The False Flat

CHAPTER 8

TWELVE OUNCES OF . . . MMMM

Five solid beats, like a fist on loose panes of glass, hammered in my head. My eyelids fluttered as they fought to stay closed against the sun streaming through the blinds over my bedroom window, about as good as a colander at keeping the day out. It was Saturday morning, and Chad, who’d flown in the night before, sprawled, still asleep, on the floor mattress next to me. We’d had a brief discussion about our “relationship.” We both agreed to take it slow, and our commitment was loose. Throughout the week, I’d regretted my rash decision to send that “Let’s talk” text, but as soon as he’d walked into my new Nashville home and swept me up into his arms, I’d melted into the greeting. He was so sure, sure enough for the both of us. Then, we’d had the sex prescribed by the insane massage therapist I’d managed to avoid all week.

The rattling continued, and I threw back the covers and looked down at my faded Counting Crows T-shirt, the one I’d had for years. As soon as I’d seen the words, already flaking—I’m not ready for this sort of thing—at a thrift store, I’d bought it, my homage to the nights I’d lain in bed in my early teens, listening to “A Long December” on repeat, low, so my mother wouldn’t hear it as I cried myself to sleep.

With my robe belted around me, I went to the door and peeked out the window, pulling up one blind.

Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness. It was that guy from last weekend. My mind went blank. Greg, Deanna’s brother, the number four. No, not Greg, Grant. Grant and his damned mustache.

What is he doing here?

I danced and paced, trying to decide whether to pretend I wasn’t home or to open the door and find out why he was on my front porch standing next to Erin’s grandparents’ plant I’d let die.

“Penelope? Are you okay?” The voice came from the other side of the door. “I can see your outline, and it looks like you’re having some sort of fit; do you need help?”

My inhalation sharpened. “Just a minute.”

I gripped the belt of my robe and pulled the two sides as tight as I could until my abdomen ached, physically pulling myself together. Ever practical, my mother had taught me this trick: in an uncomfortable situation, give yourself something else to focus on: shoes that pinch, a bra latched too tight, an itchy garment, anything to distract you and keep you on your toes.

I touched my head, making sure my hair was smooth, only to realize I was still wearing my silk bonnet, a nighttime hair-wrapping method I used to keep it from frizzing. I ripped it off and threw it behind the TV. Then I ran my hands through my hair and over my eyebrows and swiped at the corners of my eyes and the edges of my mouth. At least I could count on my overnight makeup, which I’d kept on so Chad would be charmed by my oh-this-is-just-naturally-what-I-wake-up-like morning face.

With my shoulders squared and my chin up, I unlatched the drafty door and pulled it open as if I wasn’t surprised at all to see him standing there, the sun hitting his back and making him glow like a mustached Adonis.

And then I saw The Nose, who smiled and waved at me. She pointed at Grant, holding a cup up in her left hand, then gave me a thumbs-up, which instantly made my face glow.

“I’m well aware I’m too early. I’m hoping these help.” Grant held out a four-pack of muffins in a brown box with a window on the top of it and a covered paper to-go cup that matched the one The Nose had. “From Deanna.”

“She made them? For me?” I took the box and the drink, but my hand stung on contact. Guilt. Over the past eight days—from the night I’d attempted human friendship over dinner—Deanna had texted me four times and tried calling twice. I hadn’t returned any of the messages. I was too embarrassed; also, she’d been so complimentary that I’d wanted to leave on a good note. Why ruin things by renewed contact?

He nodded. “She also made me come here.”

I wished my hands weren’t full so I could belt my robe tighter. I barely knew these people. Why wouldn’t they fade into the background?

“Coffee?” I held up the cup. “And did you bring one to my neighbor?”

“Matcha. I didn’t know if you drank coffee. Everyone likes green tea. And yes. She was outside when I drove up. We got to talking, and I gave her the one I’d brought for me.”

I looked away from him because that was really sweet, and I didn’t want to find him charming, so I rolled my eyes and said, “Who prefers green tea over coffee?”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s disgusting, and I hate it.” If he didn’t want brutal honesty, then he should’ve come with coffee, after I’d ensured my makeup hadn’t gone rogue in the night, when I had on proper nonrobe clothes.

“That seems about right.” His mouth cocked to the side, amused. “Try it. I made it myself.”

“That’s supposed to make it better?” I didn’t know why I was being snarky. This man brought it out of me. Or maybe it was his mustache. If he’d just shave it, we could be friends, or, at the very least, I could be civil.

“Taste it.”

I rolled my eyes again and brought the cup to my lips, taking a tentative sip. The warmth hit my mouth first, followed by a faint hint of cinnamon that was laced with mild sweetness. It was delicious. I’d heard Deanna say describing food as “delicious” was a sure indication of an unsophisticated palate.

It is delicious.

“So?” He waited for my answer.

I shrugged. “It’s not really doing anything for me, sorry.” How long before I could take another sip?

He nodded and let out a little “Hmm” before asking, “Are you going to invite me in?”

Chad floated through my mind. It was Saturday morning, almost eight a.m. He never slept past eight a.m. And then there was my house, the antithesis of the image I wanted to portray. Had I told them how long I’d been in Nashville? If Grant was judgy now, wait until I fueled him with my empty, crumbling house. He’d have a field day. See, you’re so busy, you can’t even keep a proper home!

Grant must’ve seen the hesitation in my hesitation because he said, “I promise I won’t stay long. I have a job I need to get to anyway.”

I moved aside and motioned him in with the glorious drink he’d given me that didn’t taste a thing like green tea.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed.

I nearly dropped the drink. Had he caught me? Was he that shocked at the house? Had Chad come down shirtless, showing off his incredible abs?

He ran his hands over the wall with a tenderness that veered toward weird. “Incredible. She’s incredible.”

“She? What?” Was he having a stroke?

“Your house. Can’t you feel it? Well, you bought it. You must feel it.”

“Are you talking about the general decay or the musty smell?”

“Every house has energy,” he said. “You can feel it as soon as you walk through the door. This one has great energy, but it’s going to take some work to get her to her full potential.” He turned toward me. “It’ll be worth it, though. This is the kind of house where whatever you put into it, you’ll get back and then some.”

I took another sip of the can’t-possibly-be green tea and pondered. When I’d walked into this house, I’d felt none of those things, but it had felt like home. Maybe Grant was the equivalent to a sommelier in the wine world, some sort of house whisperer. I liked him better for it. Slightly.

“Deanna made you come?” I was still holding the muffins and the cup, but I couldn’t dare take him into my kitchen. The few dishes I owned were indecent. And he probably expected me to offer him one of the muffins, but I wasn’t going to do that either. I needed him to leave.

“Yeah, she said I was the reason you weren’t answering her calls or texts and that I needed to fix it. For some reason, she likes you.”

His gaze was too intense, like he was looking inside me again. I cleared my throat, then automatically took another sip, forgetting the drink wasn’t supposed to do anything for me. “And how long are you staying?”

He chuckled. “I guess you determine how long I stay because I have two objectives here, and if I fail, Deanna will stop returning my texts and phone calls.”

Why do I matter to this woman?She didn’t need my example of wonky entrepreneurialism. So I couldn’t fathom why she wanted to be friends with me, wanted it badly enough to send her brother over with fresh baked goods and an amazing drink.

“And what are the two objectives?”

“One, you have to text her that it was actually all your fault and that you’ve come to your senses and realize what a great guy I am.”

“Okay, so she sent you on a suicide mission. I hope you have another sister because—”

“I’m sorry. I come off as a jerk sometimes, and I have no idea how to correct this flaw. Deanna likes you.” He stopped, smiled. “Like I said, don’t know why, but she does. Please text her. That’s the first thing.”

“And the second?” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

“Go on at least one bike ride with our group.” He winced, then held up a hand to stop the protest poised on my tongue. “Don’t use me as a measure for the group. Everyone else is charming. You’ll like them.”

“I don’t know. They associate with you, though, so ...”

“Do I need to beg? I’ll get on my knees.”

“I forgive you, and I’ll text Deanna. But the bike ride? That’s really not necessary.”

“You don’t know Deanna well enough yet. She gets what she wants, and she follows through on threats. You have to come.”

“I don’t have to do—”

To my significant alarm, he was getting on his knees.

“Pen, what the hell? Is this guy proposing to you?” The question came from the stairs behind me. Chad was awake. Slightly jealous, slightly possessive, slightly macho-around-male-threats Chad was awake, and Grant was kneeling in front of me.

I closed my eyes.

When I opened them, Chad was standing beside me, a shirtless wonder with loose gray jogging pants around his slim waist, and Grant was extending his hand up to him—his knees still on the floor like this was a completely normal situation.

“Not proposing.” Nothing derailed Grant from his business, not even a half-naked man walking into the room. “Convincing Penelope to save my relationship with my sister. I’m Grant, by the way.”

Chad took Grant’s hand. “Chad, Pen’s boyfriend.” Well, so much for taking things slow.

“I gathered that.” Grant eyed Chad’s abdomen. “So, Penelope, will you go on that bike ride? We meet every Sunday. If tomorrow’s too soon, you can go next weekend or the weekend after that.”

“Bike ride? Like a date?” Chad asked. “So, you’re not proposing, but you are asking my girlfriend on a date ... right in front of me?” He looked around the room as if to find someone to sympathize with him.

I opened my mouth, closed it again. I wanted to slowly walk backward, ascend the stairs, and be alone with the treats I was still holding. I’d always kind of liked how Chad got jealous, and it had never seemed too much—until now. Now he looked like a muscled meathead.

Pen Chad’s. Grant not take Pen away from Chad.I stifled a giggle.

“Not a date, just a—”

I cut Grant off. “Fine. One bike ride, but please get up.” I turned toward Chad’s open mouth. “I’ll explain when he leaves, which he was about to do, right, Grant?”

Chad’s jaw clenched. “I can tell you that.”

Oh my goodness.

“I’ve accomplished what I came to do.” Grant was already up and walking toward the door.

Chad started to follow, but the back of my hand on his chest stopped him from moving forward.

At the door, Grant turned, and his right hand came toward me. I saw Chad flinch out of the corner of my eye.

Grant’s hand wrapped around the cup in mine. Our fingers touched, and I swallowed the flutter coming up from my stomach. Holding my gaze, his eyes asked This is what you want? as his lips said, “I’ll save you from my disgusting drink.”

How dare his eyes ask if Chad was what I wanted. If circumstances had been different, maybe I’d want something else, someone else. But certainly not Grant. Why had my mind gone there? “Dating” and “Grant” didn’t belong in the same sentence. It was the tea. He’d spiked it with something. That’s why it’d been so damned delicious. Or maybe I was reading too much into his expression. Ugh! He needed to leave.

He eased the cup out of my hand.

Neither one of us acknowledged that it was empty.