Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Forget about Cloud Nine, right now I’m a whole level up on Cloud Ten, luxuriating in my newfound feelings for Seth. He’s sweet, he’s fun, he’s super smart, and did I mention he’s super, super hot? Because oh, my, he so is.
Sure, the conversation took a detour down Weird Street a couple of times during the date, but spades and “seeing me” aside, it’s clear Seth is one of the good guys. The kind of guy we formed the No More Bad Dates Pact to find.
And now, it’s Sunday morning, which means it’s time to put on my big girl pants on and go meet Alex. At his place. Just the two of us. None of these things are good.
But I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do, so here I stand outside Alex’s large, red-brick building. It’s in a former industrial area that has clearly undergone serious gentrification. It’s smart and trendy as all heck—and so Alex.
I take a deep, steadying breath. I can do this. I can put my hatred for him aside and be professional about this. Because that’s what I am: a total professional. This is work. All I need to do is get the images and get out of there. Ten minutes ought to do it, fifteen tops. And when I look at it that way, it’s only ten minutes of my life. Then I can get on with enjoying my day off doing, well, anything but this.
With a clench of my teeth, I press the button for apartment number thirteen. Unlucky thirteen . Huh. That’s appropriate. I press the button again and wait. And wait. With no response, I press it one more time. Am I early? Late? Do I have the right apartment number? As I pull my phone out to check his address, a voice comes down the crackly line. “Hello?”
“Hey, Alex? It’s me, Darcy.”
“Oh, Darcy. Right.”
I draw my lips into a line. It’s as though he’s totally forgotten about this super important meeting, the meeting he originally suggested. So typical.
Any remnants of Cloud Ten I’ve been clinging to have now totally evaporated in the morning sun.
“I’ll let you in. Third floor. It’s a walk-up.”
A moment later, the buzzer sounds, and the door pops open. I trudge up the three flights of stairs with as much enthusiasm as someone walking the line to their imminent death. With each step, I roll the thought around in my head. Hmm . Electric chair versus Alex Walsh . . . Yup, it’s a close race.
I find him waiting beside his opened door. He’s dressed in a scruffy pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt with “The Ramones” written across his chest, his hair all messy like he just got out of bed. Which maybe he has? Whatever. I could care less. If he wants to lounge around in bed until all hours of the day and then throw on what clearly look like tattered, old clothes, then that’s his business.
“Alex,” I say.
“Darcy,” he replies in his usual way.
We’ve got a script, and we’re clearly both sticking with it.
He steps to the side, holding his door open. “Come on in.”
“Thank you,” I reply with as much enthusiasm as a kid invited to sit on the dentist’s chair. I step inside and he closes the door behind us. “Cup of coffee? I know I sure need one.”
“Oh, no thanks. I’ll just take a look at your catalog and then leave you to your day,” I say, catching my breath. Stomping up three flights of stairs sure can take it out of a girl.
“An Americano, right?” he says, completely ignoring what I said. “Even total professionals deserve a coffee once in a while,” he says, quoting the way I referred to myself last night.
I twist my mouth. “Sure. Why not.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard.”
As he busies himself in the kitchen, I take a quick look around. It’s a large and spacious loft apartment with hardwood floors and red Persian rugs. The walls are plain white, with no artwork whatsoever. Weird. You’d think someone into photography would have some of it on his walls, even if it’s not his own work.
And hang on a second. Isn’t this place a bit big and fancy for a barista? I’m sure he gets huge tips from all those adoring females I’ve spotted smiling and blushing around him at the café—really, some women have no taste—but the rent on this place must be a bomb! How could he possibly afford it?
“Why don’t you take a seat?” He gestures at a row of black leather barstools tucked neatly under the kitchen counter.
“Sure.”
“Strong black coffee good for you?” He pours coffee into two mugs and slides one across the granite counter to me.
“Actually, do you have any milk?”
“Milk? Sure.” He gets some from the refrigerator and pours it into my cup.
“And sugar?”
“Sugar, too?” he questions.
“Yes, but only if you’ve got sugar cubes, otherwise don’t bother.”
“No sugar cubes.”
“Oh. No sugar cubes,” I repeat. I look down at my coffee. “This will have to do, I guess.”
I know I’m being purposefully difficult, but it is Alex. He’d expect nothing less. And it’s the small victories, right? Even though I don’t actually take sugar in my coffee. Or milk, for that matter.
I take a sip. “You’re not wrong. This is strong. Late night out with Jason?” It’s not that I’m interested in his private life, of course. Just making conversation.
“Something like that.”
If he’s trying to be mysterious, it’s not going to work on me. I could care less about what he got up to last night. I know I had a nice time with Seth, a truly wonderful man. That’s all I care about.
“How did it go with the guy you had your friends interrogate before you’d go out with him?”
“Not interrogate. We vetted him. It’s different.”
He sips his coffee, his eyes still locked on mine. “How’s it different?”
It’s a good question, but I’m hardly going to tell him that. “It just is.”
“Good argument, Darcy. Have you considered going into politics someday?” The edges of his mouth curve up into a fully-fledged grin now. Oh, what I would give to be able to wipe that off his face.
Oooh, damn him and his . . . his . . . Alex-ness.
“Very funny, Alex. If I go into politics, you could start your own comedy routine.”
“Great idea. Maybe I will.”
“So, how about we look through those photos of yours? I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than sit around talking to me about my date last night.”
“Let’s finish our coffee first.”
Seriously? Why prolong the pain?
I take a swig of my coffee. It’s hot and burns my throat. “How long have you had this place?” I ask.
“Oh, about two years, give or take. I was in other countries most of the time, though. This is only the second time I’ve actually lived here.”
Two years? I glance around at the emptiness. In the three years since Erin and I have shared an apartment, we’ve accumulated so much stuff, we’ve become like those tragic people who’ve got to go on decluttering shows just so they can walk down their hallways without bowling over stacks of junk. Marie Kondo could do a major number on our place.
“You haven’t got a lot of things, have you?” I say.
“I redecorated not that long ago.”
“More like un decorated, you mean.” I chortle and it comes out like a snort. I clear my throat and paste on an “I totally meant to do that” smile. “Let me guess. You went for the minimalist look.”
He shrugs. “I had stuff in here that wasn’t me anymore, I guess. You know, things happen, people change.”
It seems to me there’s more to it than that, but I let it slide. “Sure. Yeah.” I take another sip of my coffee. “This is a trendy area. The rent must be steep.”
He shrugs. “I bought the place.”
He owns it? On a barista’s salary? I’m itching to ask him how he could possibly have enough money to buy a place like this, but it’s rude to ask people questions like that, isn’t it? Instead, I simply nod and reply with “Great,” as though everyone I know has expensive homes and his is just another one.
“How do you like being back in Auckland?”
“It’s good. I needed to move on. Coming home felt like the right option.”
“Because—?” I lead.
He leans up against the counter and cradles his coffee cup in his hands. “You seem to want to know a lot about me today.” His eyes are on me, and it makes me want to squirm. Which I won’t do. No way. I wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“I’m only making conversation. You were the one who wanted to stop for coffee.”
“Is it good coffee?”
“Yes,” I reply begrudgingly.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
It’s time to get down to business, to address the elephant in the room, as they say. “Alex, let’s forget the small talk, okay?”
“Sure.”
I place my hands on the counter in front of me, ready to launch into the speech I’d recited to myself in front of my mirror only an hour ago. I figured we should put our cards on the table upfront so we both know where we stand before we launch into working together. “Look. You and I both know we’re not exactly bosom buddies or anything, but I really think we can—” I taper off as I notice he’s arched one of his eyebrows, his lips pressed together. “What?” I say in frustration.
“‘Bosom buddies?’”
I pinch my lips together. Is he for real with this? “It’s an expression, Alex. It means ‘best friends.’”
“I know what ‘bosom buddies’ means. It’s just not an expression I’ve heard anyone under the age of about sixty use before.”
“Well, I use it.”
“Often?”
I can’t remember the last time I used the term, but I’m not going to mention that. “Yes. All the time.”
“Well, I’ve got to tell you, it creates quite an image.”
I throw my eyes to the ceiling at his immaturity as he rolls the term around in his mouth.
“‘Bosom buddies,’” he repeats and chuckles to himself.
I shake my head, feeling like I’m suddenly dealing with an eleven-year-old boy. I can use an expression like ‘bosom buddies’ and not get all stupid about it, which is clearly something Alex can’t do. “Try to be mature, Alex, will you, please?”
“Wasn’t Bosom Buddies the name of a show back in the ’80s?”
“How would I know that?”
“It was, I’m sure of it. It was about a couple of guys who dressed up as women so they could live in a women-only apartment block.”
“I don’t think so, Alex. You’re thinking of Tootsie or that other one with Robin Williams who pretends to be his kids’ nanny.”
“No, not Mrs. Doubtfire . It had Tom Hanks in it, I’m sure of it.” He picks his phone up off the counter and begins to scroll through it, clearly looking for proof of this nonexistent crossdressing TV show. A moment later, he turns the phone around, and I look at the screen. There’s an image of a young Tom Hanks and some other guy, both in dresses and wigs with the words ‘Bosom Buddies.’
“See?” he says with one of his self-satisfied grins. It’s a grin he sports a lot of the time. Really, they should rename it the “Alex Grin,” and people far and wide would know exactly what you meant. He’d be famous, and not in a good way.
I arch an eyebrow. “All that tells me is that you’re into shows with drag queens.”
“Or that I like shows with bosoms.” His shoulders shake as he laughs.
I roll my eyes and shake my head back and forth. “You done amusing yourself there?” I ask.
His face creased in a smile, he replies, “There are no guarantees. And really, that all depends on whether you’re going to use any more expressions that make me think of, well, bosoms .” He draws the last word right out, his eyes dancing.
I push out a puff of air. “When you stop going all Beavis and Butthead on me, I’d like to get back to the point I was trying to make.”
“Aw, come on. You’re going to tell me you’re not impressed I knew about some obscure ’80s TV show with crossdressers?”
“I don’t know how you know this sort of thing. Or even why you’d want to know it in the first place.”
He shrugs. “I guess I’m a man of great and mysterious knowledge.”
I burst into laughter. “Yeah, sure you are. Be honest. You’re just into shows with drag queens, which is actually very interesting too.”
“See? I knew you found me interesting.” He playfully waggles his eyebrows at me.
Discomfited, I twist my mouth. “You think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”
He holds my gaze for a moment then smiles.
“Now, if you’re done telling me all about your obsession with crossdressing, I’d like to get back to my point, thank you.”
“Be my guest, Darcy.”
“Thank you.” What was my point? All this talk of bosoms and Tom Hanks and drag queens has totally put me off.
“You’ve forgotten what you were going to say, haven’t you?”
“No. Not at all. I’m simply re-formulating my thoughts so I can communicate them to your succinctly.”
His smile spreads. “Succinct points are my preference.”
“Well, that’s exactly what you’re going to get from me: succinctlyness .”
He screws up his face. “Is that a word?”
“Oh, yes.” I gesture at his phone, although I’m pretty sure I added an extra syllable by mistake. Succinctness? Yes, that sounds better. “Look it up if you like. I’m certain you’ll find it is a word,” I bluff.
“I trust you.”
“Good.” Thankfully, my brain whirrs back into action, and I manage to return to my prepared speech. “Now, Alex, what I was saying is that I know we don’t particularly get on, you and I, but I don’t want that in any way to affect our working relationship when it comes to—”
“Why is that, exactly?” he asks, interrupting me mid-speech. Again.
Seriously? This is getting irritating. Why can’t he just let me deliver my speech?
“Why is what?” I’ve only just managed to get back on track, only to be interrupted by him again. At least I can be happy it’s not about bosoms this time, or any other part of human anatomy for that matter.
“Why don’t we like each other?” he asks. “Well, to be more specific, why don’t you like me ?”
Flustered by the directness of his question, I reply, “You’re fine. It’s no big deal. We’re just not—”
“—bosom buddies,” he finishes for me, and I give a reluctant nod. “As you mentioned.” He straightens up from his position leaning against the kitchen counter, steps across the floor, and rests his hands on the counter in front of me. “But you know what, Darcy? It’s a big enough deal for you to feel like you’ve got to mention it in that prepared speech of yours.”
Dammit! How the heck did he know that it was a prepared speech? I could argue with him, but I’ve been busted. He knows it and I know it, as much as I hate to admit it.
I cross my legs at my ankles and uncross them again. “Full disclosure?” I ask.
“Even partial disclosure would be good at this point.”
I level him with my gaze. “You’re cocky.”
He lets out a surprised laugh. “Well, you said you were going to be succinct, and that’s definitely succinct.” He knits his brows. “You think I’m cocky?”
“Yes, I do. You’ve always been cocky, even back in high school. And I don’t like guys like that. It’s as simple as that. They’re too . . . cocky.”
What am I talking about?
“‘Cocky guys are too cocky.’ Seriously, Darcy, forget politics, you should write a blog. With insights like that, you’d get a massive following.” He keeps his bright eyes on me as he takes another sip of his coffee.
“Joke all you like, Alex. You asked a direct question, and I responded. I’m only trying to be honest with you.”
“And I appreciate that, really I do.”
“Good.”
“If I try to lose some of this cockiness that evidently annoys you so much, do you think we could work together on this thing?”
I toss my hair and paste on what I hope is a confident—not in the least bit cocky—smile. “I don’t see why not.”
“Good. That’s settled then. If you’ve finished your coffee, why don’t we have a look at some of my work?”
There’s a sudden buzzing sound, and I almost jump off my stool.
“Go ahead and take a seat on the sofa,” he says as he walks over to the front door. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Sure.” I move into the living area and sit down on one of the large white sofas. It’s soft, and I sink into it.
I listen as Alex talks into the intercom. “Hello?”
I can hear a crackly voice say, “It’s us.”
“Come on up,” he replies, opening the door. He walks over to the bookcase, pulls a black folder off one of the shelves, and brings it over to me. “I won’t be long. Here. Have a look at some of my work.”
“Sure. Thanks.” I take the folder in my hands and open it up. There’s a sudden bang and a boy of about five dressed as Buzz Lightyear bursts into the room.
“Uncle Alex!” he squeals.
Alex collects him up in a hug and spins him around.
“Wow, is this the real Buzz Lightyear?” Alex says with mock excitement. “From Star Command?”
The boy nods, his face lit up.
“But where’s Woody and Jesse and the gang? Don’t you know they need you?”
“They’re with Mommy, coming up the stairs.”
“Because they’re not lightning quick like you, right, Buzz?”
“To infinerdy and beyond!” the boy says with his fist in the air.
A woman with hair the color of Alex’s, dressed in a cute sundress and pair of sandals, walks through the door. She’s holding a ceramic plate covered in foil. “What happened to your elevator?” she puffs.
“I need Buzz here to fix it,” he replies. He lifts the boy up into the air and zooms him around. “Buzz Lightyear to the rescue! He can fix elevators. Right, Buzz?”
“No, Uncle Alex! I tricked you! It’s me, Nafan!”
I stand up and smile at the boy’s inability to pronounce “th.” At least that’s what I tell myself I’m smiling at and not the easy, fun way his uncle is with him.
“Are you serious? I had no idea,” Alex says to an ecstatic Nathan, who he promptly tickles to squeals of delight.
The woman looks over at me, and her face creases into a smile. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m Emily.”
I take a few steps closer to her. “Hi, I’m Darcy. It’s great to meet you.” I smile down at Nathan, who Alex has now put on the floor. “And you, too, Buzz.”
Alex squats down next to Nathan and says, “Did you know Darcy works with the Smurfs?”
I shake my head and let out a laugh.
Alex looks up at me, his face aglow. “Right, Darcy?”
“That’s right,” I reply.
“I like the Smurfs,” Nathan replies. “I can sing the song.”
“Can you?” I reply. “How does it go?”
“La la la la la la la la la la la,” he sings, completely off key.
I join in, and we sing the rest of the tune together. “Wow, you really do know all the words,” I say, grinning at him.
“Fat’s because the only words is ‘la la la,’” he replies, his tone serious.
“That’s true,” I reply.
“You should sing that at karaoke with Erin,” Alex says to me.
I can’t help but smile. “We might stick with ABBA.”
“I had no idea,” Emily says under her breath to Alex as she steals a furtive glance in my direction.
“Darcy’s only here to look through my photographs. We’re working on that exhibition I told you about,” he replies as he straightens up.
“Oh,” Emily says. Is it me, or does she sound disappointed? “Well, we won’t hold you up. I just wanted to drop this off for you.” She hands him the ceramic plate.
“I told you, I can cook for myself,” he protests, but I notice he takes it anyway.
“Mum made it for you. You know how she is about her favorite son.”
“She’s got the right idea, that woman,” he says with a laugh.
“We’ll leave you to it. Come on, Nathan,” Emily says.
“But Mum,” he complains. “I wanna play wif Uncle Arex.”
This kid is too cute!
Emily glances at me and smiles back at her son. “They’re doing grown-up stuff, honey. We’ll come back after lunch.”
“I don’t wanna,” he complains.
“I’ve got this,” Alex says to Emily as he bends down to Nathan’s height. “What’s this?” He reaches behind Nathan’s ear and produces a coin. “What was that doing in your ear, Buzz?”
Nathan rubs his ear and looks at Alex’s hand, his eyes almost popping out of his head. “How did you do that?”
“It’s magic,” Alex replies, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And I’ll show you some more when you come back later, ’kay?”
“Really?”
“I promise. But you’ve gotta do whatever your mum says.”
Nathan gives a solemn nod. “I will.”
“Come on, honey,” Emily says, ushering Nathan through the door. “Thanks,” she says to Alex. “Nice to meet you, Darcy.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” I call out as she follows Nathan out the door.
I press my lips together and do my best to fight off the way seeing Alex as a fun and loving uncle makes my heart do weird things in my chest. There’s no way I can go there with him.
Not after what happened when we were in high school.