I motion for her to descend the stairs outside first. The looks she gives me is half confusion, half admonishment, but she holds her questions until we’re back in the car.
“What was that, Ethan?”
Raking a hand through my hair, I stare out the windshield. The smell lingers in my nose while uninvited memories crowd my mind: thin mattresses, dirty sheets, the faint buzz of the vending machine outside reminding me that I pretended not to be hungry when my parents asked because I didn’t want them to feel bad about getting stuck at work and missing dinner hours at the soup kitchen.
“That smell,” I finally say. “You didn’t notice it?”
Her brows pinch together. “What smell?”
“Cockroaches. That apartment’s infested.”
“And you could smell it? Is that some sort of superpower or something? Were you bitten by a radioactive cockroach at some point?”
“Not exactly,” I say, letting the words hang there for a moment. “When I was a kid, my family didn’t always have a place to live. We stayed in a lot of motels, shelters, places like that. A few of them smelled like that. It sticks with you.”
The humor drains from Margot’s face, and her expression softens. “Ethan, I’m so sorry. Emma’s mentioned that you and Garrett had a difficult childhood, but I didn’t realize…”
“It’s fine,” I say.
Margot seems caught off guard by my interruption. What was meant as avoidance came off as irritation. I reach across the center console and grab her hand, squeezing lightly.
“Sorry, I just don’t really like to talk about it, but it’s part of who I am and you should know. My childhood wasn’t all bad. In fact, I have a lot of really good memories, even when we wereliving in crappy motels and homeless shelters. My parents really did try to provide for us as much as they could, and Garrett and I learned to make the most of the situation.”
“What about Silas?”
“Not so much,” I say, my jaw tensing at the mere mention of my oldest brother.
Margot nods, compassionate but cautious. Her eyes linger on my face, analyzing whatever emotion she finds there. After a few seconds, I give her a subdued smile and pull her hand up to my mouth, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles.
“Alright, what’s next?” I ask, changing the subject.
Letting go of my hand, Margot pulls her phone out of her bag and scrolls through a spreadsheet. The corners of her mouth tug downwards. “There’s a place on Washington near 47thAve.”
Her frown is contagious. That intersection puts her squarely in Globeville, a run-down neighborhood of old warehouses and manufacturing plants straddled by highways. The fact that apartments exist there is news to me.
Sensing my disapproval before I have a chance to voice it out loud, Margot cuts in. “The complex was renovated recently, and the rent isveryaffordable. It’s worth taking a look at.”
“Can I see that list?”
Margot looks mildly annoyed, but hands me her phone anyway. A quick glance shows me that her spreadsheet is sorted from lowest to highest rent. The other columns track square footage, distance to work, fuel costs (calculated to the penny, adjusted for inflation, and probably cross-checked with the US Department of Energy).
“This is… comprehensive,” I say.
“I just want to catch up on my savings,” she says with a defensive edge to her tone. “Jeremy insisted on living close to downtown in the nicest place we could afford. Covering therent by myself, plus replacing all of my furniture these last few months has put me behind.”
Of course Margot has a strict budget, most of which is probably dedicated to saving for rainy days and retirement. I love that about her. But I’m also not letting her rent a place that’s sandwiched between a smelter and a meat-packing plant.
“Look, I get it,” I start. A doubtful expression crosses Margot’s face, but I remind her, “I’ve struggled too. I haven’t always had it this easy when it comes to money.” She nods gently, conceding to my point. “But before you sign a lease anywhere, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Okay…” Margot says slowly, her eyes fixed on mine.
I wasn’t planning to tell Margot about the promotion until the board officially approved the position, and I definitely didn’t plan to tell her here in the parking lot of a roach motel masquerading as an apartment complex.
“You’re getting a promotion,” I blurt out.
“I am?” Margot’s eyes go wide. “To what?”
“Director of Financial Operations. It’s a new position that I’ve been working on creating for you, but it’s taken a while to get the board’s approval. They were concerned about the optics of promoting someone from an executive assistant to a director. I had to show them that your job has always been more than that. You’ve been doing the workload and responsibilities of a director ever since I got promoted to CEO.”