These Boots Weren't Made for Walking (5 page)

But the more I think about this, the more I remember how well Jessica and Eric seemed to get along, how easily they talked and joked together. I can't help but think Jessica took advantage of me. What I assumed was a friendship was actually a cheap ruse for getting closer to Eric. Jessica used me to make a move on my man. Suddenly I see that “poor, lost lamb” as a cold, calculating, conniving boyfriend stealer. (Not unlike that despicable Bianca on the soap.)

I want to give Jessica a piece of my mind. Without really thinking this through, I grab the phone and call her, and there she is on the other end, and I am speechless. I want to hang up, but she obviously has caller ID, because she knows it's me.

“Come on, I know you're there, Cassie,” she says in a gentle
voice. “And I really want to talk to you. I've almost called you myself several times, but Eric said not to.”

That unleashes my tongue. “Eric said not to?” I mutter. “Why not?”

“He just felt like it woukkvt help anything.”

“It might help me,” I point out. “I mean, consider how I feel, Jessica. I trusted you. I actually thought we were friends, and it turns out you were just—”

“We were friends, Cassie. I hope we still are. And by the way, we missed you at the singles’ group and at—”

“Like I'm going to show my face around there,” I practically spit at her. “I'm sure I must be the big joke by now.”

“That's not fair,” she says. “Those are your friends, Cassie, your good Christian friends.”

“Yeah, right.” I don't point out that one of them, Belinda Myers, already called to express her sympathy. What she really wanted was all the dirty details. Come to think of it, that's what I want too.

“I feel so badly,” says Jessica. “And Eric does too. We never meant for it to happen. It just did.”

“Yeah,” I say with growing interest. “I guess I am kind of curious about that. Eric said pretty much the same thing, but honestly, Jessie, how does something like
that
just happen?”

“In all fairness, I blame myself,” she says. “You know that my background isn't as squeaky clean as some people's.” I'm sure she must mean me.

“And?”

“Well, things got carried away, Cassie. Its like we were only kissing, you know, and the next thing, well, you know.

“Right,” I say, thinking maybe I do know.

“Well, then we were done, and Eric told me that it was his first time.” She sort of laughs. “Of course, I was certain he was kidding, but then he said no, it really was his first time. Goodness, I had no idea he was a virgin, Cassie.”

Its all I can do not to hang up. Or throw up. I just stand there with my jaw hanging clear down to my ducky slippers.

“I'm sure he explained the whole thing to you already,” she continues. “But I just wanted you to know how sorry I am. If I had known, you know, ahead of time… well, I probably would ve been more careful. And now, of course, we
have to
get married.”

“Well, of course,” I snap at her.

“I mean, not as in
have to
, have to.” She kind of laughs again. “I mean, I'm certainly not pregnant.”

“Certainly not.” I clear my throat. “Well, its been great talking with you, Jessie. I feel
so much
better now.”

“Really?” She actually buys into this, and I think maybe Eric is getting just what he deserves.

“Give Eric my regards.” Then I hang up. But I am immediately stabbed with a pain that doubles me over. I grab myself around the middle. It feels like someone just jabbed me with a stomach punch, or maybe I'm developing an ulcer from all the crud I've been eating. But I physically ache inside. I try to process
all that Jessie just said. They had sex! Eric gave up his precious virginity for her. Maybe I'm an idiot, but I had no idea it had gone that far.
No ideal

I'm not sure how long I cry, but the more I cry, the worse I feel. I cannot believe this has happened. I can't believe Eric did that to me. I think I'd actually harbored the secret hope that Eric would wake up one day soon and realize that he was wrong, that he still loves me. Now I know that's not going to happen. No way!

I've never been a suicidal person. In fact, most consider me to be a perennial optimist. But I seriously wonder how difficult it would be just to check out right now. I ponder whether Eric would feel guilty. Of course, that would make me extremely happy. And it would be satisfying if Jessica felt partly to blame, assuming the girl has a conscience. On second thought, I think that Eric might simply note my premature departure as a close call for himself, like he somehow missed a bullet by not marrying me, the mentally unstable one.

Even so, and perhaps for drama's sake, I actually go to my medicine cabinet and examine the contents therein. Is it possible to kill yourself with an overdose of Correctol? Or would it just be terribly messy in the end? Then I hear a knocking at the door, and for a moment I actually think it might be Eric, coming to apologize, to tell me that it's all just a horrible misunderstanding, that Jessica made the whole thing up.

But when I open the door, I see my neighbor standing there. His pathetic expression reminds me of a mutt I found on the street
when I was little. I took the smelly dog home and gave it a bath, but when Mom found out, she made me take it to the pound the next day. I still remember the look on the dog's face when I had to leave him there.

“I'm sorry,” I tell Will as I wipe my nose on the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “I just had some more bad news, and I just, just…” Then I can't help it. I burst into tears again.

To my surprise, Will gendy puts his arms around me, pulls me toward him, and lets me cry on his shoulder. I'm even more surprised to see that he's cleaned up some. His shirt actually smells pretty good, and when I finally step away from him, apologizing again, I notice that he's even shaved.

“We can make it another night,” he says sheepishly as we both take another step back.

“No,” I insist. “I want Chinese—more than ever right now.” So I dig out the dog-eared menu for Ling's, and we both decide what we want, then I phone in the order. “It'll take about thirty minutes,” I say. “And I think I could probably use a shower.”

He nods. “Why don't you just knock on my door when it gets here?”

“Sure,” I tell him, still thinking about how surreal my life has become in such a short time.

So I take a shower and actually put on real clothes. Okay, nothing great. Just jeans, which feel tighter than ever today, and an old sweater. Even so, it's better than I've done since being laid off. I pull
my still-wet hair back in a ponytail, and then I even brush my teeth. But that's it. No makeup, no jewelry, no perfume. This is not a date. I'm not even sure what it is. A sympathy supper, perhaps.

Will arrives shortly after the Chinese food. “I saw the delivery van downstairs,” he admits, then hands me a bottle of red wine.

“What's this?” I ask stupidly.

“Thought we could use it,” he says.

I study the label, as though I should know what Shiraz is, and then mention that I don't have a corkscrew.

“Be right back,” he says, disappearing out the still-open door.

I decide to take the food out, arranging it haphazardly on the breakfast bar. I don't bother to get out real plates. No point in making this seem like something it's not.

Will returns with an opened botde and two wine glasses, which he fills, handing one to me. “Here's to better days,” he says as he holds up his glass.

“Yeah,” I say without enthusiasm.

“And to new beginnings,” he adds.

“Sure.” I stop myself from adding “whatever.”

Then we both sit there and quietly eat our Chinese food, and I have to admit that it tastes pretty good. By the time we're finished, I'm amazed that I was actually considering suicide about an hour ago. I'm not sure if it's the wine or the nutrition of real food, but our conversation begins to flow more freely, and Will tells me that he used to dream of running a restaurant.

“No way,” I say to him. “I never would ve guessed that.”

He nods. “I'm actually a good cook. I was in a culinary school when I met Monica, and, well, you know how that went.”

“So you never finished?”

He shakes his head. “But I know enough to get cooking jobs. And sometimes I do. But never at any really good restaurants. Just dives mosdy. I get sick of the grease and the hours and the bad management. And then I think, why bother? I mean, I'm so deep in debt, thanks to Monica, that I probably won't ever get ahead. I still have tuition bills, credit-card bills… What's the point of trying?”

I consider this. “You're the point,” I say.

“Huh?”

“You're worth it, Will.”

He kind of blinks at me, then nods. “Yeah, I am.”

“You need to get a good job at a good restaurant, and you need to stick with it,” I say with unexpected conviction. “You need to succeed for yourself. Just put the past and Monica behind you, and go for it. I mean, how old are you anyway?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“That's two years younger than I am,” I point out, “and I'm not ready to give up. I mean, sure, maybe life has given us lemons, Will, but we need to—”

“Make lemonade,” he finishes for me.

“That's right.”

We go on like this for a while, and I actually start to believe it
myself. I mean, why can't people have fresh starts? Why can't we reinvent ourselves? Isn't that what life should be all about? But by the time the wine is gone, reality begins to slip in.

“It all sounds good,” says Will. “But, man, I'm broke. I have to be outta the apartment by Monday. How can I get a job if I'm homeless?”

I just shake my head. “I don't know.”

He brightens. “Hey, maybe you need a roommate?”

“No way,” I tell him. “No offense. But that just wouldn't work for me.”

He nods. “Yeah, I figured.” Sorry.

“It's okay.” Then he thanks me for dinner and says he should go. I don't try to stop him. But I do feel sort of bad once he leaves. I mean, it's like I had him all hopeful and excited and for what?
For what?

His earlier despondency wraps itself around me as I go to bed. Really, why should we even try? What good does it do? Where does all your hard work and sincere eflFort land you? What's the point?

For the first time since my life started caving in, I cry out to God. I tell him how desperate I feel, how I want to give up. I beg him to do something—anything—to help me out here. I
can't do this on my own
, I admit. I
need your help! And
then I cry myself to sleep.

I wake up to the jangling sound of the phone ringing. I groggily make my way over to it, pick it up, and hear my mother's voice on the other end. She used to call me almost daily—right after Dad left her for Michelle about a year ago—but she's been pacing herself lately. Now it's more like once a week, if that. I realize this is the first time I've heard from her since my life fell apart. I'd considered calling but kept thinking I'd wait until things got better. She's had so much to deal with this year. I didn't want to add to her load.

“How's it going, Mom?” I ask, bracing myself for some of her usual sadness, feeling more empathetic than ever. I mean, I've been devastated over a three-year relationship. My mom and dad had been together more than ten times that long when he dumped her. Poor woman. No wonder she's been so depressed. I should've been there for her more. What was wrong with me?

“I'm doing okay,” she says in a surprisingly cheery voice, which I'm sure is for my benefit. “I even sold a house last week. I think life's turning a corner.”

“Well, I'm glad for you,” I say, although I don't quite believe her. She must be putting up a strong front. Maybe if I tell her more about what's going on with me, she'll loosen up some. “My life hasn't been going that great lately.”

“What's wrong?”

So I tell her a little about what I've gone through, sparing her some of the gorier details, but I do tell her about the credit-card fraud.

“Oh, dear,” she says. “That's not good.”

“I wondered if I should get a lawyer,” I say.

“I don't know, sweetie. An attorney's fees could be as much as what you owe.”

“If I wasn't so mad at Dad, I might consider calling him for some legal advice.”

“I heard that he's retiring his practice,” she says, her old sadness returning. “He and Michelle bought a condo in Arizona. I think he plans to golf every day.”

“Lucky him.”

“Well…”

“Sorry, Mom,” I say quickly. “I didn't mean to depress you.”

“So what are you going to do, Cassie? Any new job prospects?”

“I haven't really looked.”

“Do you have enough money to live for a while?”

I consider this. “Well, I got a severance package, but if I have to pay off that bogus credit-card account—”

“You are responsible for it, Cassie,” she warns me. “Now, if it were a Visa card, you might be able to get off. But this card's in your name, and unless you can find that girl and prove she did it, you'll be held accountable.”

“But what if I skip town and don't pay it?”

“Then they'll get a collection agency after you and ruin your credit score. Really, its better to take care of it before it comes back to bite you.”