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)
I shouldn’t have done that. Shame and annoyance flood through me as I close my door behind me, look down, and tug off my ring.
Thirteen
I leave the apartment later that morning when I’m sure the coast is clear. I’ve opted for comfort with my sneakers and yoga pants and oversized sweatshirt. I plan on staying out for as long as possible. All day, probably. I’ve got my sketchbooks in my bag. I want to hide out at the park and draw as long as my hands can stand the chill without gloves on. With any luck, I’ll find a few interesting subjects to help distract me from this funk I can’t seem to escape from.
I tell myself I’m just tired and I had a hard day yesterday. I try to justify the way I feel by reminding myself of the shitty afternoon I had at the gallery.
I find a park bench and sit down, staring off into space for so long a squirrel mistakes me for a statue. When I move, it squeaks and scurries away quickly.
I do end up drawing, but I start and stop a hundred different times, losing interest easily as my mind wanders back to the apartment. I wonder what Walt and Camila are up to now. I wonder if they’ve finished talking. If she’ll be there when I get back.
The moment I realize I’m rooting for them not to work out their issues is the moment I start to tell myself the exact opposite. They’re a good match. She clearly cares deeply for him, and likely, he feels the same.
I slam my sketchbook closed and walk around the city with my AirPods in, listening to music until the sun starts to dip below the skyline.
The air turns chillier, and without a coat, I’m forced back to the warmth of Walt’s apartment. I ride the elevator up, training my face into a gentle smile, preparing myself to see the two of them together.
The doors slide open and I step out, toeing off my sneakers and then picking them up to take them back to my room. The apartment is quiet and dark. Walt’s not home.
My phone vibrates in my bag, and I find a text from my mom waiting for me.
It’s a reminder to ask Walt about the request for a higher monthly disbursement from the trust.
When we last spoke, I had no plans to actually go through with her request. That decision had a good deal to do with the fact that I didn’t want to tarnish the budding friendship Walt and I were building. I didn’t want to align myself with my parents in his eyes, but now I see no reason to hold off. He and I aren’t friends. We’re barely roommates.
In his office, I find a piece of letterhead and a pen.
I scratch down the request as quickly as possible, drop it onto his keyboard so he’ll be sure to see it, and then go to my room, eager to wash off the day.
I strip off my sweatshirt and yoga pants on my way to the shower, turning the valve so it sits near to the hottest setting possible.
Once steam starts to fog the glass door, I step inside and sigh deeply.
There is nothing a hot shower can’t cure. Truly.
Then a fist pounds on the bathroom door and I yelp in shock.
“Elizabeth,” Walt says, sounding impatient.
“I’m in the shower!” I call out, as if he didn’t already know that. I’m sure he can hear the water running.
“Tell your parents their request is denied.”
“What?”
I can’t totally be sure I heard him right over the noise of the shower.
“Tell them to sell what assets they can, downsize, and consolidate any debt I didn’t wipe out a few weeks ago—”
“Can we talk about this in a minute?! I’m a little busy at the moment.”
He doesn’t reply right away.
“Walt?” I shout, trying to ensure he can hear me.
Nothing.
Dammit!
I rinse the conditioner out of my hair as quickly as possible, kill the shower, and hurry out to catch him.
I yank on my pajamas quickly, not bothering to dry my sopping hair. I’ll deal with it in a minute. Right now, the more pressing issue is talking to Walt while I can. By the time I catch him, he’s back in his office, crumpling the note I left for him.
He looks up at me, tosses the wadded-up piece of paper in the trash, and then proceeds to get back to work like I’m not standing in the doorway, a dripping wet mess.
“Did I hear you right? You’re not going to help them out?”
“Correct.”
“Are you serious? Their request seems reasonable enough to me.”
“It’s not. Give your parents an inch, they’ll take a mile. Particularly your father,” he says, shuffling papers around as if he’s looking for something.
“Walt, it’s not enough money in their eyes and you know it. Based on what little you’ve shared with me about the trust, it seems like there’s definitely enough in there to accommodate a slightly higher monthly disbursement that would be more in line with my parents’ current lifestyle.”