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He leans back and smiles at me. The son-of-a-bitch has been baiting me and I bit!
“Aw, c’mon, Roge, just having a little fun with you.”
“You are a sleazy, disgusting little shit-stain, you know that?”
“Roge, buddy!”
Gerald stands up beside me. “Why don’t we step outside for a second?”
“No. Fuck it. The deal is off.” I hear myself saying, even though I can’t believe it myself.
Jared can’t, either, I guess. He makes an amused ‘O’ face. It’s a monumental force of fucking will that I don’t punch him.
“Roge, man, c’mon…” He leans over his desk like he’s about to share a deep, dark secret. “I know what kind of a hard-on you’ve got for 755.”
I lean over his desk, almost nose-to-nose. “You can take 755 and shove it up your goddamn ass.”
Then, for good measure, I palm his face and shove him back into his chair. Whipping around, I zip toward the door.
“Roger! Please!” Gerald shouts after me. “We can still work this out!”
My hand on the doorknob, I look back toward all the people in the room. I’m suddenly ashamed to be associated with any of them. It literally turns my stomach. “I wouldn’t buy that fucking property,” I tell them, “if that dipshit sold it to me for a dollar.”
And I’m gone.
I seethe the whole way home. I tear through the streets like a cannon ball. Pedestrians see me coming and can sense they better get out of my way. Fortunately, they do.
I’ve just blown up something important, just supremely sabotaged myself professionally. Jared’s not going to stop at denying me 755. He’ll do whatever he can to undermine any deal I make with anyone else going forward.
It’s possible I just ruined my entire business over a girl.
No. Not just over a ‘girl.’ OverNatalie.
When I think of it that way, it somehow doesn’t seem so bad.
Inside the lobby of my building, I scan for her. Just like I’ve done every time I’ve passed through here for the last three days. We’ve met by chance twice already. I’m hoping lightning strikes a third time, and she’ll be here. I even try to find excuses to linger, talking to the doorman, pretending to make an inspection of the floors and walls.
Finally, I grab my mail (maybe there’ll be some good news?) and ride the elevator to my penthouse. During the trip up, I calm down. My thoughts are still a jumble, but the urgency of my anger lessens. I flip through the mail.
One of the envelopes just has my name written in a loopy handwriting. I know without foreknowledge that it’s from Natalie. My heart skips a beat. For some reason, I hesitate to open it.
The elevatorpingsand I wander into my apartment. I let my jacket fall to the floor, tossing the rest of my mail aside; half of it lands on the sideboard, the other half on the floor. I ignore it.
I tear open the envelope. My eyes scan the page. The first part of it is typed, printed from a computer.
“Attn: Mr. Zane,
This note will serve as notice that I will be vacating my apartment as soon as possible. Thank you,
Natalie Ashcroft.”
Under that, handwritten, she put:
“I can’t afford to rent from you now that I don’t have a job.”
It feels like she’s slapped me a third time.
And, just like the first two, I deserve it.
