Making of a Kept Woman

chapter 11

Chapter 11: Independent Waters

My apartment was less than 750 square feet and equally modest in every other aspect. I tried to add some homey touches where I could, but it was a bit like putting lipstick on a pig. The blue carpeting, laminate counters, and dated couch that came with it commanded center stage with their humility; anything chic would be out of place. Aesthetics weren’t my top priority, though. The place was affordable and that’s what mattered.

Broderick was set to move into town a few weeks after I claimed my independence, so I invited him to stay with me until he found a place of his own. My apartment was an embarrassment compared to the home he was leaving behind, but I knew that mattered more to me than it would him. I tossed my pride in the dumpster along with the rest of my emotional baggage and braced myself for my first visitor (and the rest of my life).

I did my best to offer him the comforts of home but didn’t quite succeed. Broderick slept on the couch for two nights before he mentioned his feet hung off the end. I felt terrible! Especially since his waking hours were spent adjusting to a new job and overall environment. I insisted he take my bed for the rest of his stay, which provoked strong objection. It took a fair amount of negotiating just to settle on sharing the bedroom since we both knew my back would’ve given me hell if I slept on those concaved cushions.

We bunked together for a month before Broderick finalized the lease on a house. I was selfishly disappointed that he’d found a place so quickly. Not only was it fun being roommates, but I slept far better with him around. I really struggled with sleeping alone and in unfamiliar places, so having someone I trusted in my strange new abode offered that sense of security I desperately needed.

A few weeks of living on my own again left me feeling worse for wear. Sleep deprivation had me on edge with pretty much everything, and each day that passed without picking up another stream of income compounded my stress. Since I didn’t want to spend money on anything frivolous, the only time I left my apartment was to get groceries, job hunt, or when I showed Broderick around on weekends. Thank goodness for that- I wasn’t prepared for how isolating single life could be.

Broderick knew I wasn’t thrilled with my accommodations and invited me to move in with him on more than one occasion. It required Herculean strength to insist on staying put since his house overlooked the bay and had a cool contemporary design that I found glamorous. The more we hung out there, the more difficult it became to remind myself how important it was for me to make it on my own.

My apartment was small and a bit ugly, but that wasn’t the worst of it- the neighbors were. I heard everything through the walls. One unit must’ve been home to someone very ill because I heard thunderous vomiting almost daily. It was as heartbreaking as it was unsettling. Another had a couple of dogs that barked and whined as soon as their humans left. They moved in after me, otherwise I would’ve gladly found a different place to live.

One Saturday Broderick and I took a walk over the bay bridge, then sat by the water’s edge to replenish with smoothies. Feeling down, casual venting about “Whimpers McGee” and “Sir Vomits-A-lot” snowballed into outright spewing of frustrations. There were plenty of hand gestures, too. I wasn’t aware of how animated I’d gotten until Broderick couldn’t contain his laughter. He said my language gets colorful and creative when I’m angry. I looked him square in the eyes while stating it wasn’t funny; I honestly thought I might be losing my mind. But his laughter was contagious and coaxed a cackle out of me, too. Once he regained his composure, he generously extended another offer to move in with him.

As much as I hated the idea of intruding, Broderick threw out some solid arguments. Among them were “eliminating the environmental impacts of our regular commutes to hang out”—I don’t think he even realizes he does that. I was mainly concerned living together could ruin our friendship or interfere with his liaisons, but he assured me neither would be an issue. He was adamant we’d always be friends, and said he needed more time to work through his broken engagement before considering dating. His current focus was on how stressed I was. He doubted I could find what made me truly happy if I was living somewhere that made me miserable. He had me there; there was no sensible rebuttal.

However, I had plenty to say about his unwillingness to accept rent money. I couldn’t bear the thought of something so trivial coming between us. But he knew most of my money was invested and didn’t want me selling shares to cover living expenses he’d already budgeted for. And we both knew about the sizable nest egg he was sitting on thanks to a wisely invested inheritance—that drastically limited my scope of pleas. Since I desperately wanted to contribute, he suggested it be through enjoyable efforts, like continuing to be his gulf coast tour guide and attending work events that arise.

As convincing as our conversation felt, I worried that I was just having a bad day and had blown the annoyances of apartment life out of proportion. I told him I’d think about it, but was really leaning towards staying in my own place until I could afford something better.

A couple more tiring weeks went by before the human parents of “Whimpers McGee” went on vacation. At that point, the dogs whined non-stop for an entire week. When I seriously contemplated whether I needed medication to cope, I decided to come to my senses and accept Broderick’s generous offer.

We planned to move me out of that heinous environment and into his waterfront rental by month’s end. That gave me about a week to repack my meager belongings before relocating to paradise.

Broderick’s place was truly spectacular. It overlooked the bay and was styled to compliment the surrounding seascape. Its cool color palette mirrored that of nature, the chef’s kitchen was more practical than showy, and the infinity pool enhanced the backyard’s appeal instead of detracting from it. I thought the property was gorgeous the moment I had first laid eyes on it, but its splendor was magnified the day I got to call it home (even if only temporarily).

As I stood in the living room looking out at the water, my blissful relief gave way to a flood of mixed emotions. I felt like a fool and a failure at a time when I’d hoped to feel proudly independent. My inner critic was loud and abusive, filling me with enough self-loathing to drown out all rational thought. It was impossible to think clearly. I headed outside to the water’s edge, as watching the meditative sway of frothy waves usually helped. That’s when a gentle whisper reminded me there was no “right” path if I didn’t have a destination in mind. That truth stung like a backhanded compliment. I needed the salty air to absorb its emotional charge before I could know the extent of such bittersweet wisdom.