Full Release by Marshall Thornton (classic books for 11 year olds txt) 📕

liked Charles for some reason, so I had to be delicate if I wanted her to understand he was actively stupid. “Charles isn’t a problem-solver.”

“I think you’re underestimating him,” was her response to my gentle criticism.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said, diplomatically. “I’ll keep an eye on him and see how he does with any problems that come his way.”

Actually, I was saying that Sonja should keep an eye on him. Which she totally got, since her jaw locked and she looked down at some papers on her desk. “Of course, I suppose I could go strictly by seniority,” she said in a frosty voice.

I was last hired, and while I out-ranked the rest of my department by title, she could still use seniority as a reason to let me go -- and save more money than she would on any of the other three.

“Whatever you think is best. It is your dec--”

Suddenly, my pocket vibrated. I tried to subtly ease my cell phone out of my pocket and peek at the screen. It was my ex. This was a tough call. I didn’t want to talk to Jeremy any more than I wanted to continue my uncomfortable conversation with Sonja. She made the decision for me.

“Go ahead and take it. This is all rumor, anyway. Maybe it won’t happen.” But from the tone of her voice, she was sure it would.

When I got back to my office, Fred Kohl had disappeared. Smaller than Sonja’s, my office was furnished in the standard black desk and credenza given to all mid-level management. Somewhere in the building there was a two hundred page guide outlining who could have what furnishings and at what level. If I ever got bumped up to Executive Director from Director, I’d be able to pick out another potted plant and choose my own prints for the walls. Sometimes I thought we should re-engineer the design department.

I hit answer on my cell and there was Jeremy. “Hey, how’s it going?” His voice was mellow and overly sincere.

“Great. It’s going great,” I replied, splitting the difference between irony and an outright lie.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Do you want something in particular?”

“I can’t just call you?”

“No, you can’t.”

He left a long pause and then said quietly, “Skye has asked me to marry him.”

It was my turn to be silent. Absently, I calculated the amount of time during our breakup Jeremy and I had spent on the telephone not saying anything. After a year of this, I put the total at about fifteen minutes. Finally, I asked, “Are you waiting for me to congratulate you?”

“You know what I’m waiting for. We need to settle things.” We’d been trying to undo our domestic partnership for almost a year. I wasn’t sure why he thought his impending marriage would make that any easier.

“All we really need to do is work out the property agreement. Then we’re set,” I pointed out.

“I really don’t want to end up in court, Matt.” Jeremy was not the type to issue veiled threats. I was sure Skye was behind his saying that.

“No, you don’t,” I replied simply.

“I’m sure we can do this amicably.”

“I’m sure we can, too. Just as soon as you give me forty-seven thousand nine hundred sixty-four dollars and thirty-seven cents.” This was the exact amount of money we had left from the second mortgage we’d taken out to upgrade the kitchen and the bathroom. The exact amount Jeremy had withdrawn and used to rent and furnish an apartment for himself in West Hollywood so he could explore the independence he craved, yet quickly threw aside when he fell in love two months into the adventure. The exact amount that had evaporated in a canceled lease, a new wardrobe, a slightly used BMW, and the apparently lavish courtship of hairdresser and failed reality-TV star, Skye Davis.

“It’s always about money with you, isn’t it?” Jeremy said in a gentle, disapproving tone.

“Be careful. You don’t want me tacking on your half of the mortgage payments you haven’t paid in the last year. That’s another fifteen-thousand dollars, give or take.”

“I’ve decided to sign the house over to you. And we’ll say the forty thousand is my share of the equity.”

I sighed heavily. “Do you live under a rock? The real estate market collapsed. There’s no equity in the house. The market has fallen, and the house isn’t worth what we owe on it. Even with a kitchen.”

“But--”

I knew he was about to start talking about the nearly hundred grand we’d put down, which was three-quarters mine anyway, so I interrupted him. “If you don’t believe me, talk to a real estate agent.”

“Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

After you break up with a person, you begin to be honest about their more annoying habits. For example, when faced with incontrovertible facts Jeremy would revert to pure emotion. It drove me crazy, and in a weird way I felt sorry for Skye, who now had to put up with this on a daily basis. I told Jeremy I had to get back to work and hung up.

I tried to focus on a report detailing the complete un-profitability of one of last year’s releases. As the film was little more than a ninety-six minute search for a condom, I had to wonder why anyone thought it wise to spend almost eighty million dollars producing it. Of course, the whole production process was shrouded in mystery. Why we made the movies we made and spent what we spent on them was often stunningly illogical. But I’m an accountant. Accountants think producing films should be about making money. Clearly something else was at play.

I worried if I should tell Tiffany about the re-engineering. It might not be real, but then again, if it was, she could certainly use this time to look for another job. I should probably give her a couple of contacts. Her cubicle sat just outside my office. If I moved my chair to the right, I could see her