Chapter 2: Group Chat Showdown

Everyone in class knew Natalie Brooks was renting my place.

It had become one of those open secrets—people would nudge each other and whisper whenever Natalie complained about rent or bragged about her "sweet downtown deal." I didn't love the attention, but I figured it came with the territory. My name, for better or worse, had gotten a little extra buzz around campus since I'd started playing landlord.

Ten years ago, my parents bought a house on Maple Heights Drive because it was cheap. Unexpectedly, as the city grew, our area got picked for redevelopment and became one of the first neighborhoods to be torn down for new condos. Our two houses were demolished, and we were compensated with seven new apartments and a hundred thousand dollars.

It was one of those classic American stories—old neighborhoods bulldozed, glass towers going up overnight. For years, we'd driven by the empty lot, watching excavators bite through the last bits of our childhood backyard. Sometimes my dad would slow down, shake his head, and say, "Progress, huh?" In the end, the developers gave us a stack of keys and a check, and my mom started joking that she was going to start wearing a blazer and calling herself a real estate mogul. My parents joked about being ‘accidental landlords’—still clipping grocery coupons, but with a ring of apartment keys on the kitchen hook.

Over the years, my dad has run a small business that just gets by, and my mom became a full-time landlord. We're not super rich, but we've never had to worry about bills or groceries.

We lived comfortably, the kind of middle-class stability where the fridge was always full and the lights always stayed on. My friends used to tease me that I was "apartment royalty," which was hilarious considering my folks still drove a used Honda Civic. But compared to some of my classmates, I couldn't deny I had it easy.

Especially me—I've been spoiled since I was a kid. My parents gave me whatever I wanted. No one ever really laid into me.

I was the type who got birthday cakes shaped like whatever cartoon I liked that year, and my parents would turn the whole living room into a fort just because I asked. Discipline? Maybe, but only the gentle, talking-it-out kind, not the old-school boot camp stuff my grandpa always swore by.

I never thought the first to break that record would be Natalie Brooks, this weirdo.

Honestly, the bad blood between us was all my fault.

Just a few months into freshman year, she got into a fight with her rich roommate and was kicked out of the dorm with all her stuff. The RA tried to mediate a few times, but nothing worked. Plus, her rich roommate had donated a lot to the school, so the college just ignored it.

It was that classic campus drama—one side with money and connections, the other with nothing but stubbornness and bad luck. Natalie showed up at the dining hall lugging her suitcase, shooting daggers at anyone who stared. The rumor mill churned for weeks, but no one really offered to help. Most people just watched from the sidelines, like it was a reality show.

In other words, no one stood up for Natalie.

With nowhere to go, she somehow found out my family had a place near campus and came to me, hinting that I should have pity and rent it to her cheap because we were classmates.

I still remember how awkward that first conversation was—Natalie showing up outside the library with a hopeful smile and a list of reasons why she’d be the perfect tenant. She leaned in, dropping hints about "solidarity" and "helping out a fellow student." I felt cornered and guilty all at once, as if saying no would make me heartless.

I've always been soft-hearted, and after a week of her pestering, I caved. My parents didn't want me to make enemies over something so small, so they were happy to help. The place was empty anyway, so why not rent it out?

It seemed like an easy solution, honestly—a win-win, or so I thought. Even my mom told me, "Aubrey, you'll feel better helping someone than seeing that apartment gather dust."

After some back and forth, we drew up a lease and signed the contract.

It felt official, signing those papers at my parents’ kitchen table. Natalie acted so grateful, promising she'd treat the place like her own. I even snapped a picture of us shaking hands, thinking this would be the start of a good friendship. I had no idea what was coming.

But after she moved in, Natalie never let me have a moment's peace. From big things like asking for more furniture, to little things like clogged drains—problems she could've solved herself, she insisted I, the landlord, help her fix. For a while, as soon as I finished class, she'd drag me off to do repairs. I wished I could grow three pairs of hands.

I started keeping a mental checklist of "Natalie emergencies": the time she called me at midnight because a spider was on the ceiling, or when she texted nonstop about wanting a new lamp because the old one "killed the vibe." My toolbox lived by my bedroom door for months, just in case. I joked to my roommates that I'd become her on-call handyman, but after the tenth time she called me for a clogged sink, it wasn't funny anymore.

Honestly, the repair costs over time basically ate up her rent.

Out of sympathy, I lowered her rent and agreed to a one-month deposit and three months' rent up front.

But she only kept that up for a year.

Sophomore year, she claimed her part-time job wasn't paying her on time and asked to switch to monthly payments. I didn't want to, but Natalie cried, acted pitiful, and even threatened to kneel to me, so I gave in. Even my roommates complained:

"Come on, why are you so nice as a landlord? Should we give you a medal?"

"Seriously, did you owe her something in a past life? Why do you do whatever she says? Is this house hers or yours?"

Wanting to avoid more drama, I just swallowed my frustration.

I remember lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every argument in my head. Was I just a pushover? Why did I keep folding every time she asked for something? My friends would roll their eyes when I vented, but I couldn't shake the guilt. Maybe I was too used to saying yes.

I didn't realize that my repeated compromises just encouraged her shamelessness.

Now she's even tagging me in the group, sending me $45 and acting like she's doing me a favor. It's like she's one step away from walking all over me.

I couldn't help but wonder: Have I been too nice to her?

The thought nagged at me. Maybe this was my wake-up call—a sign it was time to grow a spine. I opened up my phone, ready to finally stand up for myself.