Page 59 of Pretending I'm Yours

This can’t be happening. I budgeted for serious repairs, yes, but nothing like this. This is…catastrophic. And I don’t see the seller dropping the price by more than two hundred thousand—tops.

That’s a drop in the bucket of what’s needed here, and even if I crunch the numbers and think I could justify a larger loan to cover the repairs, I’ve already maxed out my borrowing capacity.

I just…

I don’t think I can make this work.

“Look,” Dave says kindly, clearly reading the despair creeping across my face. “Your instincts are good. In the long run, I think this building is a great investment. And it could still be a good deal for the right buyer. But unless you’re sitting on a pile of cash you can use for the reno, I’d walk away from this one.”

“But I already put down twenty-seven thousand in earnest money,” I say, fighting to keep my voice from wobbling. “And I had to waive the inspection contingency to get them to accept my offer over the higher ones. If I bail now, I lose every dime I’ve put into the deal thus far.”

He mutters something beneath his breath as he smooths his moustache. “Well, that’s a shame. But if you were my daughter, I’d say to lose the earnest money if you have to. Better than getting in over your head with a bunch of debt in your twenties. That kind of debt can crush dreams, you know?”

I nod, fighting tears as my throat squeezes so tight I can barely breathe. Twenty-seven thousand might not be much to the typical New York City real estate investor, but it’s ahugechunk of cash for me. If I lose it, I won’t have enough for another down payment for at least a year or two. Maybe more.

But he’s probably right.

I’ll go crunch the numbers the way I planned, but right now I don’t see a way this ends in anything but disaster.

“Well, thank you,” I finally manage to force out as I thrust a hand his way. “I appreciate you. Thank you for such a comprehensive and thorough inspection.”

“Of course.” He gives my hand a gentle squeeze before handing over an envelope with my copy of the paperwork. “And I’m giving you the friends and family discount on this one. I’ll tell Tish to take that off before she sends your bill.”

Shit, the bill. That’s another two grand of my nest egg.

But Dave was totally worth it. As much as this is killing me right now, he likely saved me from making a terrible investment.

I thank him again before heading through the dingy lobby with the flickering orange light dangling from the ceiling and down the stairs into the cold morning air.

Outside, the winter sun feels too bright, the rays bouncing off the snow glaring into my tear-filled eyes.

I start walking fast, with no real destination in mind. I just need to move, to think, to find some way to rearrange the puzzle pieces until I pull off a miracle and make this work.

My phone buzzes and I reach for it like a lifeline, positive it’s Anthony checking in. Or better yet, explaining himself in some way that makes sense.

But it isn’t Anthony. It’s Sydney, asking why the hell I didn’t tell her I was going to be in the city. Apparently, she saw my mother at the store in Sea Breeze and learned I was spending the holidays alone in New York.

On impulse I bypass the text explanation and tap her contact button.

She answers on the first ring. “Well, hello, mysterious one. Why are you being so mysterious? And why are you in New York City alone? Better question, do you want to go to the spa with me tomorrow before I fly back to Maine? I’m going to need a massage after this meeting. The dude bros on this project are dude bro-ing too close to the sun. I’m about to lose every last bit of my cool and fire everyone, even if it is the holiday season.”

“I hate dude bros,” I say with a sniff, her sweet, familiar voice bringing all my emotions swirling back to the surface. “And I hate myself a little right now, too.”

“What? Don’t you dare hate on my Maya,” she says, sounding outraged on my behalf. “Maya is the best.”

“I’ve messed up, Syd,” I confess. “Like…a lot.” I suck in a breath, Anthony’s face flashing through my head as I add, “Maybe a whole lot. Can we meet somewhere later? To talk?”

“Absolutely,” she says, without a second of hesitation, proving I have the best friends in the world. “My meeting ends at two. Want to do Oscar Wilde at three? That gorgeous bar near Herald Square we hit the last time you were in town?”

I nod, relief loosening my whip tight jaw. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll be there. You’re a lifesaver. I can’t wait to talk.”

“Me, too,” she says. “And it’s going to be okay, Maya Moo, I promise. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together. We always do.”

“Yeah,” I say, fighting tears again. “We do. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” she says, ending the call just as another text buzzes into my inbox.

But, once again, it isn’t Anthony. It’s a beach bag company trying to sell me a palm-tree tote bag in December. As if I’ll ever have the cash to fly away to a tropical destination in winter at this rate…

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