Page 10 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“Me? I’m good! Things are great!”Ugh. Probably not the right thing to say to someone who’s grieving.“I mean. You know.”
“Do I?” He sounds thoughtful. “I can’t say I do. I don’t know much about how you spend your time.”
“Uh…” Is he asking me or just commenting? Besides, this was supposed to be about howhe’sdoing. “Are you feeling okay? Are you… eating?”Geez, I am terrible at this.
He gives a wry chuckle. “Eating, yes, yes. Trish has been bringing me groceries every two days. Apparently she thinks I’m eating for ten.”
“Trish is bringing you groceries? That’s good.” Does that mean Gramps doesn’t know how to buy groceries on his own? Was that something Lottie always did? Or is it because he’s too depressed to do it himself?
I am in way over my head here.
“All right, well, will you let me know if you need anything?”
“I won’t be needing anything, Mallory. But thank you for calling.”
“Wait, but—”
He hangs up.
Crap.
I guess Gramps didn’t get the memo that he’s supposed toletme take care of him.
But all I can do is try, right? It’s not like Lottie will know if I’m not fully upholding my end of the bargain. That said, it doesn’t feel great to shirk on my responsibilities to my dead grandmother. So I promise myself that I’ll try again next week. I’ll give Gramps a calljust to chat, and I’ll see if I can glean any insights about how he’s really doing.
But next week has a mind of its own. Turns out being a homeowner means I have a whole list of problems I never thought I’d have to deal with.
Chapter 6
My mind should be on work today, but instead I’m mentally calculating how much of my paycheck will go toward the house without tenants paying rent. The mortgage is paid off, but there are still taxes, utilities, and insurance. Basically, it’ll be like I’m still repaying my debt to Mom and Dad. The debt I just finished paying off.Not ideal.
That evening, I decide to call my parents to discuss what to do. I’m standing on my tiny balcony trying to enjoy the warm evening sun but mostly feeling the chilly spring breeze. My next-door neighbor steps out onto their balcony and lights a joint.
We don’t acknowledge each other, though we’re so close that we might as well be standing in the same room. We’ve lived next door to each other for over two years but have never had a conversation. The most contact we’ve had is when we pass each other in the hallway and they raise their chin in a silent greeting. I would recognize their cropped blue hair and facial piercings anywhere, but I have no idea what their name is.
“It’s not ideal that the tenants are leaving, but maybe it’s for the best. At least I won’t have to be a landlord,” I tell Mom. My neighbor’s eyes slide toward me.
“Aren’t you going to find new tenants?” Mom asks.
“Couldn’t I just leave the house empty, and, I don’t know, use it as a vacation home?”
My neighbor suddenly chokes and wheezes through a fit of coughs. Damn, that sounded bougie. I angle my body slightly away from them.
“Absolutely not!” Dad’s voice sounds distant, like he’s yelling from the kitchen. “Leaving a house empty is the best way to ruin it. You’ll be dealing with mold, rot, infestations, break-ins, not to mention—”
“Okay, okay. So now I have to find new tenants. How do I even do that?”
I rest my elbows on the balcony railing. I am so not cut out for this. My pulse is racing from the stress of it all. I don’t know anyone in Reina Beach aside from my relatives. How on earth am I supposed to find new tenants to live in the house? And what does a landlord do exactly—am I going to have to talk to these people on a regular basis? Like, on the phone?
This is so far outside my comfort zone.
“Trish already gave me the number of a good property manager that everyone uses in Reina Beach. Since the house is across the country, you’ll need the help from someone local to find tenants.”
“Okay. Good idea.” I sigh. “I didn’t know owning a house would be so hard.” I choose not to mention that I also have no idea what a property manager is. I’m sure my parents—and my neighbor—are questioning my intelligence enough as it is.
My neighbor snuffs out their joint on their balcony railing, staring unblinking at me the whole time. I can read the look plainly enough: They think I’m upper-middle-class scum. I feel my face flush as I avoid eye contact—easier said than done when you’re five feet apart. I wait for them to go back inside their apartment before I speak again.
“Speaking of things that aren’t easy. Gramps is not very amenable to me taking care of him. He barely wanted to talk to meon the phone. And Trish is already bringing him groceries, so what am I supposed to do for him? I honestly have no idea. I don’t know what Lottie wanted me to do. I don’t know how to take care of an octogenarian.”
