Chapter 3
Ryan
“He showed up here with your wallet and expected what, exactly? A blow job on your porch? In exchange for a shitty lunch at the Dull Diner and basic human decency?” Bernie waves a hand in the air, her dark, curly hair bouncing along with her emphatic movements.
I carefully flip the pancake in the skillet in front of me. “I paid for his lunch.”
She props her hip on the edge of the counter. “What a prince. I am going to kill Austin.”
“It’s not his fault. He said they’ve only worked together for a few weeks. I’m sure he’s great at work.”
When he doesn’t have to interact with women or children or, you know, people in general.
Austin is Bernie’s older brother by five years. Bernie and I have been best friends since preschool. We were inseparable up until middle school, when Mia’s condition worsened and we moved to New York to be closer to hospitals that could handle the level of care she needed. Bernie and I stayed in touch though. Both of us were weirdos with boy names in a Podunk small town. Although Bernadette could have gone by her full name, she’s always preferred Bernie.
She shakes her head. “You should have thrown those live crabs at him.”
I snort. “If I had kept them, I would have. Maybe I should have let them live on the porch, like security dogs. Except crabs. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He came, he was annoying, then he saw Ari and freaked out and ran away screaming.”
She snorts. “Screaming?”
“Internally, I’m sure. He was disgusted at the idea of dating someone who’s,” I glance toward the hall to make sure Ari isn’t there, and lower my voice, “‘used goods.’”
Bernie’s mouth pops open. “Are you fucking kidding me? He actually said that? I’m going to kill him. I’m going to find him and chop off his fucking nipples and make a belt out of them.”
I tilt my head toward the bedrooms down the hall, where Ari is getting dressed. “Bernie. No f-words or Ed Gein references with juveniles in the home.”
“Sorry, but he deserves it. Did you tell him she’s even not your kid?”
I frown. “Of course not. She is my kid. Whether I gave birth to her or not is irrelevant. And any so-called man who can’t accept a child, any child, doesn’t deserve my time.”
Bernie picks up the coffee mug on the counter next to her and takes a sip. “You’re right, of course. You’re also a dickhead magnet and I don’t know how to help you.”
I chuckle and roll my eyes, carefully flipping another pancake. “I don’t need help. I’ve only dated, like, four people in my whole life.”
“Yeah. And they were all dicks. They could do studies on your ability to attract the dickiest of dicks. It’s like a reverse superpower. When I told you I wanted to help you find you some dick, I was hoping for some non-dick dick.” She sets her mug down with a clink.
Maybe she could find the guy from the grocery store.
“I think that little spiel deserves some kind of award for the most excessive use of the word dick in a single rant.”
I’ll probably never see the grocery store man again. He was definitely not a local. Probably just driving through and long gone at this point.
But seriously, is it too much to ask for someone, anyone, who isn’t a total waste of space and also has above-average hygiene and a chiseled jawline?
I pour a couple of circles of batter onto the hot pan. “I forgot to tell you. We ran into Shane and Samantha at the store last night. She’s pregnant.”
Her mouth pops open. “Are you serious?”
“Yep.”
“What a?—”
I point the spatula in her direction. “If you say dick, I’m going to throw this at you.”
She crosses her arms over her button-up black shirt. “So, you’re telling me the antichrist has been conceived and I should brace for the upcoming apocalypse?”
I laugh. “Basically.”
Footsteps thud down the hall. “Bernie!” Ari slams into her side, the braids I spent twenty minutes on this morning half undone already. If I try to tame the unruly strands, they will just revert to chaos within an hour. Ari cocks her head at Bernie. “What’s a poco lips?”
Bernie reaches down, patting her head. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Is my cape clean yet?” she asks me.
“It’s in the dryer. It will be ready in a little bit.”
She frowns. “I need it for my outfit.”
I scan her hot-pink capri pants and blue-and-yellow-striped shirt.
“Yep. A red cape will look perfect.” Bernie chuckles.
“I know. Can I play outside?”
“After breakfast, and only if you stay in front of the house.” I can keep an eye on her from the porch while I get some work done. Our cul-de-sac contains four condos and two small homes, all of which are currently occupied, but not much traffic turns down our road. I just have to make sure she doesn’t venture out to the busier cross street.
She scrambles into the seat at the round dining table. I scoop the rest of the pancakes off the griddle and put together a plate, setting it in front of her.
“Did you want some food before you leave?” I ask Bernie, gesturing to the remaining stack.
“No thanks, I gotta get to work. I’ll see you both Wednesday?”
“We’ll be there.”
“Bye, Bernie.” Ari waves with her fork. “Tell Grandma hi and I love her.”
“I will, sweetie.”
Bernie works in IT at the hospital. Mom lives on the skilled nursing floor. She’s been there for almost a year. I visit two to three times a week, sometimes with Ari and sometimes without, either on my lunch break or after work, whenever I can squeeze in some free time.
After Bernie leaves, we eat a quick breakfast. Afterward, I clean up and follow Ari outside, sitting on the porch with my laptop while she draws on the sidewalk with her chalk.
I check the messages for the rentals, replying to two inquiries on upcoming availability before opening the last one. The subject line reads: Kitchen Conundrum.
Hi,
The stove in unit 2E has developed a sudden aversion to cooking. Nothing will turn on, and I’ve tried all the burners and the oven.
Any chance someone can come take a look? I’d appreciate it, and my stomach would too.
Desperately trying to not live off microwavable meals and junk food,
Jake in 2E
I pull up the rental contract. Jacob Fox. He’s here for three weeks. No other occupants are listed.
Normally, I would put this in for Priscilla, but he’s right across the street, and it’s Saturday and I know she had some errands she wanted to get done today. I type out a quick message, asking him to let me know what time would be best for me to come over and check it out. Some renters don’t want to interact, so I could go over there and fix it while he’s out.
A couple of hours pass in a blur of phone calls, checking the website for new reservations, reconciling the account ledger, finalizing payroll for the next pay period, dealing with an issue with our payroll provider software—which means sitting on hold for forty-five minutes—and a million other little things. It’s a lot, but all in all, it’s not a bad gig. I get reduced rent in exchange for my services, and a decent paycheck.
Not enough to pay for Mom’s hospice care when the trust runs dry, but that’s a worry for another day.
I log back into the message portal. 2E has replied that I can come check it out anytime after ten.
It’s ten thirty. Perfect. Best to get it over with. After plugging in the laptop to recharge, I grab the master key ring from the lockbox in my office.
“I’m just going to be across the street,” I tell Ari when I reach the sidewalk where she’s tracing something in pink chalk. “Stay here. I’ll just be a few minutes.” I tilt my head, eyeing her artwork. “Erm, tell me about your drawing there, baby?” It’s long and phallic shaped with two giant circles at one end.
“It’s a crocodile. His name’s Jeff. He has big eyes.”
I press my lips together and contemplate Jeff very seriously. “He looks great.” I give her a thumbs-up before jogging across the street.
After knocking on the door, I turn and scan for Ari again. Past her, Mr. Enbom is outside on his patio, watering plants. A middle-aged divorcé and long-term renter, he lives in the house at the end of the street.
Mrs. Brennan’s orange tabby cat sits in the window in the unit across from his, tail twitching behind him while he silently monitors the robins in the trees.
“Just a sec,” a masculine voice calls from inside a few seconds before the door swings open.
I’m momentarily stunned into open-mouthed speechlessness by a brief glimpse of abs—holy hell—and a lean torso, and then a shirt drops, covering the exposed flesh. Well, some of the flesh. He’s wearing a... is that a raccoon on his crop top?
“Hey. It’s you.” He flashes a grin.
My eyes lift to his face and my mouth falls open. “Oh.”
It’s the hottie from the grocery store.
He tugs at the shirt, frowning down at his midsection. “Uh, sorry about this. I grabbed the wrong top.”
“I don’t mind.” The words pop out before I can stop them. Heat rushes to my face. I really need a filter between my brain and my mouth. He’s wearing a woman’s shirt. It’s probably his girlfriend’s.
He, thankfully, ignores my words. “If you tracked me down to pay me back, you really don’t need to worry about it.”
“No, it’s not that.” Although now that I know where he’s staying, I really should find a way to pay him back. And I should stop staring at his exposed midriff.
Eyes up, Green.
He winces and gives up trying to cover his stomach. “Sorry about,” he moves his hand in a circle in front of his chest, “all of this. I’ll just, uh, fix myself. Come on in.”
He moves back, heading down the hall toward the bedrooms.
I take a step just inside the front door, glancing down at the paperwork in my hand. “Is someone else staying here?” In the front room, there’s a stack of letters on the desk and a black sweater draped over the chair. I don’t hear anyone else moving or talking.
“No. Why?” He emerges from the hall, tugging a navy-blue T-shirt over his head, giving me another glimpse of his leanly muscled chest and trim waistline before he’s covered.
Completely this time.
Pity.
“Well, the shirt, it was, I mean, it had a bedazzled raccoon on it.” I lift the contract up. “Your application for the rental said there would be only one guest. It’s not that big of a deal, I just need to record who’s in residence for liability reasons.”
“Application for the rental.” His eyes narrow on the papers in my hand. “Why do you have my rental application?”
“You are Jacob Fox, right?”
“Yes. And you are...”
Confusion ripples through me, followed swiftly by realization. I haven’t told him why I’m here yet. “I’m here because of your message about the stove.”
He blinks. “What message?”
I frown. “You said the stove isn’t turning on.”
“Oh yeah, I thought I sent the message to the property manager. Ryan?”
I sigh and give him a weak smile. I get this all the time. “That’s me. I’m Ryan.”