“There’s also the issue of my condo…”
“Yes, the second mortgage you took out on it.”
I nodded. “I was wondering if we could work out a different payment schedule—”
“Why?” he barked. “Because I didn’t pay this invoice? Let me tell you, missy—”
God, I was so tired of men!
“That’s no way to run a business. You can’t keep your cash flow so precarious.” He tapped on the computer screen. “It looks like you’re behind on your payments.”
“Yes,” I said, picking at my nail polish, hating that I felt like a little girl. “I was hoping we could work something out.”
He grunted. “We’ll have to see. This is a major national corporation, not some Middle-America small-town bank. There are protocols.”
“I understand.”
* * *
“Oh, I understand, all right,”I muttered as I walked home. “You’re going to be petty and treat me like a child because you know I can’t do anything about it.”
I let out a loud groan, ignoring the strange looks from the homeless men digging in the trash can. I never should have given my mother that money! I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over her number. Should I reach out? No. Nothing good ever came of contacting my mother.
Mrs. Russo, one of the three elderly tenants in my small condo building, was at the mailboxes when I arrived back at my building.
“A good-looking UPS man brought that for you,” she said, gesturing to a large package on the floor. “Talk about big packages!” She giggled. “You should have seen the buns on that man.” Mrs. Russo hovered over me as I inspected the nondescript box. “Anything good? Is it sex toys? I know this gal Ida who started her own sex toy business. That’s one of the reasons I’m moving out to Harrogate, you know.”
“Because of the sex toys?”
“No. I’m gonna work at Ida’s company. She also makes supplements to enhance the female libido.”
“That sounds dangerous,” I said as I wrestled the tape off of the package.
“She gave me some samples. Do you want any?”
“I’m fine.”
“If I had access to the kind of man you had over the other night, I wouldn’t need any special juice to get going either!” She waggled her eyebrows.
“He wasn’t…” I yanked on the tape. “… a boyfriend, he was just—”
“What? A friend with benefits?”
“He’s not my friend,” I grunted as I pried the box open.I really need to start carrying a knife.
“So a hookup then?” Mrs. Russo said knowingly.
“No, he was just—” I opened the box. “A horrible lunatic. What in the world?”
We stared at the box. Inside were pans and pans of frozen lasagna from Cameli’s. It was an absurd amount of lasagna.
“You having a party?”
“No,” I seethed, “I am not having a party, but I am about to be on the news for bludgeoning someone to death with frozen pasta.”
8
Evan
