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Though I wish I could, I don’t disagree.CHAPTER TWELVEMADELEINEI made a crucial mistake—I forgot to ask Adam about holding up his end of the bargain. To be fair, there wasn’t really a good time for negotiations on Saturday. Between his mom planning our future family, us shouting at each other, and my car deciding to crap out, I somehow wasn’t able to broach the subject of real estate. I have to be careful, especially after how he reacted at the puppy training class. It’s a delicate matter, and one I need to handle with tact if I intend to actually convince him to let me sell him a house.
That’s not to say it wasn’t on my mind the entire day though. As we shouted at each other while plumes of steam billowed out of my car’s hood, all I wanted to ask was, Will you still let me sell you a house?
Pathetic, I know, but I’ve come to terms with where I’m at in life. A person can only pretend to take a fake phone call when they walk by their landlord so many times before their self-worth and decorum fly right out the window.
My Sunday passes in a vaguely miserable state. I scrounge through my pantry and refrigerator and come up with the ingredients for blueberry muffins for Mr. Hall. I owe him rent again soon, but the muffins will fill his belly until I can make that happen.
After I finish baking and deliver the goods, I tidy up my apartment and rearrange the furniture, convincing myself the space looks bigger and brighter with the sofa facing the window. Unfortunately, my new feng shui technique reveals a pile of dirt and dog hair lurking beneath the old sofa spot. It’s a metaphor for my life, no doubt, but I refuse to read into it. I sweep it up, toss out the trash, and then exercise Mouse.
Only when I’m back home in my clean apartment, sweaty from a healthy grown-up workout, do I allow myself to entertain the idea of calling Adam. If we were dating, I wouldn’t dare. After yesterday, we both need a cooling off period—but we aren’t dating, and I need him desperately. As such, I don’t get to play the role of the cool, aloof woman. I get to play myself: desperate, awkward Madeleine. It’s a slightly less glamorous role, but one I feel confident that I can nail.
Too bad he doesn’t answer.
Not the first call I make at 2:00 PM or the second call I reluctantly dial at 7:20 PM.
I leave a voicemail both times, aware of how tight and strange my sing-songy voice sounds.
“Hey Adam, it’s Madeleine. I was just calling to touch base with you concerning your end of the bargain. Also, do you do oil changes? Ha-ha-ha give me a call when you can. Bye.”
Then—because, as my mom has told me since I was five years old, I enjoy fixating on things—I spend every minute for the next five hours breaking down my first message and deciding it was too vague. I could have been talking about anything, and my stupid joke was distracting. So, in the second message, I clarify.
“Hey, it’s Madeleine calling again. Just in case you weren’t sure what I was talking about, I would still love to take you around Hamilton and show you some real estate. It’s a buyer’s market right now and there are quite a few properties that would be worth your time. We can take your car this time! Give me a call. Okay. Bye!”
There can be no confusion over why I’ve called or what my intentions are, and yet he doesn’t bother getting back to me, not Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. I even have Daisy call me from her office phone and her cell phone to confirm it’s not a problem on my end.
“Are you waiting on a call from a client or something?” she asks because she’s nosy and doesn’t seem to have enough patients at her clinic to take up her time. Sad.
“It’s nothing. Thanks for your help.”
She keeps rambling on before I can hang up, even as I tell her I’m about to be late for a company meeting.
“Hey, tomorrow night—do you want to hang out? It’ll be you, me, Lucas—”
“Oh, sorry, I’m busy.”
There’s no point in letting her finish. Do I want to be the third wheel on another one of my brother and Daisy’s dates? Yeah, that’s going to be a hard pass.
“Doing what?” she asks, not quite believing me.
Too bad for her, I’m not lying—for once.
“I signed up for another Hamilton Singles thing. It’s at the bowling alley.”
“Romantic.”
“Yeah, well, I always thought I’d meet my husband while dressed in clown shoes, so it looks like I’ll finally get my chance.”
Whatever Daisy’s response is, I can’t hear it because Lori leans into my cubicle on the way from the kitchen, a fresh cup of coffee in hand.
