“This isn’t healthy, Abby,” she says, standing and picking up her briefcase. “You need to get out and be around people.”
“I have Walt. He’s people.”
“The other kind of people—human beings with opposable thumbs who can hold up their end of a conversation,” she says as she starts for the door. “I don’t know. Maybe you should try getting a little wild and having some fun for once.”
“I have fun all the time.” Spying my plate from breakfast, I pick it up off the coffee table and lick Pop-Tart crumbs off it. “See? That was wildly wonderful.”
She slides on her coat. “I’m serious, Abby. You can’t go on like this.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I can.”
“You’re going for a late lunch with me this Friday. I’ll be here at one-thirty to get you.”
“I won’t go with you, but I promise I’ll be alive.”
She laughs reluctantly. “You’re such a shit.”
“You love that about me.”
“I do, and you are leaving this apartment on Friday, even if I have to drag you out by your ankles.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Oh, I can do it, lady. Just make sure you shower and put some clothes on.”
“Nah, I’d rather make you take me out like this,” I say, opening the door for her. “But I insist we go to the Russian Tea Room.”
She walks out into the hall and turns to me, her face full of the pity I’ve grown to hate. “If you need help with paying back the advance—”
“That’s very kind of you, but I could never allow that.” I shake my head at the notion. “I can manage it.”
The elevator bell dings and the door slides open, allowing Mr. Puente, the co-op board director who I’ve been artfully avoiding to catch sight of me. Son of a bitch.
“Abby, finally,” he says with a loud sigh. “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”
“Let me guess, someone wants to re-open the great welcome mat debate of 2016,” I say, giving a discreet eye roll in Lauren’s direction. She gives me an ‘oh brother’ face and winks before she hurries to catch the elevator.
“Those mats were a tripping hazard.” He rushes toward me with his perfectly straight posture. He’s dressed in tan slacks, a starched white button-up, and a pea soup green sweater vest I’m sure he spent twenty minutes ironing this morning. “Have you been away? I’ve tried emailing, calling, and stopping by repeatedly.”
“I’ve been very busy.”
His eyes travel to my slipper-clad feet, and when he looks back up at my face, it’s with sympathy. “I see. Can we step inside for a minute? I’m afraid I have bad news.”
“Perfect, because it’s bad news day at Casa de Carson.” I gesture for him to come in, then start toward the kitchen. “Tea?”
“No, thank you. I’m wondering if you’ve read any of the letters the co-op board has sent.” When I turn back to him, he’s staring at the toppled pile of envelopes on the counter.
“I’ve gotten behind on my paperwork lately.”
Mr. Puente takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a second. “As you may or may not know, we’re up for another major rent increase later this year. The board has been pulling together the funds to purchase the land from Killborn. All the co-op owners either need to pay their share or sell.”
Shock vibrates through my bones, followed by a sick, panicky feeling. I should not have been ignoring things for so long. “How much?”
“For your unit, it would be a four-hundred-and-eighty-thousand-dollar buy-in.”
My knees grow weak and I suddenly wish I were sitting down. “Who has that kind of money?”
“Some have it. Some have managed to get financing. It’s a great investment if you can swing it.” He glances at my slippers, then continues. “If not, we found a realtor who offered to drop his commission for anyone who needs out.”
