Page 8 of Say Yes to the Hot Mess
“You know,” I say, once again surprising myself by talking, “she sounds like she’s striving toward individuality, which is something a lot of teenagers are searching for. If you respect that about her, it might go a long way toward softening her.”
Elmer considers this for a second, and then he looks at me. “Yeah,” he says, nodding slowly. “Yeah. I could do that. Tell her I like that awful purple.”
“Sure,” I say. “Tell her you like the purple.”
“I could even do my own hair,” he says, the nodding becoming more vigorous now.
I speak before I can censor myself. “Purple?” I say, my voice more incredulous then it should be.
“Well, no,” he admits, reaching up and smoothing one hand over the tufts of white sprouting out of the sides of his head. “But maybe a nice dark brown—”
“You’re too old for a midlife crisis,” Josephine says to Elmer, and I have to agree. “You’re already looking at sports cars, and you don’t even like to drive. Leave your hair alone.”
Elmer’s sigh is a little sheepish, and then he looks back at me. “Maybe no hair, then. I’ll tell my granddaughter I like hers, though.”
Then he smiles, and I feel strangely lighter.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, standing up. “I need to get back to work. It was lovely to meet you all.”
They sound off a chorus of goodbyes—Geraldine’s accompanied by a lusty wink—and I excuse myself, heading back to my office, making myself comfortable in my chair once more. I shake my head and smile at the sound of more of their laughter. Then I pull up the tenant portal on my computer again, my mind going back to the previous housing dilemma.
A wave of exhaustion slams into me when I realize that I’m going to have to be the one to tell this woman—Mayari Ellis in unit thirty-one—that she’s not qualified to live here. I am and always have been bad at delivering unpleasant news—not because it makes me squeamish but because people usually take fault with my delivery. I’ve been told more than once that I lack anything resembling a bedside manner, and I’m not the sort to cushion a blow. I really just don’t see the point. Why sugarcoat things that aren’t actually sugarcoated? It’s just a form of deception, and it leads to a bigger letdown later when you realize things aren’t as sweet as they were made out to be.
“All right,” I mutter. I look over unit thirty-one’s tenant profile one last time, making sure I have all the information I need. “Mayari Ellis, age twenty-two, and one dependent.”
A child. She has achild. A young one, logic would dictate. What onearthis she doing in Sunset Horizons? How did she end up here? And how hard is it going to be to get her to leave so that one of the people on our waitlist—one of the people who actuallyneedsaccess to things like the shuttle service and the handicap-accessible living—can have the space instead?
With a sigh, I grab the desk phone and find Mayari Ellis’s phone number. I guess I could stall or make up reasons to put it off, but there’s no point; this needs to happen, and it needs to happen sooner rather than later. I can’t have a tenant who’s doing nothing but taking advantage of a cushy system—using the stair lift to get upstairs when she’s drunk, making the community shuttle her version of post-partying Uber, stretching out lazily in the handicap accommodations. Maybe she’s not like that, but it’s the image that comes to mind, and there’s no place for any of that here.
So I dial her number, and then I wait.
She answers after four rings.
“Hello?” Her voice is husky, and although I don’t know her, it sounds like I might have woken her up.
“Hello, Mayari Ellis?” I say, jumping right in. I realize a second too late that I sound like a policeman or something.
She clearly thinks I sound weird too, because she hesitates before saying warily, “Just Maya. Who is this?”
“This is Dexter Anthony from the Sunset Horizons office. Do you have a moment to talk?”
“Um…yeah. Sure.”
She’s not convincing, but I take the opening.
“I’m looking at your tenant profile right now, Miss Ellis,” I say. “You’re in unit thirty-one, correct?”
“Uh, yes,” she says, speaking softly—not like she’s shy but more like someone is sleeping and she’s trying not to wake them up.
“Right. Were you aware that there’s an age requirement to live in Sunset Horizons?” I ask her. Once again, I realize too late that I still sound like a policeman interrogating a suspect.
“I…did know that, yes,” she says after a pause. “I learned after I moved in.”
I nod even though she can’t see me. “The problem is, Miss Ellis, that we have a long waitlist full of people who could benefit from the special features and amenities the apartments and surrounding community provide. There are a lot of people waiting for a place with a stair lift, with access to the shuttle—in other words, a lot of people who need an apartment like yours.”
She’s silent, but I wait for her to follow my words to the point I’m trying to make.
“Are you—are you trying to kick me out?”