Page 13 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter nine

I should’ve known it was bad news when Joe offered to treat us to pierogies in East Village.

Because eight pierogies, two cheese blintzes and countless potato pancakes in, he leans across the tacky vinyl tablecloth and clears his throat. “So, I spoke to my law school buddy. The one that specializes in New York real estate law.”

“And?” LuAnne swallows her bite of pierogi. “What’d he say?”

I don’t need a degree from Fordham Law School to realize the solemn expression on his face (and the fact that he didn’t argue once when I ordered a side of sour cream with a three-dollar up charge) can’t be good news. Even chock-full of cheese and dough, my stomach sinks.

Joe launches into a three-minute explanation that I probably do need a four-year law degree to properly understand, but I get the gist well enough.

“In other words, we’re fucked,” I conclude.

“Professionally, I wouldn’t put it that way,” Joe says. “But personally…”

“I still just can’t believe this is happening,” LuAnne shakes her head. “Or that it’s even legal. ”

A hundred rental protection laws in New York City, and somehow, not a single one currently applies to us.

“You could challenge the legality of what’s happening in court,” Joe offers, but there’s little optimism in his voice. “But the legal fees alone… ” He leans back in his chair, the obvious implied.

I’m the living embodiment of the “starving artist” stereotype till further notice, and LuAnne’s drowning in a quarter-million dollars' worth of student loans. Neither of us has thousands of dollars to funnel into a months-long legal battle.

I sigh. “So, we’ve got two months to find a new place.”

I’ll add that to the growing list of reasons my life is in shambles.

If this were Mobile or Connecticut or just about anywhere else in the country, that’d be a doable time frame—but New York City’s got one of the most competitive rental markets in the world.

It’s saturated with listings we’d need to make, well, billions to afford—and the ones we can afford either get scooped up within a few hours or lost to bidding wars that’ll drive up the price.

We were lucky to find this place a few years ago when the market was better, so the chances we’ll find another affordably priced two-bedroom in Manhattan within sixty—no, fifty-seven days?

I might have better chances with the lottery.

“Maybe we should explore our options,” LuAnne suggests.

I nod. “That’s a good idea. I know the commute isn’t ideal, but we might find something relatively affordable in Bushwick or Flatbush— and you’ll be closer to Joe.” I gesture to him like he’s another building amenity on the list.

She smiles, but it’s the sort of close-lipped grimace she gives the server when her order arrives wrong. “Well, actually…” She reaches over to take Joe’s hand in hers. “I was thinking a lot closer than that.” Her eyes lock with his. “Joe asked me to move in with him.”

I blink.

Oh.

Oh.

“Oh?” I barely have time to disguise my crushing disappointment as surprise.

“Don’t act shocked,” she rolls her eyes. Her smile is so radiant it’s nearly blinding. “He told me he talked to you, and you encouraged him to ask.”

…right.

I did that.

“It was the push I needed,” he says, beaming just as wide. With all that’s happened in the past couple of weeks, the foggy memory of Joe mentioning his plans at the bar feels like it happened in another lifetime.

Still, they’re both giving me expectant looks, so I have no choice but to contort my mouth into a shape that vaguely resembles a smile. “Wow,” I choke out. “That is… so exciting.”

Clearly, LuAnne’s bullshit meter doesn’t work when she’s deliriously happy. “I know!”

“I’m so happy for you,” I lie, my body torn between shock, the guilt of not feeling happy for her, and the anxiety-spiked realization that…

“The timing,” LuAnne sighs. “I know it’s not great, but you’re about to hit your big break with this art show anyway, right? You’re not going to want a roommate once you’re this famous artist, all flush with cash.” She’s teasing, but I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with the thought.

A roommate? No.

You? Always.

“And I’ll still be around to help with the apartment hunt. Whatever you need,” she continues. “One of my techs just moved to a one-bedroom in Crown Heights, and her rent is only two-grand.”

I’d need to cut that number in half to afford it, I think, but I don’t have the heart to dampen LuAnne’s enthusiasm with my impending financial doom—not when Joe turns and softly kisses her forehead.

A dopey, lovesick smile crosses her face, and it’s not edged with the typical insecurities that plague her relationships: feeling unimportant, fearing that she likes him more than he likes her, fighting over phone passcodes and Jessicas and Sarahs.

For the first time, LuAnne is in a secure, serious relationship, and she deserves isolated, pre-marital bliss.

So, when she reaches across the table to hug me, babbling about finding furniture on Facebook Marketplace to liven up Joe’s one-bedroom, I pretend like I don’t hate her for leaving me.

“I’m going to grab the check,” Joe says, leaving us to our moment.

LuAnne pulls back. “You’re really okay with this, right?”

No, I’m not okay.

It feels like you’re stuffing me into the same box as your class ring and old Taylor Swift CDs.

Not to mention the financial ramifications of figuring out how the hell I’m going to afford to live in this city on my own.

I swallow the impulse. “More than okay.”

She nods, looking relieved, and I pretend like I’m not spiraling.

Fifty-seven days.

My phone buzzes on the table, a new text message lighting the screen.

8 on Saturday works great for me! See you then :)

LuAnne’s eyes widen. “Who is that ?”

“His name is Tom,” I answer casually. “We met at a coffee shop a couple weeks ago, and he asked for my number. We’ve done a little texting here and there, but I finally got around to asking if he’s free.”

“A couple weeks ago?” She raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me anything about Tom.”

I shrug. “Well, I wasn’t sure if anything was going to come of it, but…”

“But?” She prompts. “What changed your mind?”

I fidget with the straw wrapper on the table. “Oh, nothing specific...”

And by that, I mean, my sociopathic ex-boyfriend told me I was delusional and suggested I needed therapy to get over him.

And then grabbed me around the throat and incited a bunch of weird sexual tension between us.

Even now, days later, the bitter aftertaste of the moment still lingers.

We might’ve shared a twisted connection as teenagers, but clearly, Adrian thinks about me as often as I think about Enid, Montana, which is to say: never.

And, humiliating as it is, I’ve gotten enough weird closure from the moment to stop wallowing in self-pity.

Plus, it’s helping me get past my art block.

I don’t want to give Adrian credit for curing my art block, but following our interaction at the hospital, I’ve had no problems picking up a paintbrush.

If my current pace continues, I may even have the rest of the collection ready for Ocean by next week.

It’ll be one less way my life is crumbling right now.

And—I stare down at Tom’s message—hopefully, in other ways too.

What’s that saying?

‘The best way to move on is to get under someone else’?

With two little words, I seal our fates.

Sounds good :)