Page 81 of Grease Monkey
“Renting is a fool’s game, Morgana. Do you know how much money you’d waste rather than earn? The stove breaks,youneed to pay for a new one. The boilers on the fritz,you’rethe one calling an out-of-hours plumber. And believe me, they aren’t cheap. Morgana, you wouldn’t believe the number of claims the domestic lawyers I used to work with were inundated with for petty tenants. It’s a waste of time renting.”
“I don’t mind. I’m sure I could find a nice couple or someone from my office to take it.”
He scoffs, and the hairs on my arms rise. “Unless you put a lot of work into refurbishing that place, you can’t ask someone to pay you to stay there, Morgana.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
There is nothing wrong with my apartment. Maybe because it’ssmallerthan he’d have wanted when I bought the place, but what am I going to do with anything bigger than a two-bed?
“Well, the kitchen needs replacing, the stairwell is poorly maintained, and your neighbors are…”
“Lovely. Mr. Hollie might be an eccentric old man, but he’s harmless.”
“Eccentric. Ha. He tried to have his pet cat bite me, Morgana.”
I bite down hard on my bottom lip. Any other time, I wouldn’t be trying to stop myself from laughing at the memory of my eighty-year-old neighbor setting his fourteen-year-old tabby on Richard, but not now.
“Morgana.” Richards’s voice softens, and I lower my defenses. “I did you a favor by sorting this out. I thought you’d be happy.”
My hand clenches my thigh as I count to three, my hackles going straight back up. This is everyone’s problem. Richard. My mom. My dad—when he’s present enough to care. Everyonethinksthey know what’s best for me.
“Richard, you went behind my back, didn’t discuss it with me first, and ultimately decided what would make you happy. I know you don’t like my apartment, but it’smine.”
“Listen to yourself right now, Morgana. You’re acting like a child,” he says, and I swear if I had something I could throw at the wall, I would. “What is your obsession with holding on to it?”
“Richard.” I suck in a deep breath. “Please do not put my apartment up for sale. I know you are only looking out for me, but you didn’t have to do that.”
He growls, and not that romance-book-make-your-panties-wet kind of growl either.
“Morgana, this happens all the time. I suggest something and you drag your heels or decide something different to what I said, and it ends up being the wrong choice,” he says, and I’m glad I decided to not tell him about my car now. He sighs, and I know he’s grinding his teeth. “Fine. I’ll tell Saskia tohold off… For a few days. When you’ve calmed down tomorrow, you will see it’s the best option to get rid of it, and you’ll be glad I did this for you.”
He hangs up without another word, and my body aches with how tightly my muscles are coiled up. Who does he think he is? I would never dream of arranging for his house to go on the market without consulting him, so what gives him the right?
Is this what it’s going to be like? My life? Constantly being told what’s happening without being consulted?
The pain in my chest is back, and I massage my fingers into my skin. My phone vibrates again in my hand, and I really want to let it go to voicemail. But if it’s Shay, she’d calm me down. But then again, if it’s my mother, I don’t think I could handle it. Turning the device over, Teddy’s name lights up my screen and, well, now I don’t know how to feel.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Morgana, it’s erm, Teddy.” He exhales like it’s painful to even speak to me. If I wasn’t close to tears with rage and resignation, I think I’d cry at how much I wish it were the old Teddy on the other end of that phone—the one who made me feel like I could do anything and he would never dictate my life.
“Hi, Teddy,” I whisper, feeling deflated.
“The car’s ready. Sorry it took so long, but if you can pick it up in the next half hour, I can keep the shop open.” He pauses, and when I don’t answer, he says, “Or if tomorrow’s better?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m finishing up here now if you’re okay with waiting.”
“Sure. Fine. No problem at all.”
“Thanks, Teddy.” My voice wobbles, and I pinch my arm hard, fighting the lump in my throat to disappear.
Stop being so pathetic. You’re a twenty-five-year-old strong-ass woman. No man should make you cry.
“Is everything okay?”
I wish people would stop asking me that.
“Mhmm,” I hum, afraid that if I open my mouth to speak, I really will cry.
