All that’s left is drafting up a rental agreement so Rachel and Sophia can move in as soon as possible. Rachel insists on paying rent, and I suppose she has a point. I have a history of going above and beyond to help people, especially her. A formal lease keeps things cleaner for both of us.
My friend-slash-lawyer Paul answers the phone on the first ring, even though drafting a lease agreement is probably the last thing he’d like to be doing on a Friday night.
“How much do you want to charge for rent?” he asks.
“What’s the going rate?”
“In a neighborhood like that, rates start around $3000 a month.”
That’s absurd. I doubt Rachel can afford that.
“Let’s call it an even thousand,” I say, the chair in my home office creaking as I lean back.
There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone. “Okay, that’s… rather low. Don’t you think?”
“Utilities included,” I respond.
The silence that follows is broken by a heavy sigh. It crackles through the phone like static before Paul speaks. “Listen man, as your friend, I just have to say it. If you’re doing this to try to get Rachel back…”
My sharp, humorless laugh cuts him off.
There’s nothing I would enjoy less than getting back together with my ex-wife. As far as I know, that feeling is completely mutual. We’ve been down that road, and we both agree it was a massive wrong turn.
“I’m doing this to make sure Sophia is taken care of,” I say firmly. “The whole point is making sure that they can afford to live here without having to choose between a decent neighborhood and a decent price.”
“Understood,” he says after a long pause. “I’ll draw up the paperwork.”
“Thanks, Paul.”
I hang up the phone and keep scrolling through the search results for local furniture stores. Rachel’s aunt will be taking all her furniture with her when she moves, which doesn’t leave Rachel and Sophia with much, so I offered to furnish the house for them.
Eventually, I hear quiet footsteps in the hallway then Margot appears in the doorway of my office. This week has been rough on her, but she shows a little improvement every day. She’s not quite her usual self yet, and I can’t blame her after everything she’s been through.
“Hey,” Margot says softly, lingering in the doorway.
“Hey, how are you?”
“Fine,” she answers with zero conviction. It’s become her go-to answer every time I ask.
I gesture for her to sit. Slowly, she enters the room and lowers herself into the gray chair across from me.
“I’m going to IKEA tomorrow to buy a bed,” she says. “I should be able to go back to my apartment and get out of your hair after that.”
I’ve already corrected her a thousand times: having her here is no inconvenience at all. My house is objectively huge, and Margot is a good houseguest. She’s clean and quiet, but more importantly, we get along great. If anything, having her here has been a nice break from the monotony.
Over the past two years, I’ve settled into a strict, predictable routine. At first, it was just a way to reset after the divorce—early morning workouts, late nights at the office, a quick date or two on the weekends. I don’t mind the structure; in fact, I like it. But having Margot around has been a welcome change of pace.
There’s only one problem: those damn cat pajamas, which she’s currently wearing.
It makes zero sense. They’re shapeless and stiff. The thick flannel fabric reveals nothing about her figure, nor does the neckline. I can’t even see her ankles, for god’s sake. And this is completely ignoring the fact that they’re ridiculous. They are literally covered in small, colorful cats of differing… breeds? Do cats have breeds?
My eyes drop to a little pink cat with a ball of yarn that sits high on the collar of her top and my dick twitches.
It’s fucking ridiculous.
Obviously, this is a byproduct of two things: the fact that I equate the pajamas with all the lacy panties Margot tossed in the trash bag at the same time, and the fact that I haven’t gotten laid in two weeks.
As much as I’ve enjoyed the break from my regular routine, I suppose it’s time to get back to it. Margot needs to get onwith her life as well. This arrangement was never meant to be permanent.