Will answers the door, looking worse than usual. Seriously, doesn't this man ever shower or shave? I think I'm actually grimacing at him when I realize that I'm not exacdy at my best either. In fact, we probably look like we could be related. He stands there blankly gazing at me as if he can't remember who I am. Well, whatever! This has nothing to do with him anyway. I'm halfway tempted to just shove him aside and go straight for Monica. But I take a breath and control myself.
“I need to talk to Monica,” I proclaim in my I-mean-business voice.
“Yeah, well, get in line,” he answers in a tone that sounds half dead. He starts to close the door.
“Huh?” I stick my yellow ducky slipper in the doorway to keep him from shutting me out. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean you're not the only one who needs to talk to her.”
“Is she here?”
“Nope.” He folds his arms against his chest, which makes me notice the stain on the front of his grimy white T-shirt. Ever heard of laundry soap?
“When will she be back?” I tap my toe, which makes the duck head appear to be bobbing. I wonder if I should just blast past him, go inside, plant myself in a chair, and wait.
“Who knows?” He shrugs and looks over his shoulder toward the TV, which is blaring some loudmouthed sports commentator.
“What do you mean exactly?”
He looks back at me now, sort of studying me as if he almost remembers who I am but doesn't really care. “Haven't you heard the news?”
“What news?” I feel like screaming now. Why is this man such a jerk? And how is it that Monica has put up with him for several years?
“Monica walked out on me.”
I'm about to say, “Big surprise there, bud,” but then I realize what this means for me, for my unpaid credit-card bill. I grab hold of the doorframe for support. “When did she go?” I manage to ask.
He scratches his grizzly chin, thinking. “Couple of weeks ago, give or take. I haven't been keeping too good track of the time.”
Okay, I feel like I just swallowed a heavy stone. It slowly drops, then wedges itself in the pit of my stomach. But maybe I didn't understand him right. “Do you mean Monica packed her bags and took her things?” I'm thinking my things. “Like she totally moved out?”
He slowly nods. “Which means I gotta move out too, since she's the one who's been renting this place.”
“Did she leave a forwarding address?”
He sort of groans. “She didn't even leave a note. Just took off when I was gone. Just cleared out, just like that.” He snaps his fingers.
“But what about her stuff? Her furniture and things?”
“Most of what's here is mine anyway, and it's not much. She took what she wanted.”
“And you're absolutely sure she's not coming back?” I feel like I can hardly breathe now, like I might pass out right here in the doorway. Maybe he'll just give me a shove with his foot and close the door.
“I really don't think so.” He seerris to consider this. “I mean, I haven't heard a word from her since she left. Nothing. And she'd been threatening to do something like this for a long time. She was always saying she could do better than… well, you get the picture.” He takes in a sharp breath and looks away, and I'm afraid he's going to cry. I don't know what I'd do if he started crying. He may be a loser and a jerk, but for Pete's sake, he's a human being. Have a hearty Cassie!
“I'm sorry, Will,” I say to him in a soft voice. “I actually know how you feel. My boyfriend just dumped me too.”
He looks back and stares at me for a long moment as if he's taking this information in, running it around his head, and then he frowns. “Its pretty rough, huh?”
“Yeah.” For no explainable reason, I feel sorry for this pathetic loser. Normally I wouldn't even give the time of day to this guy, and yet I guess I can relate. “So are you going to be okay?” I guess.
“Anything I can do?” Okay, now that's probably going too far. But the words are out there. I can't exactly take them back. Besides, I remind myself, I am a Christian. I am supposed to be kind and helpful and loving.
“Yeah, well.” He pats his thin midsection. “I'm kinda hungry right now. I'm outta food, and the cupboards are bare, and I'm pretty broke.”
“I've got a bunch of junk food,” I confess. “Nothing even a little bit healthy, but it might take the edge off.”
He brightens. “Hey, junk food sounds fine.”
“Come on over and get what you want. It's obvious that I don't need to keep eating it.” I puff out my cheeks and make a fat face. “Seriously, I've been eating like a pig since Eric dumped me. You'd be doing me a favor if you just took it all.”
So Will comes over, and we commiserate as I fill a grocery bag with all my leftover chips and soda and ice cream and candy. It actually feels good to see these things go, but as I hold out the bag full of carbs and fats, I feel guilty too.
“It's not exactly health food,” I say. “Not like Monica used to get for you guys.” I remember how Monica gave me a bad time for only having two-percent milk to loan her. “You really need to go nonfat,” she said as she was leaving. “Or if you really care about your health, you'd try to go with soy.” I wonder if she had my credit card in her back pocket right then.
He nods. “Yeah, well, I'm sick of tofu and black beans. I have some opinions about food, and I think it's time I ate what I want.”
“Knock yourself out with this,” I say as I hand him the bag. “Just don't blame me if you feel sick later.”
“Thanks.” Now he looks more carefully at me. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks. “Anything I can do for you?”
I glance over at the bill that's sitting by the telephone. I know the guy is broke and can't help me in this regard, but I am curious as to how much he might know. “Yeah,” I say, “you can tell me something.” Then I explain my credit-card dilemma and my suspicions about his ex.
He sort of laughs. “Yep, that sounds like Monica.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, yeah. She did something like that to me when we first hooked up. It really knocked me sideways, but then she invited me to move in with her, and I thought that might make up for it. But she'd pull that kind of crud again and again. I guess it eventually became my big excuse for giving up on everything. Like what's the use? She maxed out my Visa card and ruined my credit to the point that I'll probably just go bankrupt/To be honest, I probably just stuck it out with her because she was always saying how she was going to land some great modeling job and make lots of money and pay me back.” He laughs bitterly. “Like that's going to happen now.”
“Wow.”
“So are you going to press charges?”
I consider this. “Well, I can't be absolutely positive that it was Monica, but it's a pretty big crime. I guess I'd have to consider it.”
He nods. “I can understand. I've considered it, but I doubt I ever will.”
“Hey, did you notice her going on some big buying spree shordy before she left?” I ask. “I mean, maybe there's evidence she left behind, like receipts or bags or something in your apartment.”
“You can look around if you want,” he tells me. “The place is a mess right now, but I haven't thrown anything away since she left.”
So I follow him back and carefully look around his apartment, which is just about as messy as mine, but I don't find one single piece of evidence. If Monica did this, which I feel pretty sure she did, that girl is good.
“Thanks, Will,” I tell him, “but there's nothing incriminating here.”
“Not surprising.” He's slumped in his recliner now, a spoon already stuck into a quart of ice cream.
“Do you like Chinese food?” I ask suddenly.
He looks up, then nods.
“I'm going to order some takeout for dinner tonight,” I tell him. “Come on over if you want some.”
“Hey, thanks!”
Okay, I wonder if I'm going totally nuts as I halfheartedly continue
to straighten my apartment. I mean, what is up with inviting Will over for Chinese? It's not bad enough that my life is in shreds, that I've lost my boyfriend and my job, that in all likelihood my neighbor has just committed felony fraud against me, but I go and invite Monica's loser boyfriend over for dinner. Seriously, what is wrong with this picture?
replace the litter in Felix's really rank-smelling cat box, which I'm sure he appreciates, and he puts it to immediate use. Then I take out the two-week-old garbage, and my nose thanks me again. But when I get back inside, it's like I really don't care that Will is coming over. Why did I bother? What's the point? It's not like that deadbeat is going to notice or care that someone went out of her way for him. And what difference would it make if he did? It's not like I care. Why waste the energy? I throw a pile of dirty clothes in the corner of the bathroom, slam the door shut, and suddenly crave a Snickers bar, which I'm fresh out of.
I walk around my tiny apartment and decide that I really don't care about anything. I don't care about my lost job. I don't care about my lost boyfriend or my ruined life. I don't even care about that crazy credit-card bill anymore. I don't think I'd care if it was for $20,000. Oh, part of me knows that I should do something about it. Maybe even call the police. But I really don't care. In fact, I'm starting to feel that it's probably my fault anyway. Like the woman on the phone said, I should've signed the card and put it in a safe place. I was irresponsible. Why shouldn't I have to pay?.
In fact, the more I think about everything that's happened to me recently, the more I realize it's probably all my fault. I am so stupid. So incredibly stupid. If I'd been sawier, I would've sensed a change in the workplace. I would've tried harder. Crud, I would've saved the department and saved my job. I could've been Supergirl to the rescue! But instead, I became deadwood. And if I hadn't been so oblivious about my relationship with Eric, I would've gotten the signals that things were going sideways with us. I would've noticed Eric's growing interest in Jessica—the way those two would talk together, the eye contact, the body language. I would've realized that I needed to do something fast—maybe even something drastic—to keep him. I just wasn't paying attention.
But the more I think about this, the more I remember how well Jessica and Eric seemed to get along, how easily they talked and joked together. I can't help but think Jessica took advantage of me. What I assumed was a friendship was actually a cheap ruse for getting closer to Eric. Jessica used me to make a move on my man. Suddenly I see that “poor, lost lamb” as a cold, calculating, conniving boyfriend stealer. (Not unlike that despicable Bianca on the soap.)
I want to give Jessica a piece of my mind. Without really thinking this through, I grab the phone and call her, and there she is on the other end, and I am speechless. I want to hang up, but she obviously has caller ID, because she knows it's me.
“Come on, I know you're there, Cassie,” she says in a gentle voice. “And I really want to talk to you. I've almost called you myself several times, but Eric said not to.”
That unleashes my tongue. “Eric said not to?” I mutter. “Why not?”
“He just felt like it woukkvt help anything.”
“It might help me,” I point out. “I mean, consider how I feel, Jessica. I trusted you. I actually thought we were friends, and it turns out you were just—”
“We were friends, Cassie. I hope we still are. And by the way, we missed you at the singles’ group and at—”
“Like I'm going to show my face around there,” I practically spit at her. “I'm sure I must be the big joke by now.”
“That's not fair,” she says. “Those are your friends, Cassie, your good Christian friends.”
“Yeah, right.” I don't point out that one of them, Belinda Myers, already called to express her sympathy. What she really wanted was all the dirty details. Come to think of it, that's what I want too.
“I feel so badly,” says Jessica. “And Eric does too. We never meant for it to happen. It just did.”
“Yeah,” I say with growing interest. “I guess I am kind of curious about that. Eric said pretty much the same thing, but honestly, Jessie, how does something like that just happen?”
“In all fairness, I blame myself,” she says. “You know that my background isn't as squeaky clean as some people's.” I'm sure she must mean me.
“And?”
“Well, things got carried away, Cassie. Its like we were only kissing, you know, and the next thing, well, you know.
“Right,” I say, thinking maybe I do know.
“Well, then we were done, and Eric told me that it was his first time.” She sort of laughs. “Of course, I was certain he was kidding, but then he said no, it really was his first time. Goodness, I had no idea he was a virgin, Cassie.”
Its all I can do not to hang up. Or throw up. I just stand there with my jaw hanging clear down to my ducky slippers.
“I'm sure he explained the whole thing to you already,” she continues. “But I just wanted you to know how sorry I am. If I had known, you know, ahead of time… well, I probably would ve been more careful. And now, of course, we have to get married.”
“Well, of course,” I snap at her.
“I mean, not as in have to, have to.” She kind of laughs again. “I mean, I'm certainly not pregnant.”
“Certainly not.” I clear my throat. “Well, its been great talking with you, Jessie. I feel so much better now.”
“Really?” She actually buys into this, and I think maybe Eric is getting just what he deserves.
“Give Eric my regards.” Then I hang up. But I am immediately stabbed with a pain that doubles me over. I grab myself around the middle. It feels like someone just jabbed me with a stomach punch, or maybe I'm developing an ulcer from all the crud I've been eating. But I physically ache inside. I try to process all that Jessie just said. They had sex! Eric gave up his precious virginity for her. Maybe I'm an idiot, but I had no idea it had gone that far. No ideal
I'm not sure how long I cry, but the more I cry, the worse I feel. I cannot believe this has happened. I can't believe Eric did that to me. I think I'd actually harbored the secret hope that Eric would wake up one day soon and realize that he was wrong, that he still loves me. Now I know that's not going to happen. No way!
I've never been a suicidal person. In fact, most consider me to be a perennial optimist. But I seriously wonder how difficult it would be just to check out right now. I ponder whether Eric would feel guilty. Of course, that would make me extremely happy. And it would be satisfying if Jessica felt partly to blame, assuming the girl has a conscience. On second thought, I think that Eric might simply note my premature departure as a close call for himself, like he somehow missed a bullet by not marrying me, the mentally unstable one.
Even so, and perhaps for drama's sake, I actually go to my medicine cabinet and examine the contents therein. Is it possible to kill yourself with an overdose of Correctol? Or would it just be terribly messy in the end? Then I hear a knocking at the door, and for a moment I actually think it might be Eric, coming to apologize, to tell me that it's all just a horrible misunderstanding, that Jessica made the whole thing up.
But when I open the door, I see my neighbor standing there. His pathetic expression reminds me of a mutt I found on the street when I was little. I took the smelly dog home and gave it a bath, but when Mom found out, she made me take it to the pound the next day. I still remember the look on the dog's face when I had to leave him there.
“I'm sorry,” I tell Will as I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “I just had some more bad news, and I just, just…” Then I can't help it. I burst into tears again.
To my surprise, Will gendy puts his arms around me, pulls me toward him, and lets me cry on his shoulder. I'm even more surprised to see that he's cleaned up some. His shirt actually smells pretty good, and when I finally step away from him, apologizing again, I notice that he's even shaved.
“We can make it another night,” he says sheepishly as we
both take another step back.
“No,” I insist. “I want Chinese—more than ever right now.” So I dig out the dog-eared menu for Ling's, and we both decide what we want, then I phone in the order. “It'll take about thirty minutes,” I say. “And I think I could probably use a shower.”
He nods. “Why don't you just knock on my door when it gets here?”
“Sure,” I tell him, still thinking about how surreal my life has become in such a short time.
So I take a shower and actually put on real clothes. Okay, nothing great. Just jeans, which feel tighter than ever today, and an old sweater. Even so, it's better than I've done since being laid off. I pull my still-wet hair back in a ponytail, and then I even brush my teeth. But that's it. No makeup, no jewelry, no perfume. This is not a date. I'm not even sure what it is. A sympathy supper, perhaps.
Will arrives shortly after the Chinese food. “I saw the delivery van downstairs,” he admits, then hands me a bottle of red wine.
“What's this?” I ask stupidly.
“Thought we could use it,” he says.
I study the label, as though I should know what Shiraz is, and then mention that I don't have a corkscrew.
“Be right back,” he says, disappearing out the still-open door.
I decide to take the food out, arranging it haphazardly on the breakfast bar. I don't bother to get out real plates. No point in making this seem like something it's not.
Will returns with an opened botde and two wine glasses, which he fills, handing one to me. “Here's to better days,” he says as he holds up his glass.
“Yeah,” I say without enthusiasm.
“And to new beginnings,” he adds.
“Sure.” I stop myself from adding “whatever.”
Then we both sit there and quietly eat our Chinese food, and I have to admit that it tastes pretty good. By the time we're finished, I'm amazed that I was actually considering suicide about an hour ago. I'm not sure if it's the wine or the nutrition of real food, but our conversation begins to flow more freely, and Will tells me that he used to dream of running a restaurant.
These Boots Weren't Made for Walking Page 3