home today, which would’ve been embarrassing, but it’s not like everybody else isn’t doing it. That’s would’ve been completely normal for someone my age.
Now, though, I’m moving to my friend’s couch and going out to lunch with the landlord, who also happens to be evicting me?
Things are getting weird, and it’s still early in the afternoon. I have no idea what else today will bring. I think I’ll give up guessing and just deal with whatever will happen when it happens.
Maybe it’s not the best idea in the world to adopt Dad’s philosophy of short-term thinking, especially right now, considering what he has just done. But there’s nothing else I can do.
When I open the bathroom door, I see the strangest sight yet. It’s almost as shocking as Dad’s news about the foreclosure this morning.
It’s McClaw, curled up on Raphael’s lap, looking completely content and even purring softly. I stare at the furry orange thing, not quite believing it’s my cat.
He doesn’t like people—especially strangers. In fact, he gets his name because he scratches house guests who get too friendly. This is unprecedented.
My jaw hangs open as I stand in the doorway, unable to tear my gaze from Raphael’s hand, which is gently scratching and stroking McClaw.
Raphael looks up. “Oh, you’re ready? Let’s go,” he says, not realizing what magic he’s conjuring up right now.
Can this day get any weirder?
Raphael
How did you get McClaw to stay still on your lap like that?” Piper asks as soon as she locks the apartment door, leaving the orange cat on his own.
“You call your cat McClaw?” I laugh while we walk down the two sets of emergency stairs leading to the parking lot, bypassing the old, slow, creaky elevator. That's the most ridiculous cat name I’ve ever heard.
“Yeah. He's not usually so friendly,” Piper says as she follows behind me.
“What can I say? I'm good with my hands.” I shoot her a smile as she walks th
rough the door I’m opening for her.
She says nothing, but I can see her cheeks grow red. How transparent. I love it.
“Hop in, princess.” I open the car door for Piper and wait until she's seated before I close it and walk around the car to get inside myself.
She continues to tell me more about her cat, when what I really want to know more about is her. But I let her talk; it seems to put her at ease and I need her to put her guard down so she’ll be receptive to my weird-as-fuck proposition.
She looks radiant. Before this, I’ve only ever seen her either when she's tired and angry, or when she's just lounging around at home—and I already thought she was beautiful.
But after just a few minutes in the bathroom, doing whatever it is girls do, she emerges looking like she's ready to turn every head we pass by.
Her skinny jeans outline her curves perfectly, driving my imagination wild with thoughts about what she looks like underneath the denim. Her top is the loose and flowy kind that obscures her shape. I usually hate this kind of top on girls, but on Piper, it makes her look tiny and adorable and perfect.
I turn on the ignition and start driving toward an all-day-breakfast place I’ve been to once with Seth and Alice. The food is delicious, of course. Alice is a professional chef, after all, and Seth has always been weirdly obsessed with food.
I glance at Piper, a pair of sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose as her ponytail blows in the wind. She looks so put together it makes me want to mess it all up. Smear her lipstick with a kiss, tangle my fingers in her hair, throw her pretty clothes on the floor… All those things will happen, in time. I know I can get her right where I want her.
I park the car and get out, still listening to stories about the cat. How can a cat possibly have so many things happen in his short life?
By the time we get seated, I feel like I know the entire life history of McClaw, who apparently wandered into Piper’s mom’s kitchen and adopted the family.
I order for the both of us. As the waiter walks away, I say, “I’ve been here before. Trust me, you want to try their Belgian waffle.”