He’s judging me from the back seat—judging my relationships, my poor taste in men, my failure at managing his PR.
It suddenly hits me as I’m trying to navigate through the pouring Seattle rain through rush-hour traffic—I’m not getting my eighty thousand dollars back.
Which freaking sucks because I am definitely losing my job.
7
MCCARTHY
Jenna’s crying in the driver’s seat. Fortunately, we’re inching along in traffic. Otherwise she’d probably drive us off the road. Now she’s messing with her phone.
“Can you keep your eyes on the road?”
Jenna tenses when I snap.
I harden my heart.
I tried to be sympathetic. I really did. Uncharacteristically so. I even offered to hire her a driver.
She refused my help, so fuck her. Her life is as disorganized and over-the-top as she is. She can drown in her dysfunction. You know what it is? Jenna is just like my mother. A woman who could never leave my father no matter what abuse he dished out, how he mistreated her and her kids, or how much my brothers and I begged for her to save us and save herself.
Some women will let a man drag them down to a hell of their own making.
And that’s not my problem.
You can’t help them. The most humane thing is to just let them drown.
McCarthy:I need you to help me get my license back.
Salinger:Fuck you.
Salinger:Don’t ask me for a goddamn thing after the shit you pulled today.
Fuck my family, and fuck Jenna.
Jenna, who is sobbing hysterically in the front seat—big heaving sobs.
“Is it always like this with you?” I ask.
That just makes her cry harder.
“You’re going to wreck.”
“Sorry, it’s just—” Her breath hitches.
“Let me guess: You loved him, you gave him everything, but he rightfully assumed you weren’t worth the effort?”
“I don’t need you to tell me I’m stupid for giving Brock that much money.”
“Of courseyou gave him money.” I’m derisive. “How much money have you spent on this man? No, no, let me guess—your entire life’s savings plus a few maxed-out credit cards?”
“It was eighty thousand dollars.” She crumples over the steering wheel. “I thought I was helping him fulfill his dreams. He was so moody and withdrawn and said he wanted to be a filmmaker. I naively thought he was some sort of tortured artist who just needed a good woman tosupport him. I planned trips to popular places, bought him film equipment, and rented him an editing studio. I paid for us to move to L.A. so he could follow his dreams. Even then, I had to prod him to get him to actually work. All he wanted to do was sit inside and smoke. He took out a bunch of loans and credit cards in my name, and I started paying them because I didn’t want to ruin my credit.”
“Stupid thing to do.”
“Yeah, my bad for believing my fiancé when he said he loved me.” She wipes at her eyes, smearing her makeup. “After I left him, when I went to the police, they took down my statement but told me if I filed a formal report then it would be counted as fraud since I paid.”
“And she tells me I need to get my life together.”
