There’s nothing left for me to do but go out there and see what I feel when I do.
I open the door and about startle the shit out of Leila.
She turns off the radio, shouting, “Jesus, Dane, when did you get home?”
“Just a few minutes ago,” I start. “There’s something I need to talk to you about—”
“You’re n
ot going to believe this,” she starts, a look of excitement on her face.
“What?” I ask.
“I got the job!” she exclaims, turning the radio back on.
“That’s great!” I say with a smile. “What job?”
“That’s right, I didn’t tell you,” she says. “I’ve been putting out my resumé for a while now, but I hadn’t heard anything back. Today, I got the call, well one of my bosses got the call, but that doesn’t matter. I got hired on full-time at Claypool and Lee! I start in a couple of weeks!”
“Claypool and Lee?” I ask.
She flips the radio off again.
“Oh, right,” she says. “I probably should have run this by you.”
“What?”
“The job’s in Jersey,” she says. “I’ve got to start looking for places.”
“New Jersey,” I say. “Wow. So, what happens—”
“I’m not just going to kick you out,” she says. “I’ll talk to Traven and see if we can get you put on the lease as the primary. I know the place is kind of pricey, but I’m sure you could find a roommate.”
That’s not what’s making me feel like I’ve been hit in the stomach with a baseball bat.
Wrigley was right. There’s no doubt about it.
I’ve got a thing for my roommate and it’s a big one. I’m not even making a penis joke there, that’s how serious this is.
“Check this out,” she says. “I’m going to be working with some of the best financial minds in the country, and after five years, they’re going to give me my own team. They’re putting me on track to be a partner someday, you know, if I don’t screw it up in the meantime.”
“Oh, you won’t screw it up,” I tell her. “You’re going to do great.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I don’t mean to just bail on you, but this is really the opportunity of a lifetime for me.”
“I’m happy for you,” I tell her. “Really, I am.”
“Then why do you look like you just got hit in the stomach with a tire iron?”
I almost correct her, as the visual in my head was very clearly a baseball bat with a bunch of nails driven through the end, but the amount of explanation involved there is just too much.
“Well, I guess that just about does it,” I tell her.
“No, seriously,” she says. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” I say, but even I’m not convinced.
“Oh,” she says. “I know what it is. This is about last night.”