Page 61 of Employing Patience

I’m not a crier. I’m a fixer. But that’s how hard it will hit.

Only when the woman on the other end answers, she says the words that make me want to kiss her.

“It looks like a payment was made this morning. Actually, the overdue amounts have been settled, with the next three cycles covered in advance.”

I’m in so much shock I barely remember to thank her before hanging up the phone. With excitement thrumming through my veins, I pull out another bill and another. All with the same result.

And when I call through to my Realtor’s office and speak with the property manager, she informs me that my rent is paid up to the end of our lease.

I sink to the floor and just sit there. In the middle of my kitchen. Trying to process this light, almost panicky feeling coming over me. I have an overwhelming need to laugh, but I’m still too exhausted to do much more than let out a shocked little “huh.”

That’s … that’s everything. It’s all covered. For another year.

A whole year.

Is this what freedom feels like?

I grab another container of pastries from the cupboard and wolf down the lot, and then on a whim, I call back my property manager and ask the one question burning through me.

“Who paid the money? Did they give a name?”

It’s like I can hear her smirk down the line. “He did. Nevele Ounces.”

18

ART

I’m determined to leave Killer Brew before Joey shows up for his shift, but whether on purpose or by accident—I’m still having the debate with myself—he’s already behind the bar when I’m walking down the stairs.

My footsteps slow, ears strained to pick up the conversation happening below. It’s not something I should be listening to, not something I even want to hear, which is why I’d planned to duck out early.

“You got Ounced,” Mitch says, and I try not to cringe at the expression. Apparently, Joey feels the same way.

“Don’t put it like that. You’re taking the magic out of it.”

“What else would you call it?”

“Just some bastard taking pity on me. And I’ve gotta say, pity never felt so good.”

“I dunno,” Courtney muses. “You don’t feel a bit creeped out? Some person coming into your home while you were out of it and doing whatever the fuck they wanted to it?”

And this is one of the many, many reasons I don’t let it be known who I am. Everyone has an opinion, and there are sure to be people out there who claim I’m doing this for myself or who try to twist my actions. Try to make out like I want credit or am playing the role of a hero.

Which is complete bullshit.

People like Joey, who are doing everything in their power to get by and it’s still not enough? Those people are fighters. They’re strong and stubborn. They’re the types of people others should look up to. Not people like me whose only contribution to life is money.

I keep walking, missing the rest of their conversation on purpose. I don’t want to know if Joey is creeped out by what I did; I don’t want to know if he feels like a charity case, which a lot of people do. I stand by what I did. If you offer someone help, they’re a lot less likely to take it because some asshole somewhere tried to make people feel like having pride was a virtue.

I say screw that. Life is hard enough. If you can get help, get it.

But until people will do that for themselves, I’ll keep giving help without being asked. Without being thanked or credited. Without a single person in the world knowing that it’s me.

I take comfort in the knowledge I’m helping people sleep easier at night.

I’ve almost made it all the way to the door when Joey’s husky voice calls out to me.

“Art, a minute?”

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