These Boots Weren't Made for Walking (3 page)

Eric shook his head sadly, reminding me of a doctor who'd just given a hopeless prognosis or pronounced a patient dead. “We're just not right for each other, Cassie.”

“We've been going together for more than three years, Eric.” My voice ratcheted up to an obnoxiously tight and high-pitched level. I felt that I was about to cry or explode or perhaps even throw
something at him. “And you decide
now
that we're not right for each other?”

He looked down at the floor. My dingy brown carpet was littered with magazines, junk mail, dirty socks, stray shoes, and even some shattered potato chips that must ve escaped me during the recent eating binge. Lovely.

“Eric,” I persisted, unwilling to let this relationship slip away gracefully. My anger was growing hotter, as was my assurance that I had this man pegged. “Is this because I said no to sex?” I looked direcdy into his eyes, wanting to hear the truth—even if it cut like a knife. Hopefully, he'd finish me off quickly.

He looked away now. “No, Cassie, it's not about sex.”

I considered this. Would he lie to me? Eric was a basically honest man, a basically good man. He and I were both fairly strong Christians and went to a pretty cool church, and he was very involved in the singles’ group that we both attended. In fact, he was recendy made a leader at our church, second in command to the pastor who oversees all the young-adult ministries. But our church also happens to be a Bible-believing church that doesn't condone premarital sex. Oh, they never turn people of other opinions away, but they expect their leaders to respect the “rules” if they want to remain in leadership. And while I fully realized that Eric wasn't perfect, I was a little surprised at the way he'd been pressuring me about sex the past couple of months—or so it seemed. I suppose it all hit me as a bit hypocritical.

“Then what is this really about, Eric?”

He looked away again, more quickly this time, as if he was getting really uncomfortable. Perhaps he was sorry about this, or maybe Fd hit a nerve. That's when I sensed something in his expression, something I don't think Fd ever witnessed in this guy before. It smelled like guilt.

“Is there another girl?” I demanded.

He looked back at me with surprised eyes. “Who have you been talking to?”

“There is, isn't there?”

“Oh, Cassie.” He slowly shook his head, but his expression reminded me of that cartoon cat Sylvester whenever the little old lady would catch him with Tweety in his fist.

“Who is she?” I said quietly but with emphasis on each word.

He shifted his weight and looked at the floor again. “I'm sorry.”

“Who is she?” I demanded more loudly.

“It doesn't matter.”

“It does matter!” I yelled. “It matters to me!”

“Just let it go—”

“Let it go?” My voice was so loud that Felix made a run for it.

“Come on, Cassie.” He tried that soft pleading tone on me, as if he was going to persuade me against my will, as if I would let him off easy just because he was “sensitive.”

I folded my arms tightly across my chest and glared at him. “Who is she, Eric?”

He exhaled loudly. “Well, I'm sure you'll find out eventually anyway.”

He proceeded to tell me that he'd been spending time with Jessica Brauer, a twenty-something chick who had started coming to our church a few weeks earlier. I was the one who had originally befriended her. I felt sorry for this pretty girl sitting all by herself in the back one day. I'd invited her to our singles’ group that night. And when she came, she really opened up and told the group about how she'd been raised in a pretty messed-up home and how she'd recently become a Christian and wasn't really connected with believers. As a result, I went out of my way to call her occasionally, to invite her for coffee, and Eric and I had even taken her with us to several events this past month. Apparently Eric had spent time with her on his own as well. Who knew?

“Look, it just happened, Cassie,” he said as if that explained this mess. “The truth is, I think it was a God thing.”

“A
God
thing?” I tossed that one back at him as if it were a hot potato.

“God brought us together, Cassie. Jessica and I both feel this way.”

“You believe God set you up with Jessica so you could cheat on me?”

“It's not like we're married, Cassie. We're not even engaged—”

“That's for sure!” I opened the door for him now, like,
Here's your hat. What's your hurry?

“Come on, Cass,” he said. “Don't end it like this—”

“How do you expect me to end it?” I snapped.

“Can't we still be friends?”

“Friends?” Okay, I'm not a violent person by nature, but I sure felt like hitting him with something big and heavy just then. Instead I gathered up what little self-control remained and said, “Look, Eric, I hope you and Jessica are wonderfully happy” He smiled as though he thought I meant it. “That's—” “Have a great life together!” I shoved him with both hands, then slammed the door behind him.

y grandmother used to say that bad things always come in groups of three. Of course, I never took this adage too seriously. But now I'm not so sure. There's no denying that two very bad things have happened. What if there's a third one coming?

As a result, I hole up in my little apartment for the next several days, waiting for the third shoe, or perhaps a boot, to fall. And as I wait, I consume calorie-laden foods like Doritos and Pepsi and Reese's peanut-butter cups, as if economists had forecast a serious junk-food shortage. Last night I wore a ball cap and trench coat when I went out to forage for my supplies. I didn't want anyone to recognize me.

Like anyone would care.

I sit around all day eating and watching disgusting soap operas and my thighs, which literally expand before me. Sometimes when I'm feeling especially fragile, I hold Felix as though he were a baby, and I tell him my troubles. As long as I scratch him in all the right places, he's a pretty good listener. We take catnaps together, and occasionally I wake up crying. I try to convince myself that I'm
crying over a soap opera I just saw, that I'm brokenhearted over poor Arial, who's having Beau's baby, but he's in love with her sister Bianca, who is sleeping with his father, who has just been diagnosed with Alzheimer's and can barely remember his wife's first name. But I know the truth. And like they say, it hurts.

Finally, exactly two weeks after my termination, and eleven days after getting dumped by Eric, I tell myself enough is enough, and I force myself to start cleaning my slovenly apartment. I even sit down to open the pile of mail. My goal is to begin restoring order to my life.
What life?
I think as I use a dull steak knife to slit open the envelope that holds my new credit-card bill. I brace myself, knowing full well that it'll be a whopper because those despicable Valentino boots will be on it. But when I actually read the total, I consider taking the steak knife directly to my throat. Something is wrong—very, very wrong!

“Four thousand five hundred eighty-five dollars?” I gasp aloud. I blink and read it again. This is crazy. I know the exact price of those boots as though it's been branded on my brain. And while I admit they were stupidly expensive, they were only a fraction of this. What on earth could this be for? So I flip to the page underneath and study the itemized list of “my purchases” and am shocked to see all sorts of things listed there—things /never bought. Well, it's obviously a mistake. A big, stupid mistake that must be sorted out as soon as possible.

So I get on the phone and listen to a recording and punch in all kinds of numbers, then listen to more recordings, then wait and
wait until I finally get to speak to a real woman. She calmly says, “Its no mistake. If you are Cassidy Cantrell, that's your card number, and according to our records, the signature matches perfectly. Unless you—”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “I did receive my card in the mail shortly after I opened the account. But I set it aside and
never even
signed it! How can my signature match up?”

“Oh, dear,” she says. “That was a mistake.”

“What?”

“You must
always
sign a charge card. A blank card is an invitation for fraud. Anyone can sign a blank card and use it.”

“But who would—”

“Do you have any more questions about your account?” she asks impatiently. “Other customers are waiting.”

“I want to
close
my account,” I snap at her.

“Well, according to my records, it's maxed out right now and can't be used anyway. And a payment is due on the—”

“I thought that card had a $5,000 limit,” I point out.

“Yes, we actually allowed you to go a bit over your—”

“I haven't gone
over
anything,” I say. “Besides my Valentino boots, I haven't bought a single thing at your overpriced store.”

“According to our records, your account is at $5,147 right now. The bill you received in the mail was calculated before you made your additional purchases. Now if youcl like to arrange a payment over the phone, please press the seven—”

“I don't
want to
make a payment,” I nearly shout. “Just close
the account,
please
, and let me talk to someone who can explain why my cards being used by someone other than me.”

“Where is your card at the moment?” she asks in an acid tone.

I fumble around my still-messy apartment, wondering the very same thing. “I don't actually know,” I finally admit.

“Some people should simply avoid credit accounts altogether,” she tells me in a superior voice. “Credit is not for everyone.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I say and hang up.

I notice the brown suede boots, still in the corner by the front door where I threw them two weeks ago. They look slightly evil now, hunkered down together with their pointed toes facing each other almost as if they're conspiring, whispering secrets about me. Maybe they know something I don't, or perhaps they're really the ones responsible for this billing madness. Maybe they've been sneaking out when my back was turned, going shopping and buying things I can't afford.

I study the bill again, going over the long list of clothes—
expensive
clothes, clothes that I do
not have
in raj/closet. I read the enviable list of designer names and wish I did have them. Suddenly I remember that Monica popped in a few weeks ago, after my boot purchase and before my catastrophes, to “borrow” some milk for her granola. That woman is always out of everything and thinks nothing of borrowing what she never plans to return. I try to be a good Christian and cut her some slack since I know her good-for-nothing, live-in boyfriend, Will, is usually broke and jobless. He
just seems to lounge around her apartment, usually in his T-shirt and boxers. I can't imagine why she keeps that loser around.

I make my mind replay that day, trying to remember the details. I was actually glad to see Monica, since we hadn't talked for a while and I was worried I might've said or done something to offend her. I often stick my foot in my mouth when it comes to her and Will. As usual, she looked fantastic. Her hair was perfect, and she had on a killer outfit. I remember complimenting her on the short, fitted jacket.

“This old thing?” she said with a shrug. “It's just Calvin Klein. Nothing to get overly excited about.” I invited her in and even showed her my new boots since I was still trying to decide whether to keep them. I knew she'd be suitably wowed by the Valentino label. Monica knows and respects the really good designers. And she was impressed.

“These are beautiful, Cassidy.” She kicked off a high-heeled shoe and actually started to try one on, even though her feet are bigger than mine.

“They'll be too small for you,” I pointed out as I politely snatched the boot away. “And suede stretches so easily.” I knew I'd probably offended her. Still, she told me I needed to keep them.

“Wear them and walk proud,” she said with the conviction of a fashion diva. “You only live once, Cassie.” Then she laughed. “And if they get stretched out, you can always let me take them off your hands.” I smiled and acted as if that were funny. Like I'd even consider letting her wear those expensive boots.