Rude Boss

Quintessa

Something is seriously wrong with the world – no I take that back – the United States – when a one-bedroom apartment costs more than a whole mortgage. Albeit the case, I need a place to stay, and I’m not at a place in my life where buying a home is practical. An apartment will have to do for now. I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long, I’m more than willing to fork over the $1,500 rent easily. At least water comes included. It’s in Panama City, a few miles down the street from Ella, so that’s a bonus. Ella found this place for me – said she thought it suited me well. There’s an outdoor pool, a small gym and a pond where I can sit and unwind for the day, but the way alligators are around here, I’d be better off staying inside.

On Wednesday after work, me and Ella pulled up at Watercrest Apartments, took the tour and I fell in love with the place. They had several units available but only one on the third floor, which I snatched up. As a single woman, I think the third floor provides a level of extra security I need to feel safe. The only downside to that is, when I go shopping, I’d have two sets of stairs to traverse with my hands full of bags. I can feel my fingers going numb now just thinking about it.

Today, Saturday, I’m moving in! By moving in, I mean mostly moving my person. The only furniture I have is my bed and I don’t have a lot of clothes. The clothes I do have are enough to fit one thirteen-gallon trash bag. All my other stuff – bed covers, bath towels and the like are in a few boxes. I’m starting from zero.

Ella tried to offer me some of her stuff, but what would I look like taking her furniture? She’s already fed and clothed me for months on end. I can’t take her furniture too.

My parents come over with snacks – Cheetos and diet Cokes. Mom makes it a point to tell me she’s too old to be moving boxes. My father hugs me, congratulating me on this step and telling me how he knew it would only be a matter of time before I got back on my feet. If only he knew what I had to endure to get to this point. We all have to endure something, right? As surely as we’re living, we will, so I should be proud of the struggle because it makes me appreciate what I have even more.

“What can your daddy do to help you out, dear?”

“Oh, Dad, can you set up my bed?”

“I sure can,” he says, walking the short distance down the hallway to the bedroom. My apartment is compact – much smaller than Ella’s. The kitchen and living rooms flow together. There is a space for a small dinette, which I will be getting, but that’s not up there on the priority list at the moment. I can eat while sitting on the couch, watching TV – all of which I don’t have either – but baby steps. I’ll get there, eventually. If I focus on what I don’t have, I won’t appreciate what I do have – a place to call home. My home.

I leave my parents at my apartment to go to Walmart with Ella. The goal is to pick up some items I have an immediate need for. I grab one of those three-drawer plastic carts to hold my undergarments and socks. I put a small microwave in the cart, too, and some microwaveable dinners along with some chips and other snacks. It’s not the most nutritious choice, but this will have to do for now.

When I’m back at the apartment, I tackle carrying the boxed microwave up two flights of stairs while Ella handles the plastic drawer cart. Ella sets the cart down to open the door and when she does, my arms grow so weak, the microwave falls out of my grasp and nearly lands on my right foot. My eyes cannot believe what they’re beholding. I’m doing everything in my power to convince myself this isn’t happening.

But it is.

A casually dressed Essex DePaul is standing in my empty living room, talking to my parents. And he comes running over to me after I dropped the microwave like he’s assumed the role of my personal savior.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I don’t respond. I’m so taken aback, words are hung in my throat like a piece of food is lodged back there.

He says, “You need to be a bit more careful, Quintessa,” as he picks up the microwave.

“I need to be—” Is this man telling me to be more careful like he belongs in my house? In my space? He’s the reason I dropped the microwave! I want to scream. I want to tell him to get out, but I don’t want to cause a scene in front of Mom and Dad. And I don’t know what all Mr. DePaul has been up in here telling them.

He scrambles over to set the box on the counter in the kitchen, saying, “It could be damaged. I’ll open it for you to make sure there’s no damage. Even if there isn’t, it should probably still be replaced.”

“Um—timeout—,” I tell him when my voice comes back. “I don’t need you to do anything but step outside for a moment so I can speak with you in private.”

“Sure, thing,” he says, all blasé. His confidence is sickening. He has the nerve to speak to Ella as we exit, and he knows she doesn’t like him.

Ella flashes a stiff smile and rolls her eyes.

I didn’t tell Ella about the lunch incident on Monday, so she doesn’t know I’m a tad bit more acquainted with Mr. DePaul than our initial, disastrous encounters. I purposely left that out, probably because I still can’t believe it happened. If I told Ella about lunch, she’d draw some conclusions about it that I’m not trying to hear right now. As it stands, she knows Mr. DePaul bought me a jacket. Now, he’s here? While it may look suspect, I know he’s not interested in me, though onlookers wouldn’t be able to tell by the way he looks at me. Then again, he probably looks at all the women like that…

Like snacks.

I step outside, behind him, close the door and with my heart beating a mile a minute, I say behind clenched teeth, “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Why do you look so mean?” he asks. “I stopped by to see if you needed anything, Quintessa. Is this any way to treat your guest?”

I hold my head and massage my temples. It does nothing to stabilize me. Feeling dizzy, I ask, “What are you doing here, Mr. DePaul?”

“Essex,” he says.

“Whatever. Just answer my question.”

“Careful. I’m still your boss,” he says, as if I need a reminder of that.

“You may be my boss, but presently, you’re outside of boss jurisdiction. You’re at my apartment and you still haven’t told me why. Why are you here? How did you know I was here?”