“Isn’t that a good thing?” I know I’m a lot younger, but I fail to see the tragedy in the situation.
“She’s not right for him. She’ll break his heart.” My next-door neighbor rolls her eyes to the sky, so I presume God must be listening.
For this reason alone, I don’t add,‘If he gets laid, perhaps he’ll chill out.’Instead, I take another bite and mutter something incomprehensible.
Another elderly woman, in a pink house dress and lime green terrycloth slippers, pours herself a vodka from the half-empty bottle under her chair. “The guy’s a bum. His mother should’ve kicked him out years ago.”
Not wanting to be rude, I keep my thoughts to myself. Besides, I wouldn’t want my two cents repeated back to my sometimes boss. However, shouldn’t a forty-something-year-old man have his own apartment? No wonder he’s not getting schtupped.
Giggling while they kibitz, my phone rings. The caller ID identifies my sister, so I send her to voicemail. She’s been bugging me to visit her very perfect life in North Carolina. This former Marine pilot has plenty of self-esteem issues, without her and my mom burying me in criticisms.
Mrs. Feinstein glances over. “Do you need to take that call, dearie?”
“All good. I’ll phone her later.” I take another delicious bite of chicken, and a text message appears.
Sister from Hell: Do you need money? I can send you the airfare.
God, give me strength.It may appear I survive paycheck to paycheck, but if you count the fees I’m owed, I’m a fucking millionaire. Too bad we’re looking at five or six years in appeals court.
“Where’s that handsome goy of yours?” Pouring a grape Manischewitz into a bathroom-sized Dixie cup, Mrs. Feinstein changes the subject.
Thankful for the reprieve, I take a sip, swallow the cough syrup, and force a smile. “Dashiell’s in London, with his dad.”
Rabbi Goldman, a George Burns look-alike, raises his brows. “And they don’t think to invite you, why?”
“My plate’s pretty full.” In truth, if I’d been invited, I could’ve easily found a substitute for my one piloting job.
Sensing blood and hoping for a bite of juicy gossip, the starving jackals scoot their chairs to face me while I hold out my palms.
“Really, you guys. We’re fine.”
“So… When is the date?” A sari clad woman narrows her gaze, creasing the red dot between her brows.
“We’re saving up.” At my go-to reply, she laughs, and the others titter along with her.
Mrs. F dismisses me with a flick of her wrist. “Your boyfriend is a multi-millionaire, dearie. Oy vey, give him a time already, and make him commit. A man who has money doesn’t come along every day.”
“It’s complicated.” I’ve given up trying to explain his bossy alpha mentality, but the Rabbi presses on.
“Phooey-Shmooey. I’ll schedule your event for a month from tomorrow.”
As his gray curls bounce, the older holy man, pats his knee. “Nice job, rabbi. I’ll see to it they’re prepared.”
Before I can raise my hand to object, my phone texts.
Kade: 911. Pick up.
Standing, I lick my fingers, and place my plate on the frayed seat webbing. “Excuse me all. I’ll be right back, I need to take this.”
Inside the cool building, my fists unclench. The last time I dealt with my ex, I almost died. However, he once saved my life, so I suppose I should hear him out.
My fingers swipe across the screen and my inner bitch emerges. “What doyouwant?”
“Don’t be cross. Letting the Russian go free wasn’t my doing, honey.” If the guy thinks endearments will soften me up, he’s out of his fucking mind.
“Riiight.” My mouth clamps shut, I hold back a tide of colorful curses, and make a note to thank my therapist. “Kade, I’m kind of busy…”
“I need you here.” His voice cracks, loosening the knot of my resolve.
