Page 5 of Pour Decisions
“It’s just making things uncomfortable and somewhat difficult when I move,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “And there’s no significant other, if that question was an attempt to figure that out.”
I press my lips together and resist the urge to react. I’m transparent as glass. But to be honest, a lot of people avoid talking about how their injury affects their sex lives, so I always ask as delicately as possible. It’s important.
“So your goals are just a reduction of pain and a better range of motion,” I say. He nods. “Good. Let me assess your movement now so I can get a baseline.”
I put my tablet down and hop up, gesturing to the floor. He follows me.
Thankfully, having something to do takes my mind off the fact that I’m treating my ex’s back pain. We get through the rest of the session without him following up on his first question or our communication falling apart in some way.
“From what I’m seeing, I think two months of sessions, twice a week, will get you where you’d like to be,” I say once we’re done.
He gives me an inscrutable look. “Fine, if that’s what necessary.”
“Okay, then. See you next time. They’ll help you schedule your sessions at the front desk.”
He grunts in response and goes to change back into his work clothes.
I wrap up my day, a tiny pit of dread unrelated to JD growing in my chest. I moved back to Jepsen a month or two ago, and my new apartment is anything but relaxing. My landlord is always up my ass about even breathing wrong in my own space. But it’s what I have.
My budget when moving here was limited after all the legal fees that came with the divorce, plus my student loans. Jepsen is still a small town, but it’s grown a lot since I lived here with my mom and commuted over to Crescent Hill University in college. The housing supply is surprisingly limited.
The houses are either fancy ones for people who work over at the university and want to live in a smaller, non-college atmosphere, or places most people don’t want to rent anyway. But still, I like the slower pace here. After living in Nashville after I graduated from college, it’s a nice change.
Besides the apartment, of course. I’m trying to stay optimistic, but damn.
The droplet of optimism inside me evaporates when I get home and find almost all of my shit is on the lawn.
“I’m sorry, what are you doing?” I ask the man carrying my sad little basil plant out. “That’s my stuff!”
“I was told to bring it out here, ma’am.” He shrugs and keeps walking, dumping the plant next to my pink ottoman.
I scan the area before I find my landlord, Ms. Hendricks. She’s a tiny, miserable woman who’s owned the house for longer than I’ve been alive, probably. She stands with her hands on her tiny hips, watching strange men touch all my stuff.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask.
“You said you were quiet when you applied for the apartment. Are you, or are you not?” Ms. Hendricks asks, her eyes frantic and wide.
“What? Yes, I am. I live alone. The most I’ve done is exist in my space.”
Right? I think back to when I got home last night. I walked across the room and put my bag down. As you do when you get home. And for the third time this week, Ms. Hendricks rushed up from the unit she owns below mine and banged on my door, demanding answers. How dare I use the space that I’m paying her a little bit too much money for. How dare I flush the toilet andsneeze!
Apparently I dared too hard because now these men are bringing out my big suitcase that I haven’t even had the chance to unpack. I hit the ground running with my new job and didn’t get the chance to. On the small upside, these strangers aren’t touching the clothes inside.
“No, you’ve clogged across the floor every damn day.” She rests her hands on her hips and sighs. “Katrina, you signed the rules to the building.”
“I did.” I wish I had read them more carefully. She just said they were “common sense” rules, but looking closer, we have very different definitions of common sense.
“And you know about the noise rule.”
“Yes. But —”
“Then why the noise?” She looks down her nose at me.
“I was walking across my apartment in my socks this morning, and every other time I’ve been home. I don’t know what else I could possibly do to be quieter,” I say, keeping my voice as even as I can.
AmIthe crazy one? I’m not, right? I’m a little thicker than I was when I lived in Jepsen last, but from the way she’s glaringme down, you’d think I was a literal rhino stomping across the floor.
“Well, it’s three strikes and you’re out.” Ms. Hendricks shrugs. “So, you’re out. In only five weeks. That’s a new record.”
