Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“You’ve already interrupted me once. Calling again later won’t help anything. Now what did you need to discuss?”
“It’s something to do with the trust payouts.”
He sighs heavily like he was expecting this. “I won’t budge on—”
“It’s not the amount!” I rush to clarify. “It’s…well, I was wondering if I could sort of negotiate things?”
“What are you proposing?”
“I’d be willing to forego my portion of the disbursement if you would be willing to cosign on an apartment for me.”
He doesn’t reply right away, and I wish we were together in person now because then I could try to get a read on what he’s thinking. Is he surprised that I’m willing to give up the money? Annoyed that I’m pestering him while he’s at work?
There’s no way for me to know, but I wait patiently until he replies.
“Email Mason the address for the apartment as well as the contact information for your realtor.”
My jaw drops. “Are you serious!?”
“I haven’t said yes yet. Email Mason and we’ll go from there.”
“Okay great! Thank you! Right, I’ll let you go now.”
There’s another brief pause as if we’re both unsure of how to end the phone call, so I tack on a cheerful “Bye!” then immediately hang up, feeling as though I’m on cloud nine.
I don’t waste a single second before I email Mason everything Walt requested. Mason replies back almost as quickly to confirm the information has been received.
Then I’m up and in the shower, getting ready for the day, intent on making it better than the shitshow that transpired yesterday. I could so easily backslide into feeling embarrassed and used and all-out ragey toward my family for putting me in this position, but I’m going to take the high road, not for them, but for myself and my own mental health. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve done what I needed to do for my family, and now they can all fend for themselves. I don’t want to hear from any of them for a good long while.
I take my time in the shower, exfoliating, scrubbing, washing, shaving. Then I give myself a nice blowout and retrieve the least wrinkled blouse from my suitcase. It’s one of my favorites, an olive green linen tunic I tuck into the front of my jeans. I layer on the pieces of jewelry I’ve collected over the years: a few delicate rings, my grandmother’s vintage Patek Philippe, and a small heart locket with a diamond nestled in the center. Inside, rather than a portrait of a loved one, there’s a miniature of my favorite painting: The Rue Montorgueil in Paris by Claude Monet. I’m digging in my suitcase for the Italian leather flats I’ve owned since we took a trip to the Amalfi Coast in high school when my phone rings.
It’s Lisa, calling about the apartment.
“Okay, so the bad news is, the landlord is going to require you to have a cosigner, but the good news is, it sounds like you might have one lined up already?”
She further explains that she just got off the phone with Mason, who called to set up a viewing of the apartment for later this afternoon.
“Really? That’s great.”
Sort of. It’s great that Walt is already taking the initiative about cosigning for me, but I’m not sure how I feel about him actually seeing the place.
“What time did you say the appointment is?”
“2:30 sharp. Apparently, he doesn’t have long.”
“No problem. I’ll be there on time. Thanks again, Lisa.”
I meant what I said. I’m on the subway heading toward Inwood by noon, just in case there’s some kind of unforeseen delay. I arrive just before 1:00, pick up a salad and a coffee, and eat on a park bench facing the Harlem River. It’s not as cold as yesterday, but I still savor my warm coffee, cradling it in my hands so I don’t freeze while I wait for the appointment.
By 2:15, I’m outside the apartment building with my hands tucked into my black wrap coat, tipping back and forth on my feet anxiously. A minute later, Walt’s black Escalade slows to a stop at the curb in front of me.
There’s a driver up front who keeps his eyes straight ahead as the back door opens. Mason gets out first, and I peer around him to see Walt sitting inside on the phone.
Mason shuts the door and cuts off my view of Walt. Then he starts to head in my direction, straightening his glasses and offering me a curt nod.
“Good afternoon,” he says, sounding just as professional as April did on the phone yesterday. Then he turns and glances down the street as if he’s uninterested in any sort of small talk with me. I wonder if Walt sets the tone and all his employees have to follow. It’s sort of odd. Mason isn’t that much older than me. We could probably be friends if he’d drop the act.