Rare Blend (Red Mountain #1)

2. Marisa

CHAPTER 2

Marisa

PARA ESPA?OL, OPRIMA EL DOS

“ I ’m going to kill him,” my best friend Hillary says while folding a onesie on her cute, little belly, using it like a tabletop. “I’m serious. He should be very afraid of me.”

It’s hard not to laugh at her when she gets riled up like this, even if it is to come to my defense. When she came home from work and saw that I was home already, she instantly went into detective mode, asking me a million questions. I quickly filled her in, and she’s been in a state of rage ever since.

Hillary is standing in the middle of the living room, surrounded by heaps of baby clothes—it’s as if OshKosh B’Gosh threw up everywhere. Ever since she found out she’s having a girl, she’s been obsessed with buying everything in pink.

“Calm down. We don’t want to induce early labor because your blood pressure spiked.”

She takes a squatting stance and then eases her way down to sit on the couch. Hillary, whose petite frame is struggling to carry the weight of a growing baby, often looks like she’s about to tip over.

“How are you not more upset? I’m shaking.” She shoves her arm in my face to show me.

I internally roll my eyes. “When was the last time you ate? You’re probably shaking because you’re hungry.”

“Archie is bringing home takeout. And stop trying to change the subject. You need to get a lawyer. There’s no way what he did is legal.”

I curl myself into one of the several throw blankets adorning the couch. “Legal or not, I’m still out of a job.”

“Well, you’ve been applying all over the place. Any hits?”

Ever since Brandon and I broke up, I’ve been on the hunt for a new job. Obviously, I didn’t want to keep working there, but it’s not like I had the luxury to quit. Unlike some people, I don’t have a trust fund to fall back on.

“I’ve applied everywhere that’s hiring technical writers and haven’t gotten one call. It’s a lost cause.”

She gives me one of her new motherly stares. “Don’t give up. Something will come along. And you know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to. We love having you.”

I highly doubt the newlyweds with a honeymoon baby arriving in less than five months want me crashing in the nursery forever. The daybed in there is supposed to be for Archie’s mom, who’s planning to fly in from London after the baby is born.

“We’ll make it work with Joanna,” she says, reading my train of thought. “I could probably convince Archie to move his workout equipment to the garage and we can make that room yours.”

I know she’s trying to be positive and helpful, but staying here—no matter how temporary—makes me feel guilty enough. Nothing I can say will change her wanting to fix my current disaster of a life, so there’s no use arguing with her. She’s stubborn like that. I need to figure things out, and I need to do it soon.

Hillary has been my rock throughout this whole ordeal. In some ways, despite being a few months younger than me, she’s been the mother figure I’ve needed as of late.My own mom has been busy living her best life. And I’m happy for her, if not slightly—and only slightly— resentful. You go through your childhood and teen years assuming you’ll grow up one day and not need your parents anymore, only to find you need them even more as an adult. I can’t fault her. She had me young, and I’m sure her current adventure is a way of reclaiming some of that lost youth. I can support it and still be annoyed by it. At least that’s what I tell myself so I don’t feel completely selfish.

The front door opens, and Archie bursts through with his arms wrapped around two large, brown paper bags overflowing with styrofoam containers. I scramble off the couch and grab one of the bags before it slips out of his hold.

“Thanks,” he groans while we set both bags down on the kitchen counter.

“Oooo, what did you get?” Hillary is already tearing into the bags like a wild animal.

Archie and I share an amused look.

“Thai food from that place you like on Roy,” he says.

“Have I told you how much I love you? Because I freaking love you,” Hillary says between bites.

He laughs, shaking his head. “Thank you, love. I’m quite fond of you as well.” He kisses her forehead and removes his suit jacket, tossing it onto one of the accent chairs Hillary doesn’t allow anyone to sit on.

“You’re home early,” he says to me.

“She got fired,” Hillary says, around a mouthful of spring roll. “By dick face.”

“Laid off,” I mumble. As if that’s somehow better.

“You’re joking.” His voice rises to a squeaky pitch, making him sound even more British. “What an idiot. He’s asking for a lawsuit.”

Hillary pinches her chopsticks, pointing them at Archie. “That’s what I said.”

“I never did like him,” Archie claims.

I call total bullshit. Brandon and Archie had standing pickle ball dates twice a month, all of last spring and summer. Archie introduced Brandon to the world of football—aka soccer, and Brandon would often invite Archie out to Mariner’s games after work. They were buddies, but Archie is Hillary’s, and by default mine, so their friendship came to a close when our relationship imploded. It’s nice of him to pretend, though.

It’s one of those things that feels like a punch to the gut if I dwell on it too much. Brandon and I were two halves of a whole. Our lives were so intertwined that his friends became my friends, and vice versa. Brandon’s side of our friend group has been crickets since the breakup. Not even a polite I’m here for you, text. Nada. And to think, I considered Ashleigh and Kiera, the wives of his two best friends, actual friends. They were on the bridesmaid list, which is kind of a big deal. Clearly, I won’t be having any bridesmaids any time soon, seeing as the guy I thought was going to propose to me had other plans, like fucking his secretary. Decades from now, I’ll still be bitter that Brandon turned our entire relationship into the biggest cliché ever.

I busy myself by making a plate even though my appetite is nonexistent and give Hillary a look that says I no longer want to talk about it. One perk of being best friends for most of our lives is that we can speak without saying anything. She gives me a nod before returning to her food.

Forcing myself to eat, I listen to the happy couple chat about their days. He subconsciously rubs her stomach while she reminds him of the CPR class they’re scheduled to take later in the week. It’s all so easy, so natural. The envy seeps in, rotting my already wounded heart. It sucks feeling like this, like Hillary has surpassed me in some way. Logically, I understand it’s not a competition. But the jaded, broken part of me feels like I’m entering a race and everyone is already at the finish line. What if Brandon was it and there is no next guy? What if no one else ever comes along and I’m the perpetual single friend? I’ll be alone at weddings, pity invited to couples’ trips, and slowly faded out because I’m depressing to be around. I think women have more than proven their ability to lead full lives without a man at their side, but society doesn’t really care about that. Our world was designed for couples, and now I’m like a square peg trying to fit inside a round hole. I don’t know where I fit anymore, and it’s terrifying.

Suddenly, the last thing I feel like doing is being around all the love wafting off them. It’s like putting salt on scabbed over cuts in various states of healing, that reopen at the most inconvenient times.

I quickly clean up after myself and silently make my way upstairs. I think I’ve made a clean exit, but Hillary’s voice calls to me from downstairs.

“You’re only allowed to sulk today and then tomorrow, it’s back to being a badass bitch.”

“Okay,” I shout back, trying to sound positive and not at all defeated, like I feel.

Once I’m inside the nursery with the door closed and locked, the weight of recent events crashes down on me. I don’t want to be angry anymore. It’s such a useless emotion that does nothing but drain me. Today took so much out of me, I’m not even sure there’s anything left. I’m just incredibly sad now. Sad that my life is in this messed-up state. Sad that nothing has gone according to plan. Sad that the future I so perfectly mapped out no longer exists. In the span of a month, a bulldozer plowed through my life, wrecking everything I thought was stable. My career, my hopes, my dreams, my plans—all gone. Moisture pools in my eyes, effectively breaking the dam.Tears slide down my cheeks like a flood. I’m so taken aback by their sudden onslaught that I pat my face to make sure I’m not imagining them, but sure enough, my palm is covered in wet, streaky mascara. Still crying, I crawl into bed and hug myself. I’ve never felt so broken in my entire life, but Hillary is right. Today I can sulk, tomorrow is a new day.

The morning light hits me like a freight train. There’s a headache sitting behind my eyes from crying myself to sleep, pulsing at an annoyingly rapid pace. I may as well be hungover with how achy every limb feels.

Sliding out of bed, my body snaps and pops, evidence of how tensely I slept, likely balled up in the fetal position. Glancing at the clock, I see it’s well past my normal wake up time. Not that it matters because nothing matters when you have nowhere to be and nothing to do. I flop back onto the bed with a groan, cocooning myself under the heavy down comforter. I’ll just stay in here all day. It’s much safer than stepping out of this room and facing my new reality.

At some point, I must’ve drifted back to sleep, because I wake up to my phone buzzing against the nightstand, practically shaking it. It’s a 1-800 number. Normally I wouldn’t answer, yet for whatever reason, my thumb hits the accept button.

“Hello?”

“Hello.” It’s some kind of automated message. Maybe the universe is gifting me a fake vacation.

“This is EDU Financial Services. Reminding Marisa Castilla that the first payment to the student loan ending in 6547 is due on October twenty-fifth. To speak to a financial representative, press one. Para espa?ol, oprima el dos. For more options, visit our website at www.edufinancialservices.com. Goodbye.”

My body jolts upright so fast I feel a little dizzy. Shit, shit, shit. With shaky fingers I log-in to my account, my heart beating erratically as the page loads. I have been deferring my student loans, and I was supposed to start finally paying them last year. In amoment of stupidity, I ended up consolidating them into one giant loan with a third party for future Marisa to worry about. Money was tight, and I wanted to buy myself another year of not having to pay. Which would all be fine and good if I wasn’t currently broke and jobless.

They say your life flashes before your eyes right before you die. Well, what happens when it feels like you’re dying? Because I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening when I see how much my payment will be. My eyes blink several times. That number can’t be right. How is it possible I owe $2,500? Not total, that’s the monthly payment amount. I don’t even want to look at the total, because it’s a hell of a lot more than I took out. Stupid interest. Aren’t there laws on this now? I could’ve sworn this was all over the news.

That payment would be hard to make even if I still had my job, now it seems impossible. An overwhelming sensation knots my stomach, gripping so tightly I can’t think straight. My first instinct is to call my mom. She’s nothing if not a problem solver. As the first on my favorites list, I select her name and wait for the call to connect, but nothing happens; no ringing, nothing. She must not have any service. It’s sometimes difficult to get in touch with her when she’s out at sea. The cruise lines always have Wi-Fi, but she’s not the most tech savvy.

“Fuck!” I scream. There’s no one home, so at least I can have my meltdown in peace.

I go to the next name on my list, Hillary. It used to be Brandon, but he got deleted and Hillary got promoted.

She answers on the second ring. “You just woke up, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but that’s not why I’m calling.”

She must note the panic in my voice, because I hear rustling and the sound of a door closing. “What’s going on?”

I relay the disaster that is my student loans.

“Shit,” she says. “That’s a house payment. Well, not here, but somewhere, that’s a house payment.”

“What am I going to do? I have enough for the first payment, but that was money I was saving for a down payment on an apartment, and now I can’t even do that because I don’t have a job.”

“Don’t panic. You’re a month away from the due date. You didn’t tell your mom, did you?”

“Well no, not yet. Only because I couldn’t get through. Why? Do you think I shouldn’t tell her?”

She used to think my mom was one of the cool moms, but her opinion has changed as we’ve gotten older. I don’t really know when things started to shift, but it’s become a point of contention between us.

Hillary lets out a long breath. “It’s just that she can be really judgy and ends up making you feel worse than you already do. Maybe don’t tell her, or at least wait until you’ve come up with a solution.”

“She’s my mom, Hill.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “You know, you could?—”

“No!” I cut her off. I know what she’s going to say. And I can’t.

“He would help you, you know he would.”

I don’t want to go down that road. “I should go. I’m going to try to apply for unemployment.”

She sighs. “Okay, but think about it. I’m serious.”

We say our goodbyes, and somehow I feel even more panicked after our phone call.

I spend the next hour trying to navigate the unemployment website. I’m convinced they make it difficult on purpose because they don’t want people to actually figure it out. When I have everything completed and filled out, I click submit and it loads and loads and loads. After several minutes pass, I get hit with a red error message: Insufficient Information .Great. That’s just great. I slam my laptop closed and head for the bathroom. I need a scalding hot shower, hot enough to match my frustration, or I’m going to lose my mind.

The guest bathroom may not be the luxurious spa-like one I left behind at Brandon’s, but it’s been recently remodeled with high-end finishes and a rain shower head that beats down on me, alleviating some of my tension.

Mid-shampoo, Hillary’s words come back to me. He would help you, you know he would .

Long after I’ve finished scrubbing every inch of my body, to the point that my olive skin is now a raw, pink shade, I stand under the searing water and almost succeed in temporarily melting away the little voice telling me to give up and call him.

The voice festers in my head as I towel dry my hair and lather my body in a thick layer of lotion. Why did she have to bring him up? Now it’s all my mind seems to want to think about.

By midday, my resolve is hanging by a thread. I’ve had ample time to envision every possible outcome, and none of them seem promising. I have no place to live, I don’t have a job, unemployment is screwing me, my car payment is due next week, and then there’s that lovely student loan lying in wait for me in the shadows. And the cherry on top, my mom is MIA in a time when I desperately need her.

It seems I may be out of options. Except for one.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach for my phone. With trembling hands, I dial the number from memory. My breath hitches in my throat and doesn’t release until the line picks up.

“Hello?” he sounds hesitant, as if he isn’t sure I meant to call him.

“Hi, Dad.”