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“You want to consult a lawyer before you’ll drive me back to the city?”
“I didn’t realize a promissory note was something that required a lawyer. I just meant that I need it in writing that you’re going to pay me.”
“I can do that,” I said, willing to agree to anything if it meant she would drive me back to Manhattan. “Do you have a pen and a piece of paper?”
She dug around in her bag and pulled out a pen. “Just a minute,” she said. She bent down, feeling around under her car seat. “Okay,” she said, sitting up. “Use this.”
She handed me the pen. And a sanitary napkin.
“Use it for what?” I said.
“I can’t find a piece of paper.”
For the first and last time in my life, I unwrapped a sanitary napkin from its pink wrapper. And for the first and last time in anyone’s life, I wrote a legally binding contract on one.
I, Ian Dundunfordsomer, being of sound mind and body, hereby promise to pay Clara Zapata a sum total of one thousand dollars for services rendered upon this fourth day of May, the year of our Lord two-thou—”
“Very funny,” she said, grabbing the napkin out of my hand before I had a chance to finish.
“Did you need to have that notarized?” I asked.
“You have your fingerprints and handwriting all over a Kotex,” she said as she folded up the world’s most sanitary promissory note and inserted it into her purse. “I’m pretty sure paying me will be easier than living down the notoriety you’ll achieve if I post this on Insta to get even with you for reneging on your pledge.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It most certainly is.”
Without another word, she turned the key in the ignition, put the car into drive, and headed up my long driveway and back toward the city.
CHAPTER 7
Clara
Watching this asshole write out a financial promise on a super absorbent maxi pad with wings was the most fun I’d had all day. When this was all over, I planned to pull the sticky strip off the napkin and hang it on my wall like a painting. While it would unfortunately be the finest piece of artwork in my crappy apartment, on the plus side, it would make an excellent conversation piece for years to come.
At the same time, I felt a little bit guilty. There was such a thing as taking a joke too far, and Ian hadn’t spoken a word since we’d left his house. After almost an hour of complete silence, I felt compelled to make peace. Or at least break the ice just a little.
“You can use my phone if you want to listen to some music,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said. “Maybe I will.”
“Passcode is 544445.”
He took my phone from the console and scrolled through my playlist. It was probably a full five minutes before he spoke again. “You have really good taste in music.”
If I wasn’t mistaken, Ian was suggesting we had something in common. It felt weird.
“What kind of music do you usually listen to?” I asked. Part of me hoped he’d say something likeJustin Bieber, the early yearsto cancel out the awkward positivity floating around the car. I wanted to make peace with him, not friends with him. The mere suggestion that we had something in common was freaking me out.
“I’m a big Ben Harper fan,” he answered.
Shit. “Me too,” I reluctantly admitted.
“Obviously. You have all his albums on here. Which is your favorite?”
“Welcome to the Cruel World.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Mine too.”
