“Hi, Mable, is Cory around?” Cory is the only loan officer in town. Small-town, one-bank vibes.
“He is—let me call him.”
I nod and glance over my shoulder to Cory sitting in his office, the door wide open.
“Brooke Sloan is here to see you,” Mable says into the phone. He smiles and looks our way.
“Great, send her over,” Cory replies.
Mable hangs up and looks me dead in the eye as if I couldn’t hear him.
“He said you can head over to his desk.”
“Thank you.”
Cory stands when I enter and then pushes the door closed, leaving only a sliver open.
“You can hear everything in this place. I want to give you your privacy as best I can,” he explains when he sits.
“That’s kind, thank you.”
He nods. “Look, Brooke, I started the application for you after we spoke on the phone, but”—he looks down at his hands—“your credit score isn’t where it needs to be to make it happen.”
“What? How?” I ask. “I’ve never been late on a rent before. I keep my credit card low and make payments on time, and I have no other debt. How could my score be bad?”
He shifts in his seat.
“Is it because I don’t have enough credit?”
He shakes his head.
“Then … what is it?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not good.” His gaze is filled with sympathy.
I sit here in clear confusion. “I … are you sure you entered the right Social Security number?”
He nods.
Well, maybe he filled out something wrong on the application.
“Can I see the application? Maybe you missed something.”
He clicks around on his computer and then his printer starts.
He hands me the paperwork, and I scan it. Everything is correct.
I sigh, and add the application inside my notebook.
“How?” is all I get out.
I thought it was a done deal when we spoke on the phone last week. I came in here ready to look at numbers and sign papers.
He grabs another piece of paper and slides it to me face down.
“This is a copy of your credit history as of last week. I’ve included paperwork on a site you can use to see your credit score, and here is a number you can call for more information to dispute anything that isn’t yours.”
“Isn’t mine?” I repeat and then look at the paper.
