16
1120 Words
“Because if nothing else convinced you to marry him, that alone should have.”
“It’s a chicken salad, not a declaration of undying love.”
“It might as well be! He fed you, Em. Even after you rejected him. And we both know where food sits in your hierarchy of needs. If you say ‘I’m hungry,’ there’s about twenty minutes before you turn into something that should be chained in a basement when the moon is full.”
“Have I told you lately that I hate you?”
“Shut up. You love me. Now tell me why you said no.”
I stop chewing to give the phone in my hand a look of disbelief. “Are you saying you think I should’ve said yes?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Pfft. We could be here until next week if I listed all the reasons why not.”
“Really? You have something more important to do?”
“Than marry a total stranger? Yes!”
She scoffs. “Like what?”
“Like everything! Listen to yourself, Dani. You sound just as nuts as he did. Besides, he wasn’t serious. It was some kind of sick prank.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh my God. You’ve gone over to the dark side. Why would some random billionaire want to marry me?”
“Stop beating yourself up for a minute and consider the possibility that maybe you’re more marriageable than you think.”
I shake my head and chew another bite of my salad, giving her time to realize what she just said.
Finally, she sighs. “Okay, fine. It was a prank.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m only saying that so we don’t get into a fight, by the way. I think there’s a good possibility he was serious.”
“I’m hanging up on you now.”
Before I can, she says, “Remember how obsessed Ben was with you?”
“Before he abandoned me without an explanation and was never heard from again?”
“Well…yeah. He did do that. But before that, he was so p***y whipped, all his friends made fun of him.”
I mutter, “This conversation is giving me a migraine.”
Ignoring me, she goes on. “And Chris and Brandon were gaga about you too.”
“Before they dumped me, you mean. Are you seeing the pattern here?”
“So you’ve had a couple of bad breakups in the past few years. That doesn’t mean you’re not amazing.”
“Pretty sure that’s exactly what it means, bud.”
Sounding indignant, she says, “Well, I’d marry you. If I was a lesbian, I mean.”
“How incredibly comforting. Thank you.”
“Don’t be snotty. I’m giving you a compliment.”
The shop phone rings as I’m rolling my eyes. “Gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Come over for dinner Friday night.”
“What are you making?”
“Lasagna. See you at six.”
She disconnects without waiting for a yes, because she knows I’ll never say no to pasta. I set the cell on the desktop and pick up the shop phone. “Lit Happens, how may I help you?”
“This is David Montgomery from the California Department of Tax and Fee Administration. May I speak to the owner, please?”
Oh s**t. The CDTFA. The only thing worse would be hearing from the IRS. My heart plummets to my stomach.
I say tentatively, “This is the owner.”
“Ms. Eastwood?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, excellent. I’m calling to discuss your sales tax account.”
I already know on a gut level that this is going to be extraordinarily bad. “What about it?”
“We’ve done an internal audit and discovered some anomalies in your returns.”
Gulping, I repeat, “Anomalies?”
“Yes. Your earnings have been underreported for quite a few years. Ten, to be exact.”
My heart beats so fast, I’m breathless. My voice comes out high and tight. “No, that’s impossible. We keep records of every sale, even the cash ones. And we always file on time. My bookkeeper is an excellent—”
He cuts me off with, “There’s a principal balance due on the account of one million, nine hundred sixty-four thousand dollars and seventy-two cents.”
I gasp in horror and break out in a cold sweat.
Mr. Montgomery adds calmly, “Plus penalties.”
“Penalties?”
“We can waive the penalties if you pay the principal amount within thirty days.”
My grip on reality unravels, and I laugh hysterically. “Oh, how wonderful! How absolutely generous of you! I’m so relieved!”
He decides I’m being a pain in the a*s and changes his professional tone to one of cold disapproval.
“Ms. Eastwood, this is no laughing matter. Tax fraud is a crime punishable by severe fines.” His voice turns threatening. “Or prison time.”
Leaping from my chair in panic, I start to pace. “Listen, there must be some mistake. We’ve paid every dime of the sales tax we ever collected. You need to go through the returns again.”
“I assure you there is no mistake.”
“There must be!”
“There isn’t. Will you be paying by check or wire transfer?”
“I don’t have two million dollars!”
He clucks. “How unfortunate. In that case, we’ll proceed with collection efforts. Do you own your home?”
“Why?”
“We’ll get a lien on the property.”
“I rent an apartment! I don’t own anything except my car!”
“Then we’ll put a lien on that. And get a judgment against you personally so that any future earnings will be garnished until the total amount due is paid.”
The way he’s coldly discussing the ruination of my entire financial future makes me want to tear my hair out. Shaking and sweating, I stand beside the desk with one clammy hand clutching the receiver and the other clasped over my forehead.
“I haven’t seen a bill or any kind of notice about this. How can you be starting collection efforts already?”
“We’ve mailed several invoices to your business address. You didn’t respond.”
“That’s because I never got them!”
Sounding like he thinks I’m a big fat liar, he sniffs. “Nevertheless, the account remains overdue.”
“How the hell am I supposed to come up with two million dollars?”
- Writer
