Room For Rent

"Excellent work today, Ms. Wilson," Mr. Meyer says. " It is a Friday, and you have been working like crazy all week.  Why don't you head home early today."  I know that my boss' request has more to do with avoiding paying me additional overtime than it does any actual reward. Still, I can't help the burst of pride and joy that I feel blossoming inside me.  In the 4 months that I have been working as the only marketing team member and copy editor with Meyer and Meyer, I have only imagined hearing a compliment from Mr. Meyer.  Hearing one now, after the rigorous work of preparing him for his big meeting next week, is almost enough to have me fist-pumping or breaking out into full-blown office dance party mode.  I refrain, barely, because Mr. Meyer is still here waiting for my answer.  "Are you sure that there is nothing else that you need for Monday?" I ask. "Oh no! You have me more set than I have ever felt before a meeting.  You deserve the break. See you next week," and with that, he leaves my office.  I quickly begin shutting down my workspace and grabbing my things.  I debate sending a text to Eric that I will be home early, but I decide that surprising him will be much more fun.  I have been dating Eric for the past 2 years, but since I started working for Meyer and Meyer, I haven't had much time to spend with him.  I have worked such long hours trying to get up to speed on cases and impress Mr. and Mrs. Meyer with my acumen that I haven't had the time or the energy for much else. I am hopeful that things will start changing soon now that I am more settled.   I pick up some beer from the convenience store on my way home—time to celebrate my first compliment from Mr. Meyer with my man. When I pull into the parking lot, a feeling of dread pricks at my spine. We don't live in the greatest neighborhood, but it is far from skeevy. While I could afford something nicer, Eric and I wanted a place where we could be equal contributors, and Eric's job doesn't pay him that well. Unable to pin down the feeling, I decide to shake it off and hurry inside. Fortunately, our designated parking spots are right next to the door to our first-floor apartment. I grab the beer and scamper out of the car. As I get closer to our door, the feeling of dread only intensifies. Then I hear it—the grunting and moaning echo in my head. I would know those grunts anywhere. Eric. It's the moaning that catches my throat. I open the door in a daze, hoping that I am reading too much into things. Hoping that I am not hearing what I think I am hearing. I take a step inside before I can continue my spiral. My body begins to feel cold and numb. I think that I might be shaking, but I don't really have the presence of mind to tell.  "Eric! Yes! Harder!" A familiar female voice screams. I know that voice, but no. No, no, no. This cannot be happening. This doesn't make sense!  Eric's enthusiastic growl bounces from the bedroom to the where I am standing with mocking condemnation. The rhythmic banging adds its staccato laugh to the mix.  Eric is f*****g my best friend. My best friend is f*****g my boyfriend. In. My. Bed.  The case of beer slides out of my fingers. It must crash on the floor. Some of the bottles have surely broken because I think my toes are wet. All I can do is stare at the closed door to my bedroom in complete shock. All I can hear are the sounds of my best friend and my boyfriend having s*x in my bed.  "Emily. Emily, I'm gonna -"  I run.  ****** Like the child I apparently still am, I ran straight to my parent's house. I officially moved out of my childhood home when I went to college 6 years ago. It wasn't until I got the apartment with Eric 1 year ago that they decided it was time to downgrade to a smaller house.  Both my mother and father spent my childhood focused on raising me and on building careers for themselves. They always wanted to have more kids, but after several miscarriages and adoptions that fell through, they focused all their attention on me. Now that they are empty-nesters, their focus has become seeing the world and enjoying the fruits of their labor.  Since it is now 5:00 pm on a Friday -and having learned my lesson on surprising people - I call my mom when I near their neighborhood. I don't think that I can take any more surprises, and my hands are definitely shaking now. She picks up on the third ring.  "Natalie! It is so good to hear from you!" Like a damn breaking, my shock finally dissipates, and the flood gates open wide. My mom's voice has always had this effect on me. Whenever I was having a rough day, one word from my mom brought it to the surface.  "Mom," I say through sobbing gasps. "I need to come home."  "Oh, honey! Are you safe? Do you need dad to pick you up? What happened?" My mom officially has her 'concerned mother' voice working in full.  "I- I am turning on t-to your street now. I w-will tell you every-everything." My eyes are spilling out tears like I am in the middle of a typhoon. Honestly, it is a wonder that I can see anything, but I carefully pull in front of my parents' house right as my mom hangs up. Almost immediately, the door to her house flies open, and she is standing there with a hand on her heart. Concern evident even from here and through the tropical storm that I am kicking up.  I get out of the car and run directly into my mother's arms, completely giving over to my tears.  My dad appears a moment later and wraps both of us into a tight embrace.  I have no clue how long we all stand there for, but by the time my parents break the hug to usher me into the house, my tears are only a steady stream. Deciding that it was best to rip the bandaid off now, I blurt out the full story. My parents seem to be in as much shock as I was. They were never Eric's biggest fans, but they liked him well enough. Emily, on the other hand, was like a second daughter to them. We practically grew up together. Her betrayal hurts so much worse than Eric's because of all of the people I would have never expected her.  Almost as if on cue, my phone vibrates.  I look at the screen and see that Eric is calling. I hit reject and pocket my phone again.  "I'm getting us wallowing supplies! I will be right back." My mom runs to the kitchen with the spryness of a 20-year-old. This is one of the things that I love most about my mother. She doesn't come in with platitudes. She comes with the tried and true heartbreak cure: wallowing with junk food and sappy movies—the true first step to any real recovery.  My dad awkwardly excuses himself after giving me another hug. When I am alone, I pull my phone back out and see that Eric tried calling again and that I have missed messages from him and Emily. I don't bother reading any of them.  I can't right now. Maybe never again. Instead, I send Eric a text to let him know that I will be getting my things tomorrow and turn my phone off.  I almost send him something a bit pithier, but the last thing I am feeling is pithy. I had recently begun having my doubts that Eric and I were endgame. He responded really poorly once I finally got a job at Meyer and Meyer.  I started making great money, but my time was minimal. He struggled with not being my first priority, and while I got that, he knew since we started dating that I wanted to be a career woman. But for things to end like this? I just feel hollow. My mom returns with what appears to be her entire pantry. I jump up to catch some of the provisions as several bags of chips make a break for freedom. We set everything out on the coffee table in the living room, complete with my parent's huge SmartTV. Without another word, my mom leaves again, this time returning with the pièce de résistance: cookie dough ice cream.  Let the wallowing begin.