“Hi, Mom.”
“No call from you yesterday?”
“Sorry. It’s been wild. I’ve been working a ton.”And destroying my wall, weaponizing cat’s asses, and forcing myself to maybe get evicted.
“You work too hard, Penny! You need to find a better job. They’re not treating you right there.”
“You’re right. I do work too much,” I say, in my most soothing tone. “It’s just I’m trying to buy my apartment, and—” At her indrawn breath, my heart slams into my throat.Shit, shit, shit.Eyes wide, I mute myself and switch to speaker at Margie’s questioning look. “I’m so fucked,” I moan, seizing the napkin in front of me and shredding it.
“Buy? You’re not buying there. If you want to buy something, come home and buy! Cathy Santini died about three weeks back—you remember her? She was the one who used to hand out the whole candy bars you liked so much on Halloween. Over on Greenly Street? Heart attack, right in her kitchen. And her house is on the market now. Come back and buy that! It’s perfect for you. Or come back and stay with me and buy when you finally find a boy to settle down with. The city is just filthy, sweetheart.”
My breath catches.You can’t hack it there, is what she leaves unsaid. Why do I feel guilty for working, for wanting to make a decision for myself? I like my life here. I just need her to be okay with it. Her approval is sunlight, and I’m a desperate houseplant turning my face to catch her rays. I ball up my shredded napkin and squeeze it tightly in my fist.
Margie’s lips twist. “The dead lady’s ghostisan awesome selling point,” she says.
I unmute the phone. “Right. I’m not sure I want to move back, Mom.” I close my eyes, bracing for impact.
“When you find a guy—”
“Not even then.”
“Of course you will.”
I breathe in and out, almost dizzy. I don’t want this to spiral more than it has. “Maybe, yeah. I’ll think it over. But listen, Mom, I’m having drinks with Margie. Did I tell you she’s a series regular? So amazing. I’m thrilled for her. I’ve got to run, but I’ll call you later and fill you in.”
“Alright, Penny. Love you. I’ll ask about pricing on the Santini house,” she says.
“Thank you. Bye, Mom. Love you.”
I hang up and slump in the chair.
“You okay?” Margie asks.
I massage my jaw, trying to unstick the tension there. I wouldn’t have slipped and told Mom if it wasn’t for Jack and his nighttime antics. “No.” I move my fingers up to my temples and mutter, “Billie Eilish is a treasure. She shouldn’t be used as a weapon of war.”
Margie gives me a puzzled look, but in an effort to lighten the mood, she launches into a set story about a recent A-list guest star whose shifting hairline kept ruining the continuity of scenes. I’m chuckling by the time La joins us at the table.
“Hey Pen, I talked to my contact in the permit office. I’ve pulled what you need. Stop by the bar tomorrow and I’ll give you the paperwork,” she says, offering to do something I forgot I even needed.
“You’re an angel and I’m in your debt,” I say, so grateful that I don’t even mind when Margie shares a greatest-hits version of my war with Jack with her.
Hearing all our antics laid out like that makes me feel and sound very juvenile. Is it so wrong to just want to enjoy my apartment in peace? I was adult-ish before Jack barreled into my world like a juiced-up bull. I fold my arms across my chest and harrumph, but watching them both laugh, La guffawing and leaning against Margie for support, I find my own lips twitching in amusement.
“How did it go with the cat allergy stuff?” Margie asks before sharing the details of our Cashmere caper for La. I grin and lean back in my chair, cradling my wine.
“I don’t know. After you left, I worked on the wall a bit and then cleaned up and showered before I turned in. I didn’t spy on him because I guarantee it would’ve been written all over my face.”
“And can I ask: what could he have done to inspire cat warfare?” La asks.
“He insulted me. I— I insulted him, too, but it was a mess with him trying to kiss me—”
Margie’s eyebrows launch up. I left that part out when I asked her and Cashmere over. “And then I found out he didn’t cheat; it was his sister I saw leaving his apartment. But he threw some stuff he heard through the wall in my face. Said some very mean things like a real scumbag. Scum. Bag.”
“I thought Margie was the dramatic one, and you were so go-with-the-flow,” La says.
Margie pulls a mock-severe look.
Iwasgo-with-the-flow. Until Jack.
