These Boots Weren't Made for Walking (4 page)

But now I remember something else that happened that day. I remember that I had set my shiny new charge card on the kitchen counter. I'd already decided that it was going directly into the bottom of my lingerie drawer, where I keep other valuable things safe and out of sight. I figured with its generous $5,000 credit limit, it would be more secure in my drawer than in my purse, where I might actually be tempted to use it. So now I open my dresser to find that the card is not there. I thoroughly ransack my granny panties and 18 Hour bras but find no card. Then I check every drawer in the dresser and even the cracks and crevices in between, but I am getting the strongest feeling that I never put it there in the first place.

I try to put together exacdy what happened that day. I returned my boots safely to the box and my room. Then I searched my cupboards for a clean jar to hold the milk since I didn't want to give her the whole carton and I knew she would never return a glass or a mug. After I generously filled a mayo jar with enough milk for at least two bowls of granola, Monica complained that it was two percent instead of skim, took it anyway without even thanking me, and quickly left.

The next thing I can specifically remember is the following morning, when I dressed carefully, wearing the boots just as my fashionable neighbor had recommended. Then I went to work, got fired, and totally forgot about the stupid credit card. It's probably been gone this whole time, and I never even noticed.

Love thy neighbor
, I remind myself as I go into the hallway with
lethal intentions toward Monica. Really, is it possible she did this to me? It seems so unbelievable. And yet I have a gut feeling that is exactly what happened. I take a deep breath. I try to calm myself. No use flying off the handle. Even so, my hands are shaking as I loudly rap on Monica's door. I have no idea how I'm going to confront her or what I'm going to say, so I determine to simply ask the question and then wait. I know she's an experienced liar, but I figure those big blue eyes of hers will give her away. Then, knowing she's the Return Queen, I will simply demand that she return all the merchandise and clear my account, and I won't even press charges. Heck, maybe I can get her to return those stupid boots as well. She could say they were defective or something.

Will answers the door, looking worse than usual. Seriously, doesn't this man ever shower or shave? I think I'm actually grimacing at him when I realize that I'm not exacdy at my best either. In fact, we probably look like we could be related. He stands there blankly gazing at me as if he can't remember who I am. Well, whatever! This has nothing to do with him anyway. I'm halfway tempted to just shove him aside and go straight for Monica. But I take a breath and control myself.

“I need to talk to Monica,” I proclaim in my I-mean-business voice.

“Yeah, well, get in line,” he answers in a tone that sounds half dead. He starts to close the door.

“Huh?” I stick my yellow ducky slipper in the doorway to keep him from shutting me out. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean you're not the only one who needs to talk to her.”

“Is she here?”

“Nope.” He folds his arms against his chest, which makes me notice the stain on the front of his grimy white T-shirt.
Ever heard of laundry soap?

“When will she be back?” I tap my toe, which makes the duck head appear to be bobbing. I wonder if I should just blast past him, go inside, plant myself in a chair, and wait.

“Who knows?” He shrugs and looks over his shoulder toward the TV, which is blaring some loudmouthed sports commentator.

“What do you mean exactly?”

He looks back at me now, sort of studying me as if he almost remembers who I am but doesn't really care. “Haven't you heard the news?”

“What news?” I feel like screaming now. Why is this man such a jerk? And how is it that Monica has put up with him for several years?

“Monica walked out on me.”

I'm about to say, “Big surprise there, bud,” but then I realize what this means for me, for my unpaid credit-card bill. I grab hold of the doorframe for support. “When did she go?” I manage to ask.

He scratches his grizzly chin, thinking. “Couple of weeks ago, give or take. I haven't been keeping too good track of the time.”

Okay, I feel like I just swallowed a heavy stone. It slowly drops, then wedges itself in the pit of my stomach. But maybe I didn't understand him right. “Do you mean Monica packed her bags and
took her things?” I'm thinking
my things.
“Like she totally moved out?”

He slowly nods. “Which means I gotta move out too, since she's the one who's been renting this place.”

“Did she leave a forwarding address?”

He sort of groans. “She didn't even leave a note. Just took off when I was gone. Just cleared out, just like that.” He snaps his fingers.

“But what about her stuff? Her furniture and things?”

“Most of what's here is mine anyway, and it's not much. She took what she wanted.”

“And you're absolutely sure she's not coming back?” I feel like I can hardly breathe now, like I might pass out right here in the doorway. Maybe he'll just give me a shove with his foot and close the door.

“I really don't think so.” He seerris to consider this. “I mean, I haven't heard a word from her since she left. Nothing. And she'd been threatening to do something like this for a long time. She was always saying she could do better than… well, you get the picture.” He takes in a sharp breath and looks away, and I'm afraid he's going to cry. I don't know what I'd do if he started crying. He may be a loser and a jerk, but for Pete's sake, he's a human being.
Have a hearty Cassie!

“I'm sorry, Will,” I say to him in a soft voice. “I actually know how you feel. My boyfriend just dumped me too.”

He looks back and stares at me for a long moment as if he's
taking this information in, running it around his head, and then he frowns. “Its pretty rough, huh?”

“Yeah.” For no explainable reason, I feel sorry for this pathetic loser. Normally I wouldn't even give the time of day to this guy, and yet I guess I can relate. “So are you going to be okay?” I guess.

“Anything I can do?” Okay, now that's probably going too far. But the words are out there. I can't exactly take them back. Besides, I remind myself, I am a Christian. I am supposed to be kind and helpful and loving.

“Yeah, well.” He pats his thin midsection. “I'm kinda hungry right now. I'm outta food, and the cupboards are bare, and I'm pretty broke.”

“I've got a bunch of junk food,” I confess. “Nothing even a little bit healthy, but it might take the edge off.”

He brightens. “Hey, junk food sounds fine.”

“Come on over and get what you want. It's obvious that I don't need to keep eating it.” I puff out my cheeks and make a fat face. “Seriously, I've been eating like a pig since Eric dumped me. You'd be doing me a favor if you just took it all.”

So Will comes over, and we commiserate as I fill a grocery bag with all my leftover chips and soda and ice cream and candy. It actually feels good to see these things go, but as I hold out the bag full of carbs and fats, I feel guilty too.

“It's not exactly health food,” I say. “Not like Monica used to get for you guys.” I remember how Monica gave me a bad time for
only having two-percent milk to loan her. “You really need to go nonfat,” she said as she was leaving. “Or if you really care about your health, you'd try to go with soy.” I wonder if she had my credit card in her back pocket right then.

He nods. “Yeah, well, I'm sick of tofu and black beans. I have some opinions about food, and I think it's time I ate what I want.”

“Knock yourself out with this,” I say as I hand him the bag. “Just don't blame me if you feel sick later.”

“Thanks.” Now he looks more carefully at me. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks. “Anything I can do for you?”

I glance over at the bill that's sitting by the telephone. I know the guy is broke and can't help me in this regard, but I am curious as to how much he might know. “Yeah,” I say, “you can tell me something.” Then I explain my credit-card dilemma and my suspicions about his ex.

He sort of laughs. “Yep, that sounds like Monica.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh, yeah. She did something like that to me when we first hooked up. It really knocked me sideways, but then she invited me to move in with her, and I thought that might make up for it. But she'd pull that kind of crud again and again. I guess it eventually became my big excuse for giving up on everything. Like what's the use? She maxed out my Visa card and ruined my credit to the point that I'll probably just go bankrupt/To be honest, I probably just stuck it out with her because she was always saying how she was going to land some great modeling job and make lots of money
and pay me back.” He laughs bitterly. “Like that's going to happen now.”

“Wow.”

“So are you going to press charges?”

I consider this. “Well, I can't be absolutely positive that it was Monica, but it's a pretty big crime. I guess I'd have to consider it.”

He nods. “I can understand. I've considered it, but I doubt I ever will.”

“Hey, did you notice her going on some big buying spree shordy before she left?” I ask. “I mean, maybe there's evidence she left behind, like receipts or bags or something in your apartment.”

“You can look around if you want,” he tells me. “The place is a mess right now, but I haven't thrown anything away since she left.”

So I follow him back and carefully look around his apartment, which is just about as messy as mine, but I don't find one single piece of evidence. If Monica did this, which I feel pretty sure she did, that girl is good.

“Thanks, Will,” I tell him, “but there's nothing incriminating here.”

“Not surprising.” He's slumped in his recliner now, a spoon already stuck into a quart of ice cream.

“Do you like Chinese food?” I ask suddenly.

He looks up, then nods.

“I'm going to order some takeout for dinner tonight,” I tell him. “Come on over if you want some.”

“Hey, thanks!”

Okay, I wonder if I'm going totally nuts as I halfheartedly continue to straighten my apartment. I mean, what is up with inviting Will over for Chinese? It's not bad enough that my life is in shreds, that I've lost my boyfriend and my job, that in all likelihood my neighbor has just committed felony fraud against me, but I go and invite Monica's loser boyfriend over for dinner. Seriously, what is wrong with this picture?

replace the litter in Felix's really rank-smelling cat box, which I'm sure he appreciates, and he puts it to immediate use. Then I take out the two-week-old garbage, and my nose thanks me again. But when I get back inside, it's like I really don't care that Will is coming over. Why did I bother? What's the point? It's not like that deadbeat is going to notice or care that someone went out of her way for him. And what difference would it make if he did? It's not like I care. Why waste the energy? I throw a pile of dirty clothes in the corner of the bathroom, slam the door shut, and suddenly crave a Snickers bar, which I'm fresh out of.

I walk around my tiny apartment and decide that I really don't care about anything. I don't care about my lost job. I don't care about my lost boyfriend or my ruined life. I don't even care about that crazy credit-card bill anymore. I don't think I'd care if it was for $20,000. Oh, part of me knows that I should do something about it. Maybe even call the police. But I
really
don't care. In fact, I'm starting to feel that it's probably my fault anyway. Like the woman on the phone said, I should've signed the card and put it in a safe place. I was irresponsible. Why shouldn't I have to pay?.

In fact, the more I think about everything that's happened to me recently, the more I realize it's probably all my fault. I am so stupid. So incredibly stupid. If I'd been sawier, I would've sensed a change in the workplace. I would've tried harder. Crud, I would've saved the department and saved my job. I could've been Supergirl to the rescue! But instead, I became deadwood. And if I hadn't been so oblivious about my relationship with Eric, I would've gotten the signals that things were going sideways with us. I would've noticed Eric's growing interest in Jessica—the way those two would talk together, the eye contact, the body language. I would've realized that I needed to do something fast—maybe even something drastic—to keep him. I just wasn't paying attention.