“Shelle?” I wailed.
“Oh my god. What’s wrong? You sound horrible. Are you crying? What the hell happened?”
I blew my nose without pulling the phone away. She was my best friend, and I could blow my nose in her ear if I had to. That’s how close we were.
“I got the letter from the bank,” I sobbed.
“Letter?” Shelle asked. “What letter? Did you overdraw your account?”
“No! About defaulting on the mortgage.” Just saying those words brought the taste of bile to my mouth. I needed water.
“Oooh. Shit, I thought maybe you’d had that straightened out,” she said.
“I was hoping, too. You know how Lance and I put the house in my name because I had better credit? Well, now the whole note is mine. That’s how it works.” I lay back on the sofa. Maybe that would help with my growing nausea.
“Holy shit. He can just bail on the house payments like that? God, I didn’t know. But I guess if his name’s not on it, he can—”
“Yes, he can, and he did. I can’t make the payments myself on my receptionist’s salary, and now I’m gonna lose the house. The money I put into it will be gone, my credit will be ruined, and I’ll have no place to live. We were supposed to fix it all up and sell it for a nice profit.” God, all this crying was giving me a splitting headache.
I hated Lance, that fucker. Gave him three years of my life, and he hooked up with one of his fellow attorneys at the firm. God, I hoped they’d have ugly children some day.
* * *
He’d come home from work, and right away, I sensed something was off. I figured it had been a rough day at work, or maybe he’d been yelled at by the senior partner he worked for. It happened all the time.
My job, on the other hand, as phone-answerer-in-chief at an ad agency, was a breeze. I was done for the day at five p.m. Back at home, dinner usually fell to me. That was fine, though, because I needed to learn to cook anyway. Lance, on the other hand, who was trying to advance at the firm, worked crazy hours. Sometimes late into the night. On occasion, he even slept at the office.
More like he fucked at the office, as it turned out.
On that memorable day, when he’d seemed so weird, he started the conversation with, “Jayma, I have something to tell you.”
I thought he was joking. You know, pulling my leg. “Pretending” something big was up.
“Can we sit over here?” He pointed to the sofa. Why was he being so stiff?
I added silverware to finish the table setting. “No, babe, dinner’s ready. Let’s talk here at the table.”
“No. No.” He raked his hand through his hair. “Let’s just sit down over here.” Okay, something was really up. He’d not taken off his jacket or tie. Actually, he looked kind of sexy, all suited up. I reached for his hand, thinking I might start a little playing around, but he was already halfway to the sofa. Maybe later, then.
Annoyed he wasn’t more enthusiastic about my cooking efforts, I traipsed after him into the living room, which really wasn’t much of a room and really wasn’t livable, either. There was a hole in the floor that opened to the crawl space under the house, over which we’d placed plastic to block the draft. And so that neither of us stepped there and accidentally fell through, we’d put one of those construction sawhorses up, which we’d stolen from down the street. We planned to put it back when we had a better solution.
I settled into the sofa next to him and, oh, my god! It had finally occurred to me.
He was going to propose!
He squirmed to get comfortable on our lumpy old sofa (why buy a good one when the room wasn’t ready yet?) and turned to face me. He seemed not to know what to do with his hands, but finally reached out and held mine. By the fingertips. That was a half-assed handhold if you asked me, but I understood. The pressure! It must have been immense.
The guy was about to propose. He was a mess. It was to be expected.
“Jayma?” He was getting choked up, and his voice broke.
God, I loved him so much at that moment. On the verge of tears as he was proposing. I’d tell our children and grandchildren about this someday.
Which reminded me, I better write it all down, afterward. I didn’t want to forget a thing.
“Yes, Lance?” Geez, I surprised myself with a tear in my eye, something that rarely happened.
“Jayma,” he repeated.
For fuck’s sake, get on with it!
“Sweetie...”
“Yes?” I breathed.
“It’s over.” He shrugged a little, the way a cashier would when telling you they couldn’t give you change for a dollar.
‘Course, being the glutton for punishment that I was, I had to have him repeat it.
Which he did. Several times. And then he left.
Dinner was on the stove, warm and ready to be eaten. I was down one boyfriend and down one marriage proposal. So I ate everything.
* * *
“Okay,” Shelle said, waiting for me to catch my breath. “Let’s think this through. There must be something we can do. Don’t give up!”
Easy for her to say. She lived in a house her parents bought her.
“Can’t you just sell it?” she asked. “And then pay off the loan?”
“Yes, but that wouldn’t cover the entire loan. We overpaid for it, thinking we’d renovate and make a killing.”
“Oh, right. Like one of those TV shows where they flip houses,” she exclaimed.
“Yeah. Like that. Except it always works out for the people on TV. My life is a different story.”
“Well. You can come live with me.”
That made me cry even harder. “You—you know I’m mildly allergic t—to dogs,” I sputtered. “And I have a cat.”
“I’ll send the dogs to my parents. And I promise to vacuum.”
Ugh. What was I going to do?
I was going to get it together, that’s what. I wasn’t normally one to wallow in my problems. I blew my nose hard and wiped my eyes. Thank god, I didn’t wear makeup because by now, it would have run down my face and onto the front of my shirt.
I’d have my little pity party and be done with it. I was going to figure this shit out.
