“But the market is...”
He nods. “Yes, you’ll be lucky to get three-hundred-thousand out of it.”
“How long do I have to figure this out?”
“That’s the thing. You need the money by next Friday.” The way his face twists shows that he’s torn between pity and irritation. I’ve put him in this incredibly awkward position by ignoring what surely must have been the only thing my neighbors have thought of for months now. “I’m very sorry, Abby. I really did try to reach you.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s not your fault.” I shake my head, and, much to my horror, tears spring to my eyes without my permission. Oh, perfect.
He stiffly makes his way over to the coffee table, returning with a tissue box. “Here.”
I take two and hold them up to my face, trying to cover the evidence of having actual feelings. “Thanks.”
“I can only imagine how hard this past year has been for you, and I know this won’t make it easier.”
I nod and blow my nose, which is now running at record speed.Not very dignified, Abby.
Mr. Puente digs in his pocket and hands me a business card. “This is the realtor I mentioned. He’s quite good. He’ll take care of everything for you.”
And just like that, a ball has begun rolling down a steep hill, and there will be no catching it. No ignoring it. Only chasing.
Chapter Three
The only people who like change are wet babies.
~ Mark Twain
“Now what?” I sit on the couch with my laptop in front of me. My eyes are burning from spending the last four hours scrolling through pages of condos for sale. Despite what Ben, the opportunistic realtor, tried to tell me, I held onto a shred of hope that I could somehow find the one remaining apartment in the city I can afford. But there is nothing. Not for someone who isn't willing to share a space with a roommate or forgo the luxury of a window. And certainly not for someone without a solid job. This city demands ambition, something I’ve always loved about it, until I lost mine. I have to leave New York, my home of twenty-one years.
The apartment sold yesterday, after fourteen days on the market. Now, I have eight weeks to find a cheap place to live. I shut my laptop and lean back, closing my eyes as desperation rockets up my spine again. I don’t want to do this, and I definitely don't want to do it alone. The mountain of work ahead of me is so high, I can't see the top from down here. I slide my thumb through Isaac's wedding band, which hangs from a gold chain around my neck. The smooth gold doesn't magically transport him here from the netherworld when I need him most, not that I held any hope it would.
Why can't you be here now, you bastard?
Isaac would know what to do. He’d have thought of the perfect solution by now, and instead of feeling like this is the end of the world, it would feel like an inconvenient-yet-somewhat-exciting new adventure.
But this is not 'the fresh start I might need,' as Lauren gently put it on the phone this morning. This is my life spiraling out of control without my permission.
I suppose that’s the thing about life, it never asks for permission. It just thunders along, taking horribly sharp, random turns, and you’re strapped in for a ride you never agreed to take.
* * *
Isaac appears as soon as I close my eyes. We’re on our annual school-is-out road trip, this time up through the Canadian Maritimes. He’s driving, and I’m sitting in the passenger seat. I caress the back of his neck with my fingertips, taking in the delicious warmth of his skin.
He smiles over at me. “You happy?”
“I am.” The tall cliffs to the left whip by at a violent pace, but inside the car, I hear the overture from Mozart’s Lucio Silla playing through the sound system. I look out at the ocean to my right and watch the waves slamming against the rocky shore below. The sun on my shoulder has a hypnotic effect and the brilliant blue sky is full of possibilities. “I think this is my favorite place on earth.”
He chuckles. “You say that about every place we go.”
“I know, but this time I really mean it.” I let my hand drop down to his thigh. “We should move here when you retire. It would be perfect. We can buy a nice little cottage for next to nothing. Somewhere overlooking the sea, where I could write and you could—I don’t know—take up gardening.”
Isaac lets out a low growl. “Gardening is for old men.”
I twist my face into a grin. “Well in twelve years, you’ll be an—”
“Do not say it.” He laughs as he grabs my knee and squeezes it.
Instinctively, I cover his hand with mine, lacing my fingers through his. “Don’t worry. I’ll be old by then, too.”
