Chapter Twenty-Four
Lila
“Good? That’s all you’re going to give me? Really? I thought we were sisters slash best friends,” Maren complains as she sashays up the walkway to the apartment we’re looking at.
We’re in a pretty run-down area of town, and the apartment building is no exception. The red paint is peeling in huge chunks on the front, and the “shutters” on the windows out front are crooked and ready to make their downward descent to the ground.
But when I look at the building I called last week after finding it in a newspaper ad, I see one thing: Freedom.
Freedom from Mom that is, who won’t get off my back about Oliver, my hair, student loans, my job, and my eating habits.
“Maren, we’ve only been… dating, I guess you could call it, for a little over a month.”
“Yes, when two people go out a few times a week making googly eyes at each other, we call that dating.”
“Not to mention their hot lunch dates at work every day and their flirtatious smiles over rabies vaccines,” Zoey chimes in from behind me.
“Honestly, I don’t know why I go anywhere with both of you.”
“Because you love us. And you need our opinions on your life to make sure you’re making good decisions,” Zoey says, squeezing me.
“Well, what are your opinions of Willow Estates so far?” I ask, appraising the building in front of us.
“I don’t think I’d use the word estates, is what I think,” Zoey says as we eye the building in all its glory. We can hear two angry voices yelling from up above, and one of the third story windows has a beach towel billowing in the breeze—out the window.
Not quite my dream home.
“I think even if there are dirt floors and no doors, it’s still got to be heaven compared to living with Mom. I honestly don’t know how you’ve survived this long.”
“With lots of tequila from Dad’s stash,” I say, meaning it. It’s been a long road.
Maren opens the door, the handle almost coming clean off. We scuttle toward the crudely hung “office” sign on the first door, which is written on lined paper and taped up with duct tape. This isn’t looking promising.
“Hi, I’m Lila Morrow. I called about looking at your open apartment?” I ask the elderly woman at the desk. She coughs dramatically for a solid ten seconds, eyes us all suspiciously, and then wordlessly walks out from behind the desk.
She trudges past us and down the hallway. We stand, staring at each other in the hallway.
“Are you coming?” she asks.
“Right, yes,” I say, scurrying to the front of the group as she leads us down the hallway to 104A.
“Feels like a mildew-ridden hotel,” Maren whispers.
The lady coughs again as she opens up the door.
“Home sweet home,” she says. I would think she’s being sarcastic, but there isn’t an ounce of emotion in her voice.
I step inside the apartment—which does look like a mildewy hotel room from a bad horror film. The carpet is a terrible brown color, and it appears to be in every room. I walk down the entranceway to the living room, a bare box of a room with no character to speak of. There’s a tiny kitchen with the essentials—also carpeted, I might add—and a bathroom big enough for maybe just me.
Still, there is a balcony off the living room and there’s a large backyard for the entire complex—and it’s fenced in.
Plus, this place accepts dogs. Which isn’t surprising because it smells a little like a damp dog.
It is not the home of my dreams. But it’s a start. It fits my budget.
And there’s no grating voice of my mother here.
“What do you think?” Maren asks, her face clearly saying it’s not a good idea.
“It smells a little funky, but we could always get some air fresheners, you know?” Zoey says, being a good sport.
“It doesn’t quite look like a place that would get a Lila Morrow stamp of approval,” Maren says, then remembering the landlady is here, adds, “No offense.”
The landlady is biting her fingernails, not out of nervousness, but out of boredom. She doesn’t respond.
“It doesn’t. This is not a place I would have on my life plan in a million years.”
“Well, I guess you could deal with Mom another few weeks, right?” Maren says, strutting out.
“Which is why I’ll take it,” I declare, smiling, despite the ugly carpet and weird smell. “It’s going to be fine. And it’ll be a step in the right direction.”
“I’ll get the paperwork,” the lady says, unimpressed by my life decision.
“Lila, are you sure?” Zoey asks. Zoey currently lives with her brother in a super nice townhouse on the outskirts of town, so I’m sure this looks like a dump to her.
“Positive.” And I am. I need to get my life going in the right direction. I need to do something.
I sign the papers and agree to move in the first of next month, which will give me time to usher in the new year in my new home and my new life.
“Mom’s going to hate, hate, hate this place,” Maren says as we stroll out. “She’ll probably hate it so much, she won’t even visit you here.”
“Which means she’ll have to use her visiting time at your place,” I say, smiling.
“Oh, hell no. Newlyweds excuse, remember?”
Maren has been telling us all no company allowed because she and Will are still newlyweds and enjoying their time—wink, wink.
“You know, that excuse is going to wear off soon enough,” I argue.
“I will renew our vows every month if I have to in order to keep that excuse in play.”
“You two are so mean to your mom,” Zoey teases, getting in the back seat. Maren drives off.
I turn to eye Zoey. “Really?”
“No. Trust me, I’ve felt Lucy Morrow’s wrath. I think you deserve a medal for living there as long as you did. And Grandma Claire, too.”
“Grandma Claire is too drunk most of the time to care. Plus, I think she enjoys pissing Mom off.”
“Who doesn’t?” Maren asks. “Now, where are we going to celebrate?”
“Big Dippers!” Zoey and I scream like children, which is our favorite ice cream stand in town.
“Honestly, you two are both so juvenile. But ice cream sounds about right. So when are you breaking the news to Mom?”
“Next week, I think. Give her time to get her griping out and plus, I’ll have to start packing soon.”
“You’re going to tell her over Thanksgiving dinner?”
“It’s already chaotic, so why not?”
“Oh, dear. This will be quite the Thanksgiving then,” Maren says, looking over at me. It seems like she wants to tell me something, but then she must think better of it because she turns the radio up.
Something’s going on with her. I can sense it. But I don’t push her, singing along to the new song by Bruno Mars as we pull into the Big Dipper parking lot, all three of us anxious for the Big Dipper Sundae Special.
We eat our ice cream, chatting about home improvements I already need to make and taking bets on how many guilt trips Mom will play about me moving out.