Page 16 of My Rules

“Surely this can’t be right?”

I bring up the calculator on my phone and begin to add up the yearly figures.

Loan repayment.

Maintenance.

Property tax.

Utilities.

Insurance.

I add them all together and then divide them by twelve. “This should be the monthly amount of costs.” I hit enter on the calculator.

$3,312.00

My eyes widen in horror. “Three thousand three hundred and twelve dollars?” I gasp. “Per month?”

Shit. I quickly divide that by four.

$828.00

“What the hell ... a week?”

I slump back into my chair. “That’s going to be all my income, and I didn’t even pay for food or gas and car costs yet.”

Damn it.

I see John’s smug face when he told me that I wouldn’t be able to afford to keep the house.

He was right . . .

That selfish bastard infuriates me. He thinks that I’m going to go back to him because I have no other choice.

I slam my computer shut and stare at the wall.

What the hell do I do now?

Blake

I pull my front door closed and walk across the lawn to Rebecca’s. It’s just 7:00 p.m. I have a bottle of wine under my arm, and I’ve been looking forward to this lasagna all day.

Nobody can cook like Rebecca can. Best damn chef in the United States, if you ask me.

I walk up the stairs onto her porch.

Knock, knock.

I wait . . .

What’s happening in there? I peer through the window; she’s probably slaving away in the kitchen for me. I smile and knock again.

Knock, knock.

This is the perfect way to end my weekend: dinner with my favorite girl.

The door opens in a rush, and my eyes drop down to Rebecca’s feet and rise back up to her face. She’s wearing odd flannelette pajamas: canary yellow pants with huge red lips all over them and a pink top. Her hair is in a messy bun on the top of her head, and her face is covered in a green face mask. “I love it when you dress up for me,” I mutter.

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