Never Enough(41)

My phone rings.

"That won't save you," Gavin says. "We're coming back to this."

I stick out my tongue at him and grab it out of my bag. Sandra.

Please, please be calling because you found an apartment, I think, and answer the phone.

"This needs to be fast because I told them I was running to the bathroom," she says.

"Okay."

"We found a place, and it's actually really nice, the landlord seems on the level, it's only a couple of miles from where they live now so they won't have to spend forever on the bus to get to work, the neighborhood is fine, there's a washer and dryer in the apartment..."

She pauses, and my heart sinks like a rock. Gavin's looking at me, so I stand and start pacing on the sand a couple feet away. I don't want him to overhear me.

"What's the catch?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

"They want first month's rent, last's month's rent, and a security deposit."

Fuck.

In Los Angeles, at least, most places only want the first month's rent and a security deposit, so that's what we'd been banking on - but landlords can ask for anything.

"And it's a little more expensive than we wanted, but it's really nice, they won't get shot, they can still get to the bus and to work and god, Marisol, it's got laundry in the apartment, plus-" 

She pauses, her voice dropping dramatically.

"Once that thing you told me about happens, it won't even matter, right? And between you, me, and them, we can cover an extra one-fifty a month for two more months, until we can buy them a house."

Tears prick at the back of my eyeballs and I stare up at the cars on the coastal highway, back to Gavin, trying to breathe deep and above all not cry.

"It's nineteen-fifty a month?" I ask.

I can hear her swallow.

"Yeah," she says.

Their old place, the place their shitty landlord is dubiously evicting them from, was a thousand a month. Los Angeles has rent control, and they'd been living there for fifteen years.

"So they need, what, basically six thousand dollars?" I ask, my own voice sounding hollow.

"Mom just told me they have about four thousand in savings," Sandra whispers. "I've got maybe four hundred I can pitch in after rent this month."

I finally have nearly a thousand dollars in my savings account. It was supposed to be my emergency fund, but I swallow the anxious lump in my throat.

"I can give them money too," I say. "But not enough."

We're still four hundred and fifty dollars short. It's not even that much, not in the grand scheme of things, and I can't believe that it's all that's in the way.

Four-fifty. Fuck.

I'm crying now, furious tears welling up and sliding down my cheeks, because this wasn't supposed to happen. In a few more months I'll be out of law school, I'll have taken the bar, I'll hopefully have a job making real money.

Why couldn't this happen then? Why'd this have to happen a few stupid months before I could actually help?

There's a long, long pause on the other end, and there's no way Mom and Dad still think she went to the bathroom.

"What if you asked Gavin for an advance?" Sandra finally says.

I knew it was coming, but I still hate it, because as stupid as it sounds, I don't want to bring money into our relationship. Even though I know I was here for money, I don't want him to think I'm still here for that. Or, worse, I don't want him to think that I "made it real" because I thought I could get more money that way.

His life is full of people who want something from him. I'm not one of them. I don't want to be, and I absolutely hate asking people for things like this.

It was supposed to be me, dammit. Part of the reason I went to law school was so I'd be able to help them someday, and I feel utterly helpless that this is happening before I could get there.

But I'm pretty much out of options. My parents are pretty much out of options. I take a deep breath and clench my toes into the sand.

"Okay," I say. "Let me call you back."

I hang up, still facing away, and lift my left hand to my right shoulder, kneading at the tension there for a moment.

Just tell him your parents are in a tight spot and need five hundred dollars, I think. That's less than your first date cost, probably.

"Marisol?" his voice says behind me, and I jump. "Is everything - what's happened?"

He lurches forward, awkward in the sand, to put his hands on my shoulders, and I start sobbing.

"Is someone hurt?" he asks, alarm written all over his face. "Your sister? Your parents? Is it-"

I shake my head, cutting him off.

"It's kind of complicated," I say.

He waits. I take a deep, shaky breath, because I hate that I'm crying and I really hate what I'm about to do, but I don't see a way around it.



       
         
       
        

"My parents are getting evicted from their apartment..." I start.

I tell him everything, standing there on the sand, trying not to cry while he strokes my hair. I tell him about their shady landlord, about rent in the neighborhood where I grew up spiraling out of control, the problems with gentrification, how they can't move too far away because they don't have a car and have to be able to get to work. I keep going and going until I'm at the hard part, and then the words slow to a trickle.

"So, we, uh," I get out, my voice nearly cutting out as I look away from Gavin, down the beach. "We're four-fifty short-"

"That's it?" Gavin interrupts.

"I know," I say miserably. "It's stupid, and it's pathetic that four adults can't come up with another four-fifty..."

"I'll give it to you," he says. "Marisol, you can have the whole six grand, Jesus, I wish you'd have told me weeks ago."

I shake my head again, more tears welling. I'm ashamed at asking for money, and I'm furious that I need to.

"I didn't want to... crap, I don't know," I say. "I didn't want you to think I was using you, and I didn't want to bother you with my problems, and I thought I could fix it myself."

He kisses the top of my head.

"You didn't want me to think that, when you agreed to date me for money, you were interested in my money?" he asks.

"I know how dumb it sounds."

"I'm just winding you up," he says gently. "I know how you are."

"I'm sorry," I murmur, leaning into his chest.

"I do wish you'd told me," he says. He sounds kind of hurt. "I did tell you my problems."

"I didn't mean to keep it a secret," I say. "It just happened."

"It's all right," he says, and it sounds like he's trying to mean it. "Let's take these towels back, yeah?"

I nod.

"Yeah," I agree.





37





Gavin





I wind up being able to simply give Marisol the money using my mobile, and though she protests that she doesn't want the whole six grand, I tell her I'm taking it out of her million and also to shut up and take it. She does.

I drive her to Highland Park and drop her off a few blocks from where her parents and sister are - her sister knows but her parents don't, and it's not exactly the time to introduce myself.

"Thanks," she says, just before she gets out of the car, looking down. "And sorry." 

Her eyes have that slightly glassy post-crying look, and yet again an overwhelming, protective urge twists in my gut. I feel as if it's my job to keep Marisol from crying, and I can't.

"Tomorrow night?" I ask, as I kiss her goodbye. She smiles.

"Monday night," she says. "I don't have class next week because it's reading period for finals, but I've got that job interview at Ramirez & Chabon I told you about on Monday morning."

Meaning we can spend the night together.

"Good luck," I say, and she shuts the door.

I grin, watching her walk down the sidewalk away from me. There's just something about watching an incredibly attractive woman walk and knowing that she's yours, and I sit there in traffic, blatantly staring at her until someone honks.

But still, as I drive home, I keep turning it over in my mind. I wish she'd told me. I knew she was dating me to buy a house for her parents, but I didn't know things were so dire. Marisol did assure me that they'd have stayed with her, not been on the street, but I've been to her apartment. It's not big enough for three.

I can't help but feel lied to, even by omission. Worse, I feel as if I've laid my own problems bare, told her the worst about myself, the horrible things I've done, and she didn't trust me enough to let me help her.

Somewhere inside I've got the nagging worry that this relationship is lopsided. That I've given more of myself over to her than she has me, that I've revealed everything and she's hesitant to tell me something like this.

And yes, I know Liam's living at my house and I've not told her, but that seems different somehow. That's because I don't want her to think less of me. I don't want her to worry that I'll relapse, don't want to seem as if I'm walking toward the edge of something bad because I'm not.

Besides, it's not as if she's ever asked whether Liam's staying with me. I just haven't mentioned it.

That's a load of shite and you know it, I think.

Fucking hypocrite.



There are photographers outside my gate again, maybe ten of them, and I mutter some choice curses under my breath. They've been gone the last several days, but I guess there's no other news right now so they're back.