These Boots Weren't Made for Walking Page 2

  “Eric,” I said, trying to appear calm and controlled as I opened the door for my impeccable boyfriend. As usual, every neatly cut blond hair was in its place, and his boyish face was more smoothly shaved than my legs. Somehow this picture-perfect image gave me a sense of comfort. Perhaps the universe hadn't recently spun out of control after all. Then again, there was something in his clear blue eyes that I couldn't quite read. Hopefully it was simply pity. I could've used a truckload about then.

  “Cassie?” His pale brows lifted in alarm as his eyes darted around, obviously taking in the chaos behind me.

  “As you can see, I really wasn't expecting you just now.” He frowned. “Sorry to catch you at a bad time.” I stepped back and opened the door wider, kicking a People magazine out of the way. It always bugged him that I “willingly wasted” my mind and money “on that kind of trash.” But he spared me the lecture. I grabbed a splayed newspaper off my futon, which doubles as a couch, only to reveal a dirty bra underneath. I quickly stuffed that into my sweatshirt pocket and pitched the rumpled newspaper under the coffee table as I nodded toward the now-cleared futon. Clear except for the cat hair, which Eric wouldn't appreciate either. “Want to sit down?”

  “No. Let's just keep this brief, okay?”

  “Okay.” I tried again to read his face, although it was rather expressionless. Still, I could tell by the tone of his voice and something else—like a buzzing inside of me, an alarm—that all was not well. Somehow I knew this wasn't going to be good.

  “I thought about telling you this on the phone, but I've heard that's the loser way to handle it. So I decided to come and see you in person.” He cleared his throat. “The reason you haven't heard from me for the last few days is because, well, there's no easy way to put this. Cassie, I've decided we need to break up.”

  “We need to break up?” I echoed meekly. “You've decided?”

  “Yeah. I know this must seem pretty poor timing, I mean, especially after losing your job and everything, but the truth is, it's been coming for a while.”

  “For a while?” I sounded like a dimwitted parrot, but it was the best I could do. I was surprised that I was still standing since I was pretty sure the floor was swaying slightly.

  He nodded with a sad expression. “Didn't you feel it was ending too?”

  I just shrugged. I wasn't sure what I felt—well, other than that I'd just been hit by another truck, this one even bigger than the last.

  “I really do like you, Cassie. But it's just not there, you know?”

  Now I really studied him. “What's just not there?” I demanded as the past few years flashed before my eyes: all I'd done, all I'd tried to be just to make this selfish man happy. “What are you talking about?”

  “You and me,” he said quietly. “It's just not there.”

  Anger began to bubble in me as I recalled some recent tension between us. I remembered how Eric had begun pressuring me a couple of months ago, saying that he needed more out of our relationship. Of course, he only mentioned this when we were kissing, when things were getting pretty hot and passionate. And, of course, that's when I would remind him in my most tempting and seductive voice, “Sure, Eric. You can have more, but not until our wedding night.”

  Well, that usually shut things down pretty quickly, which worked for me. Yes, I'm one of those old-fashioned girls, and while I don't go around saying this out loud, I happen to believe the guy's not going to buy the cow when he can get the milk for free—not that I'm particularly fond of that unflattering metaphor. But the truth was, for the most part (at least when Eric wasn't all worked up and eager), he agreed with me on this basic concept. Or so it seemed. Suddenly I was starting to wonder.

  Eric shook his head sadly, reminding me of a doctor who'd just given a hopeless prognosis or pronounced a patient dead. “We're just not right for each other, Cassie.”

  “We've been going together for more than three years, Eric.” My voice ratcheted up to an obnoxiously tight and high-pitched level. I felt that I was about to cry or explode or perhaps even throw something at him. “And you decide now that we're not right for each other?”

  He looked down at the floor. My dingy brown carpet was littered with magazines, junk mail, dirty socks, stray shoes, and even some shattered potato chips that must ve escaped me during the recent eating binge. Lovely.

  “Eric,” I persisted, unwilling to let this relationship slip away gracefully. My anger was growing hotter, as was my assurance that I had this man pegged. “Is this because I said no to sex?” I looked direcdy into his eyes, wanting to hear the truth—even if it cut like a knife. Hopefully, he'd finish me off quickly.

  He looked away now. “No, Cassie, it's not about sex.”

  I considered this. Would he lie to me? Eric was a basically honest man, a basically good man. He and I were both fairly strong Christians and went to a pretty cool church, and he was very involved in the singles’ group that we both attended. In fact, he was recendy made a leader at our church, second in command to the pastor who oversees all the young-adult ministries. But our church also happens to be a Bible-believing church that doesn't condone premarital sex. Oh, they never turn people of other opinions away, but they expect their leaders to respect the “rules” if they want to remain in leadership. And while I fully realized that Eric wasn't perfect, I was a little surprised at the way he'd been pressuring me about sex the past couple of months—or so it seemed. I suppose it all hit me as a bit hypocritical.

  “Then what is this really about, Eric?”

  He looked away again, more quickly this time, as if he was getting really uncomfortable. Perhaps he was sorry about this, or maybe Fd hit a nerve. That's when I sensed something in his expression, something I don't think Fd ever witnessed in this guy before. It smelled like guilt.

  “Is there another girl?” I demanded.

  He looked back at me with surprised eyes. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “There is, isn't there?”

  “Oh, Cassie.” He slowly shook his head, but his expression reminded me of that cartoon cat Sylvester whenever the little old lady would catch him with Tweety in his fist.

  “Who is she?” I said quietly but with emphasis on each word.

  He shifted his weight and looked at the floor again. “I'm sorry.”

  “Who is she?” I demanded more loudly.

  “It doesn't matter.”

  “It does matter!” I yelled. “It matters to me!”

  “Just let it go—”

  “Let it go?” My voice was so loud that Felix made a run for it.

  “Come on, Cassie.” He tried that soft pleading tone on me, as if he was going to persuade me against my will, as if I would let him off easy just because he was “sensitive.”

  I folded my arms tightly across my chest and glared at him. “Who is she, Eric?”

  He exhaled loudly. “Well, I'm sure you'll find out eventually anyway.”

  He proceeded to tell me that he'd been spending time with Jessica Brauer, a twenty-something chick who had started coming to our church a few weeks earlier. I was the one who had originally befriended her. I felt sorry for this pretty girl sitting all by herself in the back one day. I'd invited her to our singles’ group that night. And when she came, she really opened up and told the group about how she'd been raised in a pretty messed-up home and how she'd recently become a Christian and wasn't really connected with believers. As a result, I went out of my way to call her occasionally, to invite her for coffee, and Eric and I had even taken her with us to several events this past month. Apparently Eric had spent time with her on his own as well. Who knew?

  “Look, it just happened, Cassie,” he said as if that explained this mess. “The truth is, I think it was a God thing.”

  “A God thing?” I tossed that one back at him as if it were a hot potato.

  “God brought us together, Cassie. Jessica and I both feel this way.”

  “You believe God set you up with Jessica so you co
uld cheat on me?”

  “It's not like we're married, Cassie. We're not even engaged—”

  “That's for sure!” I opened the door for him now, like, Here's your hat. What's your hurry?

  “Come on, Cass,” he said. “Don't end it like this—”

  “How do you expect me to end it?” I snapped.

  “Can't we still be friends?”

  “Friends?” Okay, I'm not a violent person by nature, but I sure felt like hitting him with something big and heavy just then. Instead I gathered up what little self-control remained and said, “Look, Eric, I hope you and Jessica are wonderfully happy” He smiled as though he thought I meant it. “That's—” “Have a great life together!” I shoved him with both hands, then slammed the door behind him.

  y grandmother used to say that bad things always come in groups of three. Of course, I never took this adage too seriously. But now I'm not so sure. There's no denying that two very bad things have happened. What if there's a third one coming?

  As a result, I hole up in my little apartment for the next several days, waiting for the third shoe, or perhaps a boot, to fall. And as I wait, I consume calorie-laden foods like Doritos and Pepsi and Reese's peanut-butter cups, as if economists had forecast a serious junk-food shortage. Last night I wore a ball cap and trench coat when I went out to forage for my supplies. I didn't want anyone to recognize me.

  Like anyone would care.

  I sit around all day eating and watching disgusting soap operas and my thighs, which literally expand before me. Sometimes when I'm feeling especially fragile, I hold Felix as though he were a baby, and I tell him my troubles. As long as I scratch him in all the right places, he's a pretty good listener. We take catnaps together, and occasionally I wake up crying. I try to convince myself that I'm crying over a soap opera I just saw, that I'm brokenhearted over poor Arial, who's having Beau's baby, but he's in love with her sister Bianca, who is sleeping with his father, who has just been diagnosed with Alzheimer's and can barely remember his wife's first name. But I know the truth. And like they say, it hurts.

  Finally, exactly two weeks after my termination, and eleven days after getting dumped by Eric, I tell myself enough is enough, and I force myself to start cleaning my slovenly apartment. I even sit down to open the pile of mail. My goal is to begin restoring order to my life. What life? I think as I use a dull steak knife to slit open the envelope that holds my new credit-card bill. I brace myself, knowing full well that it'll be a whopper because those despicable Valentino boots will be on it. But when I actually read the total, I consider taking the steak knife directly to my throat. Something is wrong—very, very wrong!

  “Four thousand five hundred eighty-five dollars?” I gasp aloud. I blink and read it again. This is crazy. I know the exact price of those boots as though it's been branded on my brain. And while I admit they were stupidly expensive, they were only a fraction of this. What on earth could this be for? So I flip to the page underneath and study the itemized list of “my purchases” and am shocked to see all sorts of things listed there—things /never bought. Well, it's obviously a mistake. A big, stupid mistake that must be sorted out as soon as possible.

  So I get on the phone and listen to a recording and punch in all kinds of numbers, then listen to more recordings, then wait and wait until I finally get to speak to a real woman. She calmly says, “Its no mistake. If you are Cassidy Cantrell, that's your card number, and according to our records, the signature matches perfectly. Unless you—”

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “I did receive my card in the mail shortly after I opened the account. But I set it aside and never even signed it! How can my signature match up?”

  “Oh, dear,” she says. “That was a mistake.”

  “What?”

  “You must always sign a charge card. A blank card is an invitation for fraud. Anyone can sign a blank card and use it.”

  “But who would—”

  “Do you have any more questions about your account?” she asks impatiently. “Other customers are waiting.”

  “I want to close my account,” I snap at her.

  “Well, according to my records, it's maxed out right now and can't be used anyway. And a payment is due on the—”

  “I thought that card had a $5,000 limit,” I point out.

  “Yes, we actually allowed you to go a bit over your—”

  “I haven't gone over anything,” I say. “Besides my Valentino boots, I haven't bought a single thing at your overpriced store.”

  “According to our records, your account is at $5,147 right now. The bill you received in the mail was calculated before you made your additional purchases. Now if youcl like to arrange a payment over the phone, please press the seven—”

  “I don't want to make a payment,” I nearly shout. “Just close the account, please, and let me talk to someone who can explain why my cards being used by someone other than me.”

  “Where is your card at the moment?” she asks in an acid tone.

  I fumble around my still-messy apartment, wondering the very same thing. “I don't actually know,” I finally admit.

  “Some people should simply avoid credit accounts altogether,” she tells me in a superior voice. “Credit is not for everyone.”

  “Thanks for the advice,” I say and hang up.

  I notice the brown suede boots, still in the corner by the front door where I threw them two weeks ago. They look slightly evil now, hunkered down together with their pointed toes facing each other almost as if they're conspiring, whispering secrets about me. Maybe they know something I don't, or perhaps they're really the ones responsible for this billing madness. Maybe they've been sneaking out when my back was turned, going shopping and buying things I can't afford.

  I study the bill again, going over the long list of clothes— expensive clothes, clothes that I do not have in raj/closet. I read the enviable list of designer names and wish I did have them. Suddenly I remember that Monica popped in a few weeks ago, after my boot purchase and before my catastrophes, to “borrow” some milk for her granola. That woman is always out of everything and thinks nothing of borrowing what she never plans to return. I try to be a good Christian and cut her some slack since I know her good-for-nothing, live-in boyfriend, Will, is usually broke and jobless. He just seems to lounge around her apartment, usually in his T-shirt and boxers. I can't imagine why she keeps that loser around.

  I make my mind replay that day, trying to remember the details. I was actually glad to see Monica, since we hadn't talked for a while and I was worried I might've said or done something to offend her. I often stick my foot in my mouth when it comes to her and Will. As usual, she looked fantastic. Her hair was perfect, and she had on a killer outfit. I remember complimenting her on the short, fitted jacket.

  “This old thing?” she said with a shrug. “It's just Calvin Klein. Nothing to get overly excited about.” I invited her in and even showed her my new boots since I was still trying to decide whether to keep them. I knew she'd be suitably wowed by the Valentino label. Monica knows and respects the really good designers. And she was impressed.

  “These are beautiful, Cassidy.” She kicked off a high-heeled shoe and actually started to try one on, even though her feet are bigger than mine.

  “They'll be too small for you,” I pointed out as I politely snatched the boot away. “And suede stretches so easily.” I knew I'd probably offended her. Still, she told me I needed to keep them.

  “Wear them and walk proud,” she said with the conviction of a fashion diva. “You only live once, Cassie.” Then she laughed. “And if they get stretched out, you can always let me take them off your hands.” I smiled and acted as if that were funny. Like I'd even consider letting her wear those expensive boots.

  But now I remember something else that happened that day. I remember that I had set my shiny new charge card on the kitchen counter. I'd already decided that it was going directly into the bottom of my lingerie drawer, where I
keep other valuable things safe and out of sight. I figured with its generous $5,000 credit limit, it would be more secure in my drawer than in my purse, where I might actually be tempted to use it. So now I open my dresser to find that the card is not there. I thoroughly ransack my granny panties and 18 Hour bras but find no card. Then I check every drawer in the dresser and even the cracks and crevices in between, but I am getting the strongest feeling that I never put it there in the first place.

  I try to put together exacdy what happened that day. I returned my boots safely to the box and my room. Then I searched my cupboards for a clean jar to hold the milk since I didn't want to give her the whole carton and I knew she would never return a glass or a mug. After I generously filled a mayo jar with enough milk for at least two bowls of granola, Monica complained that it was two percent instead of skim, took it anyway without even thanking me, and quickly left.

  The next thing I can specifically remember is the following morning, when I dressed carefully, wearing the boots just as my fashionable neighbor had recommended. Then I went to work, got fired, and totally forgot about the stupid credit card. It's probably been gone this whole time, and I never even noticed.

  Love thy neighbor, I remind myself as I go into the hallway with lethal intentions toward Monica. Really, is it possible she did this to me? It seems so unbelievable. And yet I have a gut feeling that is exactly what happened. I take a deep breath. I try to calm myself. No use flying off the handle. Even so, my hands are shaking as I loudly rap on Monica's door. I have no idea how I'm going to confront her or what I'm going to say, so I determine to simply ask the question and then wait. I know she's an experienced liar, but I figure those big blue eyes of hers will give her away. Then, knowing she's the Return Queen, I will simply demand that she return all the merchandise and clear my account, and I won't even press charges. Heck, maybe I can get her to return those stupid boots as well. She could say they were defective or something.