My Best Friend Used Me, Now She Pays novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Thirty Days

Kyla's father evicts Nina and Bea; Gil's roofing truck backs onto the lawn.

The notice was taped to our door at 7:40 on Monday morning.

It was a yellow sheet with a county seal, and the man holding the tape was still standing there.

He wore a fleece vest with the Draper Properties logo on the chest.

"Thirty days," he said, and held out a clipboard. "Sign that you got it."

Bea came out behind me in a towel and one sock.

She read the notice over my shoulder, and her whole neck went pink.

"Both leases? Mid-term?"

"Mr. Draper is rebalancing the portfolio," the man said.

"He's what?"

"He's selling the duplex."

"We pay seven hundred a month each," Bea said. "That's half what this place is worth, and he knows it, and he's been smug about it for two years."

"I don't set the terms, miss."

"Then who does?"

The man looked at his clipboard.

Across the lawn our neighbor stood on her porch with a coffee and a front-row view.

I signed.

I signed in full, with the date, and handed him back the pen.

"Have a nice day," I said.

He blinked at me, because tenants who are evicted are supposed to make this harder.

When he had gone, Bea shut the door and leaned against it.

"I'm going to kill the Drapers," she said. "All of them, in order. I'll start with the dog."

"You love their dog."

"It's a good dog. I'll be gentle."

I put the kettle on, because my hands needed a job.

I knew exactly what this was.

Last time, the notice had come on a Thursday, and I had gone to Kyla's door that same night with tears in my throat.

She had cried with me, and hugged me, and said, "Dad's manager is being silly, don't worry, I'll fix it."

By morning the notice had vanished and I had owed her for it, and I had never once said the word eviction in her presence again.

I had been twenty-three and so grateful I could barely breathe.

My phone rang at nine.

KYLA, with the picture I'd put there in freshman year, her tongue stuck out at a party.

I let it ring twice, then picked it up.

"Hey, Nini."

Her voice was soft and a little hoarse, like a girl who had cried in a hospital bed all night.

"Hey."

"I heard something awful. Bea's furious in the group chat. Is it true?"

"It's true."

"Oh, Nini." A small, heartbroken breath. "That's terrible. I'll talk to my dad. Why don't you come over tonight? We'll fix it together, like we always do. Bring your things for the week."

There was the hook, set so lightly I almost missed it.

Come over. Bring your things.

Move into the guest room across the hall from the girl I'd rehabbed for free.

"I can't tonight," I said.

"Tomorrow, then."

"No, I mean I'm good. I've got it handled."

The line went quiet.

"Handled how?"

"I'll call you when I know."

"Nina."

She had never used my whole name on the phone before, not once in ten years.

"It's your housing," she said slowly. "It's your whole summer. I'm trying to help you."

"I know you are," I said. "Rest your leg. Do the quad sets I wrote on your chart."

I hung up.

My thumb was shaking so hard I put the phone face down on the counter.

Bea was staring at me over her mug.

"You just hung up on Kyla Draper."

"I did."

"Twice in two days. Are you sick? Do I need to call someone?"

"I'm fine."

I was not fine. I was twenty-three years old with $1,900 in checking and a month before I had nowhere to sleep.

I went to my bag and took out the green ledger.

I had checked it six times since the bleachers.

New ink had appeared under yesterday's date, in my own square hand.

Apr 14. Said no. Cost: housing, thirty days.

Beside the line, in the margin, there was an empty box.

I stared at the box for a long time, with the kettle starting to scream behind me.

Then I closed the book and put it back.

Outside, something large was reversing over the curb.

I heard the beeper first, that flat whine, and then the unmistakable cough of a diesel I'd have known blindfolded.

Bea went to the window.

"Nina," she said. "There's a man in a roofing truck driving across our lawn."

I went to look.

The truck was white, the ladder rack was crooked, and the tailgate said FAULK & SON ROOFING in letters my father had painted himself.

There had never been a son.

Gil Faulk climbed out in work boots, with the limp his new hip had left him.

He looked at the Draper notice on our door, then at me in the window.

He cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Books first!" he shouted. "Then the furniture, then we eat!"

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