Page 13 of Story of My Life
“Ms. Hart, the time to fight this is over. You are welcome to discuss this with your attorney, but at this point, you’re going to have to do that from a different apartment.”
“For the love of my last iota of sanity, call me Hazel. What if I buy it?”
“Hazel,” she said, “that’s certainly one possible option, though I’m not familiar with your financial situation. I’d advise you to consult your own attorney. But even if this is the path you choose, you still need to vacate the apartment by end of day Thursday.”
“And go where?” I squeaked.
“I’m sure you have friends or relatives who would be happy to host you until you decide on a course of action. Or maybe now is the time for a fresh start somewhere else,” Rachel said with just a whiff of the condescension a very important person with very important things to do could deliver.
My scoff could have leveled one of the houses of the three little pigs.
A fresh start? Was that supposed to be some kind of joke? I was a New Yorker, born and bred. I’d never lived anywhere else. Not even Long Island. I was the Manhattanite who rolled her eyes whenever a peer announced they were moving out of the city for a house with a yard. Who wanted to mow grass when you could walk a block in either direction and enjoy high-end shopping or Michelin-starred Ethiopian food?
New York was my home. The only one I’d ever known. I was born here, and up until seven minutes ago, I’d kind of assumed I’d die here.
“I’m glad we were finally able to connect. I look forward to a peaceful resolution. Please don’t hesitate to call the office if you have any more questions concerning your settlement,” Rachel said before disconnecting the call.
“Hello? Hello?” I demanded dramatically to the dead line.
I tossed the phone down on top of the paperwork and began to pace. I had a contract lawyer. But her area of expertise was more publishing deals and less cleaning up personal life messes. And my divorce lawyer had been so appalled at my pathological desire to give up, I doubted she would willingly speak to me again. I should have listened to her. I should have fought harder. What had I been thinking? Always the nice girl. Always afraid to make waves. At the very least, I should have swallowed my pride, called my mother, and begged for her expertise. Instead I’d rolled over and played dead, and it had cost me dearly.
“You were supposed to be the one,” I muttered out loud in case the spirit of ex-husbands past was lurking around. Scrubbing my hands over my face, I continued to pace. None of my heroes would have ever done this to my heroines. But Jim was no hero, and I was no plucky heroine. I was a depressed, divorced, middle-aged mess, and I needed a solution.
It had been a long time since I’d had to brainstorm any creative solutions to a problem—fictional or otherwise. I felt like I was mentally wading through Elmer’s glue.
Oh, God. Was Elmer’s made from old horses? Was the first horse they turned to glue named Elmer?
I shook the thought out of my head. “Focus, Hazel. Think. What solves all problems?”
Wine? No. Family? Definitely not. My feet stopped in their tracks. “Money.”
I unearthed my laptop and took it to the kitchen counter, too keyed up to sit down. It took me three tries, but I finally remembered the password to my brokerage account and logged in.
“Okay. Not awful, but not ‘purchase an apartment in Manhattan,’” I noted, eyeing the balance. Thanks to automatic bill pay, irregular paychecks, and my complex bout of grief, shame, and lethargy, I’d been lax about everything…includingchecking in on my financial situation. There hadn’t been any new book advances thanks to me blowing fart noises at my deadlines. And from the looks of things, royalties were down. Way down.
Good thing I had experience raising fictional characters from rock bottom. I just needed to think like a heroine.
4
SLEEPING BOUGIE LEAVES TOWN
HAZEL
Two hours later,I flopped over onto the living room rug. My eyes were Sahara Desert dry. My spirit was broken. And my back felt like Maurice the donkey from my Spring Gate series had kicked me in the kidneys.
I’d called three law firms, but since it was a Saturday night, no one was answering. So I’d moved on to real estate research and found that two units in my building had sold in the past year for nearly three times my account balance. I’d run through three mortgage calculators before it started to sink in.
Barring a meet-cute with a handsome billionaire tomorrow, there was no way I could stay in this apartment.
I reached up and felt around on the coffee table for my phone. Instead, I ended up knocking several pieces of paper loose. They fluttered down and landed on my face.
“If you’re trying to suffocate me, universe, you’re going to need more paper,” I called out to the forces that were clearly plotting against me.
There was a burst of laughter from the hallway and a chorus of goodbyes as the dinner party broke up.
Would my neighbors feel bad if I suffocated under pounds of paperwork just feet from their low-seven-figure one- andtwo-bedroom apartments? I debated lying there until morning before remembering my long-standing fear of a paper cut to the eye.
Gingerly, I slid the papers from my face and sat up. It was one of the folders Zoey had left with me.
