Feel My Love (Second Chances Forever)

I wondered what had brought Ami all the way up here. She clearly hadn't known that I lived here. I couldn't help but wonder what forces had conspired to bring us together again. I didn't believe in fate, but I couldn't deny that our encounter was more than just a coincidence.

I just had to hope that I would run into her again. Or that she would decide to seek me out after all.

Chapter 3

Ami

A couple of weeks after my run-in with Cam, things were looking even worse than they had before. I still hadn't managed to find a new job, and even the local fast food places and coffee shops weren't hiring. Not that I wanted to go back to working in food service like I had in college, but I was willing to do whatever it took to pay my bills. I wouldn't let my pride get in the way.

I came home one day from a long trek of dropping off resumes and filling out job applications. My feet were aching from all of the walking, but I couldn't afford a car, or even a ride in an Uber. I was looking forward to taking a nice, hot bath, and getting off my feet for a while.

When I walked up to the door to my apartment, I saw some papers taped to the front door.

My stomach immediately twisted into a knot.

I snatched the papers off the door. I only skimmed them, not really needing to read the whole thing to know what it was all about. The words “Eviction Notice” at the top of the first page told me everything I needed to know. I held the papers in shaking hands, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do.

I headed down to the management office to talk to the landlady. She was sitting behind her desk, typing away on her keyboard. Usually, she greeted me with a smile and a cheerful hello. Today, she barely glanced up at me, before turning her attention back to her computer.

“Hi, Maria,” I said, walking in but stopping several feet from her desk. I didn't feel welcome here, even in the office.

“Ami,” she said without making eye contact. “I see you got the papers. I'm sure you understand.”

“No, I don't understand,” I said, standing up straighter. “I'm only a few days behind on the rent, and—”

“Look, I'm sorry,” she said, making a slashing gesture with her hand to cut off my protests. “But we talked about this when you moved in. Month-to-month lease, but the rent has to be paid On. Time.” She jabbed her finger against the desk with the final words. “I can't afford to give anyone any extensions.”

“But—”

“No buts.” She folded her hands on top of her desk. “No extensions, and no excuses. I'll give you until Saturday to get your stuff out. That's the final word on it.”

I hung my head, knowing there was nothing I could do. It was sad to think how nice Maria had been to me when I first moved in, only for her to change her tune the moment I hit some financial hurdles. Some people liked to put on a friendly face for you, only to have their true colors show once you hit a little rough patch. Part of me knew it wasn't entirely her fault; she had a business to run, not a charity. But at the very least, I wished she would have shown me a little sympathy.

I turned and walked away, giving the door a good slam on my way out. Venting my anger on the door didn't do anything to make me feel any better. I thought about opening the door again, just so I could slam it harder, but I knew that would just be childish.

I cried myself to sleep that night. My bed was lumpy and uncomfortable. I'd bought it second-hand, along with the rest of my cheap furniture. Some of my furniture had come off the curb, and would probably have to end up back there when I moved out. It certainly wasn't worth taking most of it with me.

The next day, I started packing. I didn't have a lot of stuff, mostly just my clothes, some kitchenware, and the meager selection of used furniture. I knew I couldn't take all of it with me, especially since I didn't even know where I was going.

I gave serious consideration to calling my parents. They would let me move back home, I knew. My old bedroom was still there, just the way I'd left it. But if I moved back home, I'd never hear the end of it. My father would go on another of his tirades about how impractical my art history degree was, and how I should have studied something like elementary education so I could have been a teacher. Or business, so I could have gotten an office job somewhere. He'd never understood my passion for art, or how I could put it ahead of more sensible career options.