Page 12 of Story of My Life
Where were the videos of middle-aged men being surprised by puppies when you needed them?
The red notifications of missed calls and messages drew my attention, and I blew a duck-lipped raspberry of a sigh. It wasn’t like my day could get any worse.
I pushed play on the latest message.
“Ms. Hart, this is Rachel Larson, attorney at Brown and Hardwick. I’m reaching out to discuss the terms of your divorce settlement. Specifically your agreement to vacate my client’s apartment. My records indicate you were served papers last month. I must speak with you?—”
The very proper voice of Rachel Larson, attorney-at-law, cut off abruptly as I paused the message, not sure I could survive the rest of her sentence.
The elevator doors opened to my floor, and I stepped out in a fog into the once bougie, now mostly dated hallway. I vaguely recalled accepting some kind of package that I had to sign for. But it had been one bottle of wine into a binge-watch ofCougar Town.
Music and laughter came from two doors down. I couldn’t remember their names, but it was a couple in their fifties who hosted a monthly dinner party. I’d lived here three years before I realized their guests were other neighbors on the floor. We had never been invited.
Jim said it was because they were plebeian sports fans who wouldn’t know an aged cabernet if it punched them in their palate.
I’d hazarded a guess that it was sentiments like that that had kept us on the uninvited list.
After wrestling my keys from my bag, I shouldered my apartment door open and hurried inside. I dumped my things on the living room floor and performed a quick, messy search of the paperwork on the coffee table. I found the envelope with the Brown and Hardwick logo on it and ripped it open.
“Shit.” I skimmed the top page of the fat legal document. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
It wasn’t that I’d forgotten that in the ultimate act of conflict avoidance, I’d promised to move out twelve months after the ink dried on the divorce decree. It was more that I’d chosen to ignore that fact, temporarily confident that I’d pull myself out of the downward spiral in plenty of time to deal with the mess before it was too late.
…must vacate the premises by August 15.
“August fifteenth? As infivedays from now? No, no, no. This can’t be happening!”
I pounced on my bag and dug out my phone again, hitting the Call button. “Yes, sorry to bother you on a weekend, but I need to speak with Rachel…somebody. This is Hazel Hart,” I said,doing my best not to spew my panic and frustration all over the weekend answering service.
“I’ve got instructions here to forward you straight to Ms. Larson. Also, my mother is a huge fan, Ms. Hart. She used to read your books all the time,” he said chirpily, as if his firm weren’t actively trying to make me homeless.
“Thanks,” I said dryly.
I paced and nibbled on my thumbnail to the jazzy hold music.
“Ms. Hart, so good of you to return my calls.” It sounded like Rachel “The Home Stealer” Larson was in the middle of some kind of indoor athletic event.
“Do you get paid extra for sarcasm?” I demanded.
“Ms. Hart,” she said with an “I deal with weirdos like you with my infinite well of expensive patience” tone. “I understand that these are trying times for you, but my client and my firm have given you ample time to make arrangements.”
“Arrangements for what? You booting me out of my home?”
“Technically it’s your ex-husband’s home.”
I shook my head violently. “No. No! He put my name on the deed when we got married.”
“Once again, Ms. Hart, according to our paperwork, he put your name on the mortgage, not the deed.”
“What difference does that make?” I demanded, tripping over a stack of overdue library books.
“It gives you half ownership of the debt instead of the asset.”
“Why? Why? I mean,whywould someone who claims to love someone do that?”
“It’s not my job to question client motives.” There was a distinct whistle on her end of the call and the groan of a crowd.
“I’ve watchedSuitsthree times the whole way through, and they make it seem like motive is kind of important,” I argued.
