Arrogant Devil(10)
Apparently, her rich husband really has cut her off because Meredith requests room and board. No doubt she was planning on staying with her sister, but Helen’s house is currently under construction. Her only option is to stay here, but I’ll be damned if I have her in the house with me. She’s been here fifteen minutes and I already have a raging tension headache.
Adjacent to my house, there’s a small shack tucked in the tree line of the property. Yes, I used the right word—it’s a shack. I’ve lent it out to ranch hands in the past, resourceful guys who don’t mind spending a month or two on a crappy twin bed so they can save up for rent. The slats in the floorboards have some gaps and there are a few cobwebs dangling in the corners, but it has a makeshift shower and a sink, more than Meredith probably deserves.
Just like with everything else, I expect her to take one look at the place and run screaming right back to California, but she steps into the small space and turns in a slow circle. I watch her carefully, waiting for a lone tear to roll down her porcelain cheek. I don’t like watching women cry, but something tells she’s very much in need of a dose of humility.
“Does that shower work?” she asks, pointing to the corner.
I smirk. “Only the finest 68-degree Texas well water.”
“And I’m assuming there’s no A/C?”
Even though it’s shaded by trees, it feels like a hundred degrees in here.
“There’s a breeze at night if you open the windows.”
She nods and takes her lower lip between her teeth. She’s thinking, probably contemplating how far she’s willing to go to stick it to that husband of hers. Surely if she let him know about these living conditions, he’d give her enough cash to rent a room at the nice hotel down on First Street.
Her pale blue gaze shifts from the dingy bed to the bare floor and then finally, she faces me. The expression I see is one part resilience, one part defiance. It’s fuel and flame.
She heaves a sigh and drops her purse at her feet, effectively setting up shop.
“Thank you. I’ll take it.”
5
Meredith
I don’t know which problem to address first—I’m drowning in them. Jack left me standing alone in the middle of my new apartment. I’m referring to it as an apartment and not a dilapidated lean-to because I believe in the power of delusion. If I look at this day and this quaint country cottage as an adventure, then it becomes fun and exciting (!) instead of bleak and depressing.
The place is tiny, about the size of my freshman dorm room…except my dorm was outfitted with Pottery Barn decor and a spunky roommate named Janine. This apartment is outfitted with permanently airborne dust and the unmistakable smell of mildew. My only companion is a tiny spider staring down at me from his web. I now know the true meaning of the word inhospitable is a place that might put you in the hospital. There’s a rusty rake leaning against one wall, and a merry band of loose nails scattered about on the threadbare floor.
I feel sense and reason trying to creep back into my brain’s control room, but I shut them out in favor of blind optimism. Sure, the structure should probably be condemned, but it’s nothing I can’t spruce up with a little imagination and a lot of elbow grease.
I decide to start small and turn my attention to the twin bed resting against one of the walls. With a nice place to fall asleep tonight, my entire perspective on life might brighten. Look, I tell myself, it already has a blanket and a pillow. Jeez, is this a shack or the Ritz? I sure can’t tell!
I pick up the blanket and the pillow twitches. I furrow my brow and cock my head to the side, because my entire life thus far has led me to believe that inanimate pillows should not be capable of independent movement. Feeling as if I’m on the brink of a major scientific breakthrough, I slowly reach out and tug on the corner of the pillowcase until I see what’s underneath it.
FUR. BEADY EYES. LONG, HAIRLESS TAILS.
I jump four feet into the air and shriek as a small field mouse followed by the largest rat I’ve ever seen both scurry out from underneath the pillow and through a jagged crack at the base of the wall.
BE OPTIMISTIC, BE OPTIMISTIC, I chant as my heart rate slowly returns to a survivable level.
I suppose it’s sorta beautiful, I think. A mouse and a rat, driven by illicit passion and forbidden romance, risked it all to build a life together in this shack—ahem, apartment. If they can do it, so can I.
I’m smiling in a deranged reverie, thinking sweetly about rodent Romeo and Juliet, when I notice the impressive amount of droppings on the floor.
Just like that, my sunny disposition is doused by despair and an overwhelming desire to give up. Except, there is no giving up. With Helen gone, I have nowhere to go. My mom lives in a retirement community in Boca Raton. No one under the age of 60 is allowed to reside there, ostensibly because limber hips and full-frequency hearing would ignite jealousy amongst the osteoporotic masses. Besides, if I called her, she’d just try to convince me to reconcile with Andrew. Same goes for my dad. They’re blinded by his wealth and reputation, and I haven’t tried hard to convince them of his darker side. Truthfully, we’re not very close, and they have a habit of hearing and believing whatever is most convenient for them.
With my parents and Helen off the table, I’m all out of options. Even more sad, I didn’t really have friends back in California. When you slide right into a life of comfort and luxury when most of your college friends are still crushed under the debt of student loans, you quickly find yourself alienated. Sure, I had women I went to lunch with and met for yoga a few times a week, but they were Andrew’s friends more than mine, wives of his colleagues, and they—like my parents—firmly believe the sun shines out of his ass.