These Boots Weren't Made for Walking (6 page)

“Well, that'll pretty much take care of my severance package then.”

“That's too bad. Do you have savings?”

I sort of laugh. “Not much.”

“Well, as I've always told you girls: if you ever need to come home, the door is open.”

Okay, I've heard this a lot during the past year. Good grief, there were times when Mom begged me to come home. And every time I came up with a great excuse not to. My job. My boyfriend. My life.

“You know what, Mom?” I say suddenly. “That's not such a bad idea.”

“Really?” she sounds seriously shocked.

“Really!”

“Oh my, well, I don't know what to say—”

“I mean, I haven't seen you since last Christmas. And I need some time, you know. I need to think about where I want to go from here. Figure out my life.”

“But I thought you liked working in marketing. I'm sure there must be more job opportunities there than here.”

“I thought I liked it too. Apparendy I was wrong—about everything.”

“Well…”

“So that settles it. Thanks, Mom,” I say brightly. “I'm so glad you called today. I'll start packing stuff up, and I'll be home by Sunday.”

“It'll be so good to see you, Cassie!”

“Yes!” I say happily. “I can't wait to see you too.” I hang up the phone, instandy unsure. Is this totally crazy? I've heard about people my age moving home and how it can backfire on them. Another expression my grandma would use comes to mind, one that I thought was pretty funny when I was little. “That's like jumping out of the frying pan into the fire,” she'd warn someone who seemed to be making a rash decision.

Well, I'm sure this is exactly the opposite of what she meant. If anything, it feels like I've been walking on hot coals these past couple of weeks. Maybe a frying pan would be a relief.

hats up?” asks Will as I use my foot to shove a packed cardboard box out into the hallway, where a small gathering is already waiting. Ive rented a U-Haul that's parked on the street, and already it's starting to fill up.

“I'm leaving,” I tell him.

He frowns. “And I was just starting to like you.”

“Sorry.” I set a smaller box on top of the others.

“I was thinking about what you said to me the other night,” he continues. “And I think you're right. I guess I need to take some control over my life. I'm just not sure where to begin.”

“Well, I happen to have an idea,” I tell him. “It came to me while I was packing. I'm not sure if it'll work or not, but I'm willing to try.”

He looks puzzled. “Huh?”

“You see, I have the rest of this month paid up, and I know there's no such thing as a refund. How about I ask Mr. Snyder if I can let you finish it out for me?”

“You'd do that?”

“I'll try.”

“And then if I can get a job, maybe I can stay here.”

“That's what I was hoping,” I tell him. “But its up to Snyder. Its not like people are lining up to rent these apartments.” I point down the hall. “Mrs. Emery moved out last summer, and her place is still vacant.”

“Well, tell Snyder that I'll have Monica's apartment cleaned out and spodess by tomorrow, okay?” He nods back toward the door. “I was feeling so energized that I started on it yesterday, and I've made great strides. I was also hoping that maybe he'd let me have the cleaning deposit back.”

“Or maybe he'd let you apply it to my apartment?”

“Yeah, sure. I was heading out for a newspaper right now. I want to go over the classifieds. I was even considering doing some cold calls.”

“You mean just walk up to some cool restaurant and tell them you want a job?”

“I've heard that works sometimes, especially if they're short-handed.”

“And maybe if you cut your hair,” I point out.

“I've got scissors,” he says. “You any good at that sort of thing?”

“I can give it a shot,” I tell him. “Hey, let's do dinner again tonight. I'll call for takeout, and we can—”

“No,” he tells me, “I'll fix dinner tonight. I'm going to turn in my beer botdes for refunds, and whatever I get from that I'll use for groceries, and then I'll cook.”

“You sure?”

“Yep. I could use the practice.”

So we both keep at it, cleaning and packing up our apartments, and I experience this very bizarre sense of camaraderie with Will. Oddly enough, we have much in common. And as strange as it seems, I think discovering that is part of the answer to my prayer. I mean, when I realized I'd lose those weeks of rent, I almost called my mom back and told her that I'd just stick it out here and see if I could find a job. Maybe even at Starbucks. But then I thought of poor Will and how he would be homeless and how this could be his big chance to get on his feet. I would help someone else—and maybe as a result God would help me. Okay, it smacks just slightly of legalism, but it got me off my hind end and packing boxes. That's something.

I finally track down Mr. Snyder at the trash cans out back. I explain my situation and how I'd like to share the remainder of my month with Will.

“Well, we don't normally do—”

“Will is getting Monica's apartment totally cleaned,” I point out. “And that's not even his responsibility.”

Snyder seems to accept this. “Tell you what, if that's true and his place looks okay, I might agree. But if anything goes wrong at your apartment, it'll come out of your deposit.”

“You mean I won't get my deposit back?”

“Not until the end of the month, and only if Will has rent money. Then I'll write up a new agreement for him.”

I'm not sure I like the sound of this, but right then Will comes
around the corner holding up two bags of groceries. “I got dinner,” he says with a bright smile.

“I just talked to Mr. Snyder about my place,” I tell Will. Then I explain the details to him, and we all shake hands on it.

Of course, I'm having serious doubts as I go up the stairs with Will trekking along behind me, happily talking about how he thinks he might have a lead on a cook's job. I nod as if I'm listening, but I'm really thinking,
How crazy is this? Will's girlfriend (okay, ex) takes me for nearly five grand, and now I think I can trust him with my apartment? This is nuts.
I pause by his door and am almost ready to tell him to forget the whole thing when he invites me to come in and inspect his cleaning.

“See,” he says proudly, showing me his handiwork.

“Wow,” I say as I examine the clean countertops, shining sink, and spodess floor. “If the cooking thing doesn't work out for you, you might try getting on with Merry Maids.”

“My mom was a cleaning freak,” he admits. “I guess it always bugged me that Monica never seemed to care about housekeeping. Sometimes I'd clean things up, but by the end of the day, it'd be a mess again.”

“It sounds like Monica really took advantage of you,” I point out. “What'd you get out of it anyway?”

He looks slightly embarrassed.

I roll my eyes. “Oh yeah, duh.” Of course. Monica was a babe. Wrist candy. Gorgeous. “I'm sure you guys had some good times together.”

“Yeah, but the good times were getting to be less and less.”

“Hey, I'm impressed with your cleaning, Will. And if you can cook too, well, I might ask you to marry me.”

He laughs, and we go our separate ways. What a totally lame thing to say! Seriously, how pathetic can I get? Flirting with a loser dude like this—Monica's castoff even. Oh, just shoot me!

I have most of my things packed by the time Will asks if it would be okay to cook dinner in my apartment. “So I don't make any more messes to clean up,” he adds.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “I hadn't thought of that. But I've already packed all my pans and stuff.”

“No problem. Mine are easy to get to.”

“I guess you might as well put them in my cupboards,” I say, thinking again about how strange this is. “But I haven't cleaned anything yet.”

“You don't have to clean,” he says. “I'll take care of it.”

“Oh.”

“Need help with that?” he asks as I bend down to pick up a big box.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

“You want it in the van?”

“Sure, thanks,” I say.

“Then I can help you move the big stuff out in the morning,” he says, nodding toward my futon.

“That'd be great.”

As Will starts bringing in his boxes, setting up the kitchen, and
fixing dinner, I take a quick shower and put on a decent outfit. I take time to put on some lip gloss and mascara, even blow-dry my hair. I know it's silly, but I actually want to.

When I emerge from the bathroom, I can smell garlic and something else, maybe herbs. “Wow,” I tell him as I check out his heavy-gauge cookware, “this looks like a real kitchen now.”

He holds up a wire whisk as if it's a trophy. “That's because a professional chef should have professional tools.”

He pours me a glass of wine, explaining that it's Pinot Gris and perfect with the halibut fillets he'll encrust in hazelnuts, then bake on paper.

“Sounds fancy,” I tell him. Expensive too. “You must've had a lot of beer bottles to return.”

“Thanks to Monica,” he says. “Actually, I'm more of a wine guy.”

So much I didn't know, never would've guessed. Oh well.

We've been leaving the doors open between our apartments all day, taking things in or out, and now a lot of Will's things are already making themselves comfortable in here. He even brought some candles, which he arranged on a small card table that's set with his dishes, which are way cooler than the ones I have.

“I'm impressed,” I say. I sit at the breakfast bar, leaning on my elbows as I lazily watch him work.

“What's going on here?” asks a deep voice.

I nearly drop my glass of wine as I turn to see Eric standing in my open doorway. At first I feel guilty, like I've been caught doing something I shouldn't, and then I just want to laugh.

“What are
you
doing here?” I ask without even getting off the stool.

“I came over to talk to you, Cassie.” He's looking around my apartment now, obviously taking this whole scene in and obviously not pleased by it. “I tried your phone, but it didn't seem to be connected.”

“That's because it isn't.” I nod to where the phone used to be plugged into the wall. “Anyway, what could
we
possibly have to talk about, Eric?” I don't even sound like myself as I say this. I sound light and disconnected, kind of like my phone at the moment. Maybe it's the wine. Or maybe it's just me. But I am no longer intimidated by this smooth blond guy wearing neatly pressed khakis and a navy sweater along with some very expensive shoes.

“Who are you?” Eric asks Will.

“This is my neighbor, Will,” I say, finally getting off the stool and approaching Eric, who is standing like a rock in my doorway.

“You mean Monica's Will?” Eric's upper lip curls into what looks like a snooty little sneer. He's heard me talk about Monica and her down-and-out boyfriend. He knows how I tried to help Monica, how I prayed for her, hoping I might get her to come to church with me someday or at least dump her good-for-nothing boyfriend. Guess everyone is wrong sometimes.

Will wipes his hand on his apron, then sticks it out. “Actually, I'm not Monica's anything,” he says. “Will Sorensen. You must be Eric. I think I've seen you around.” Is it just my imagination, or is
Will standing a little straighter now? “I'm cooking dinner for Cassie.”

“And he's an excellent chef,” I say as if I've eaten his food on a regular basis.

Eric frowns. “Cassie, I need to speak to you in private.”

I glance around the tiny studio apartment. “I guess we could go out—”

“Use my place,” offers Will. “There are still some chairs in there.”

So we go into Will's fairly stripped-down apartment and sit down. Eric takes the big recliner, and I sit on the edge of an ottoman that looks like a castoff from someone's grandma's house.

“Can you make it quick?” I say to him. “I don't want Will's dinner to get cold.”

Eric just shakes his head. “I can't believe I was worried about you, Cassie. Seems like you have no problem whatsoever picking up with the first guy who happens along.”

“Like it's any of your business.”

“It's not?” Now he looks slighdy hurt, and this makes me glad. “I still care about you, Cassie. I don't want you to throw everything away just because we broke up. I mean you haven't been to church or the singles’ group or anything lately. I've been worried about you—about your faith.”