Page 41 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
“Abundance,” I say. “Or happy one. It’s my mom’s favorite Hawaiian word and her favorite beach.”
“Aw, that’s nice,” he says. “And it fits. You’re a happy one. I mean, usually. Not this morning, but…”
I shoot him a wry smile. “Thanks, but it’s probably the reason everything I touch turns to shit. I’m a white woman with a native name. A lot of Hawaiians will tell you that’s just asking for bad juju.”
Parker hums beneath his breath. “But your mom grew up on Maui, right? I’d say you’ve got enough island girl cred to carry your name without bad luck. And you were born there before you moved to New Orleans when you were a baby, right?”
My brows lift. “How did you remember that?”
“I have an excellent memory,” he says, taking the Saint Magnus exit as he adds, “and decent table manners, not to mention a giant cock and fantastic dirty-talking skills. I’m the whole package, really. An abundant, happy one could do a lot worse.”
Fighting a smile, I say, “You’re right, but I’m not ready to discuss that yet. I’m kind of too busy stressing out to have a serious discussion right now.”
“Discussion? Who’s suggesting a discussion? I’m certainly not. Just making a random observation.” He nods toward theroad ahead. “So, do you want backup in there? Or are you flying solo?”
I let out a shaky breath, my smile fading as downtown comes into view. “Solo. But thanks for driving. Even if I’d had a car, I think I would have been too shaky to drive.”
“No problem. And remember, there are always other paths forward. Even if this guy is a huge dickweed, he’s not the last word. It’s a big company. You can keep moving this up the chain of command.”
I nod, hoping he’s right, even as I pray that I won’t have to worry about the chain of command.
Please, just let this guy have mercy on me.
Please, just let something go right this time…
The Pelican State Insurance building squats in the middle of downtown like an architectural depression. The beige brick, tiny windows, and general soggy cardboard box vibes are a sharp contrast to the manufactured cuteness of the rest of the “historic” area, making me wonder why it hasn’t been torn down by now.
The people of Saint Magnus usually have a low tolerance for disappointing peopleandarchitecture.
Inside, I check in with Mitzy—who is even more perky in person, dressed entirely in pink, and instantly makes it her mission in life to fluff her boobs Parker’s way every time she takes a phone call—and settle onto the stiff couch in the waiting area. To his credit, Parker doesn’t give the fluffing a moment’s notice.
He’s too busy pretending to be interested in an article about tying your own flies in Trout World Monthly and whispering motivational slogans to me beneath his breath.
Like—“You’re a DeWitt. You’re going to DeWinn this, no problem.”
And—“Remember, you make the best grilled cheese in the tri-state area. No matter what happens, no one can take that from you. Cheese will always rise again.”
And—“Let the rage at this flood-related injustice fill you. That’s right. Embrace the rage. Come to the dark side.”
I finally break on the last one, laughing beneath my breath as I elbow him in the ribs. “Stop,” I whisper. “I can’t go Darth Vader on this guy. I have to embrace ‘cute, scrappy, but helpless female he should make an exception for’ energy. Old Southern guys don’t like angry women.”
Parker grunts. “I don’t like how long we’ve been waiting. There’s no one else here. What’s this guy doing back there?”
I nibble the inside of my lip. “I don’t know. But I don’t have an official appointment, so I can’t really complain.” I can squirm, however.
And I do, until finally, forty minutes later, Gerald, the supervisor, finally calls me into his office.
He is indeed an old Southern guy, with a big belly straining the front of his blue, short-sleeve button-down shirt and an accent so thick he makes Aunt Fran sound like she’s a Yankee. He’s also tired, annoyed, and seemingly invulnerable to the appeals of a tiny blonde with big blue eyes and a yellow sundress that shows exactly the right amount of cleavage.
“Please,” I beg, giving the desperate eyelash batting one more try. “I know I should have read the policy closer, sir, but it’s twenty pages long. And written in a way that’s really hard for normal people to understand. And I never missed a payment or let my policy lapse. I really didn’t have that much equipment. Covering it won’t break Pelican State, butnothaving it covered means I’ll be out of business.” I swallow and will my voice not to wobble as I add, “I’ve worked so hard, sir. I sacrificed so much for my restaurant, and it was doing really well. It was in the black within the first year. You know how rare that is for food service?”
“Sorry, darlin’, but there’s nothin’ I can do.” He slides my policy back across his desk with the casual hand of a man who doesn’t care about killing dreams. “Contents coverage is separate. It’s clear as a bell on page twelve. Halfway down. Here, I’ll highlight it for you…”
The words swim on the page as he drags a yellow line through the tiny print. I blink hard, refusing to cry in front of this jerk.
“Then why did you take my money for so long?” I whisper. “If you knew it was pointless coverage for someone who hadn’t made changes to the landlord’s unit or bolted down her tables?”
His voice is harder, more pointed as he says, “Due diligence is your job, ma’am, not mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of paperwork to get through today.”
