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My finger wavers over my banking app. I bite my lip and hit it, accessing the joint business account. There’s an unpleasantly large negative number in there. My personal checking account isn’t looking that much healthier. I can’t face the idea of looking at my credit cards.
Instead, I log onto my emails to see if any of the clients I reached out to have replied. Most of them have ignored my announcement that, unfortunately, rollout is going to be pushed back for a few weeks. That’s probably a lie. I’m starting from scratch and I’m not much of a programmer. All my night-school courses have been on business and how to succeed as an entrepreneur. I’m the marketer, the designer, the brains.
My programmer has left me dead in the water.
I have a bunch of spam emails that I quickly swipe to delete, but then I see one message that gives me a swell of hope. It’s from a guy who owns a renowned dental clinic, a guy whose positive endorsement for us would go a long, long way. Finger shaking, I open the email.
Dear Anna,
Thank you for letting us know about the delay. Unfortunately, if there is no date set for rollout, I’m going to have to drop out of the beta testing program. I want to update our systems as soon as possible and I’ve already reached out to some other similar software providers.
I wish you all the best,
Dr Pahud
The blow feels as bad as getting kicked in the stomach and makes me curl up into a tight ball. I’m starting from less than scratch. I’m trying to make fire in the ocean and it’s cold and raining and I don’t have a lighter. I’ve got absolutely nothing left.
I’m too numb to start sobbing again and anyway I’ve cried so much over the last few days that my chest still hurts, so I throw my phone on the floor my phone and stare at the wall and try to ignore the way silent tears drip down my face into a damp patch on the sheets. This is so pathetic. But I have nowhere else to go.
A sharp rap on the door makes me shudder and squeak in surprise. I sit bolt upright on the bed, wiping my eyes and nose furiously. “What?” I yell.
Joel opens the door and sticks his head inside. “Hey,” he says and I’m grateful that he doesn’t comment on my red eyes or scowl. “What’s for dinner?”
I stare at him, mouth open in utter disbelief. “What do you mean, what’s for dinner?”
He hesitates and it’s like I can see a loading circle going around in his brain. Spoiled brat. I bet he’s never so much as looked at a chopping board let alone used one. His mommy and daddy probably never made him so much as pick up after himself. I might be pathetic, but at least I can look after myself. At least I’m not a massive man-child who gets off on public humiliation.
“Like, are you going to cook or…?”
It takes all my self-control not to throw a pillow at his head, or something heavier. He broke in and frightened me and now he’s expecting me to serve him? The nerve of this guy. “No,” I snap, getting up and storming to the door.
Joel opens the door a little wider and stands up straight, shoving his hands in his pockets. “So like… what are we going to do?” He’s so painfully innocent. If I weren’t in such a bad mood I’d almost find it cute. Almost.
“What makes you assume there’s anyweabout this?” I ask. “In what universe do you think I’m going to wait on you? What part ofnot your housekeeperdid you struggle with?”
“Well I… I kind of figured you’d be hungry too.” His grin is lopsided and awkward. When was the last time anyone said no to him?
“You figured wrong. Make your own dinner.”
“But… what am I going to do?”
The very smallest hint of guilt twinges inside me at being so mean to him, but he’s being super annoying and I just want to be left alone. Just because he’s standing there looking sad and pathetic doesn’t mean I have to feel bad for him. It’s not my fault he’s never had to do anything himself.
“Go away and figure it out for yourself,” I snap and slam the door in his face, then fling myself down onto the bed and let myself sob again.
CHAPTER9
JOEL
Anna must think I’m the worst. She’s acting like it. I never really called her a housekeeper — well, I did one time, but that was an honest mistake. It’s not like I wasexpectingher to cook. I just thought she probably would. Most normal people do. I wasn’t even going to demand anything. I just thought it would have been nice to hang out.
Anyway, can it really be so hard to cook? I can’t be defeated by a kitchen. If normal people can do it, so can I.
Head held high, I march over to the refrigerator and fling it open. I don’t know why I’m surprised to find it empty. I guess Anna can’t have been here long, or maybe she can’t cook either and she was just making me feel bad on purpose to cover for it. And I guess it makes sense that Ben wouldn’t have left anything. The idea of coming back to rotten stuff in your home sounds disgusting.
Abandoning the fridge, I start looking in the cupboards. Plates. Bowls. Dishes. Pans — they might come in useful. I pull out the biggest looking pot and drop it on the stove. It’s a patchy orange and the inside looks kind of stained and I can’t tell if that’s from having been cooked in or from like, real dirt. Ben’s a clean kind of guy though, so I’m choosing to believe it’s a cooking stain. That seems plausible to me.
I continue my search. Chips. Cookies. Protein bars — no wonder Ben’s so buff. I also noticed his workout stuff behind the sofa. Not everyone can be blessed with a great body like mine, so good for him for working at it. I can’t figure out what he eats, though. Maybe he just gets takeout all the time too?
