Chapter Nineteen #2
“That I come on too strong. She said men don’t like it when women are overzealous and I should basically play hard to get.”
“Um, did you tell your mother that you are currently playing impossible to get?”
She laughs. “I told her the other night we were just friends. But when she heard that you’d brought me food, she jumped to conclusions.”
“Look, you don’t have to worry about being overzealous with me. In case my behavior over the weekend did not make it clear, I am very zealous about you. So whatever amount of zeal you feel is cool with me.”
More laughter, and the sound of it eases a tension in my chest I didn’t realize was there. “Okay. How was your day?”
“I had a phone call with Tad Hart this afternoon.”
“What happened?”
“He refused to accept the initial soil assessment results and wants to fund a second round of tests with a firm of his choosing.” I imitate his blustery voice.
“‘You should always get a second opinion, son.’ When I told him that wasn’t possible and we had to move on to cleanup options, he hung up on me. ”
“Oh no. So what’s next?”
“I’m not sure. Whether or not we build the community center, we have to clean up the site. But without their financial help, it won’t happen. On top of that, I don’t really want to alienate the Hart family.”
“Hmm,” she says. “That is a conundrum. I’ll give it some thought, too.”
We chat for another ten minutes or so, and then she says she should probably get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a busy day getting her mom home.
“Good luck with everything,” I tell her. “And reach out if I can help.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“Night.”
We hang up, and I sit there for a few minutes, looking at my bare walls and wondering what I might put there to impress someone like Mila, who knows shit about art. I reach over and scratch Merlin behind the ears. “What do you think?” I ask him. “Should I invite her over? Ask her opinion?”
Merlin’s tail thumps the leather couch enthusiastically.
“Yeah. Maybe I will.”
Although I think about her nearly nonstop over the next few days, I know Mila is busy with her mom, so I wait until Sunday afternoon to check in with her.
Everett: Hey. How’s everything going now that you’re back at home?
Around ten that night, I get a reply.
Mila: 34
The number perplexes me.
Everett: 34 what?
Mila: Days until I can go back to NY.
I laugh, wishing I could hear her voice.
Everett: Can you talk? Is it okay to call you?
Mila: Yes.
I tap her name in my phone, and she picks up quickly.
“Hi.”
“Hey. Sorry about your week.”
“It’s okay. I just keep reminding myself that she’s in pain.” Her voice is strained and quiet, and I imagine her patience is stretched thin.
“Can you get out of the house at all?”
“Only for thirty minutes at a time. Next week should get a little better.”
“Are you able to put your headphones on and draw or something?”
“I’m trying.” She exhales. “But I have to be able to hear her call for help.”
“Can I bring you anything? Food? Wine? Some organically grown cannabis? I know a guy.”
She bursts out laughing, which makes me grin. More than anything, I wish she could come over right now. We’d stretch out on the couch under a blanket. Fuck around like teenagers in the dark.
“That’s the first time I’ve laughed all week,” she says. “Thank you. But no, I don’t need anything.”
“You promise you’ll let me know if you do?”
“Yes. I was thinking about the problem you have with— Oh shoot. My mom is calling me. She must have to use the bathroom again.”
“Go,” I tell her, full of admiration and respect for the job she’s doing. I’m not sure I’d be able to handle it. “We can catch up another time.”
On Tuesday, I drop off a little care package for her. It’s nothing fancy, just an apple pie my mom asked me to bring and some takeout from one of my favorite restaurants. I knock on her door a little after four in the afternoon.
When she answers, she’s in socks, sweatpants, and a hoodie that says Rooted in the Bronx. Her hair is in sort of a nest on top of her head, and her face is free of makeup. The sight of her lips reminds me of kissing them, and I want so badly to do it again.
She looks surprised to see me. “Everett,” she says, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Hi.”
“Hi.” I hold up the brown paper bag. “I brought you some dinner. Swedish meatballs with cardamom bread from Iron Kettle.”
She gasps. “You didn’t have to do that!”
“There’s an apple pie from my mom in there, too.”
“Oh my gosh!” Her eyes mist over. “This is so sweet. I might cry.”
“Don’t cry. Just eat.”
“Thank you.” She takes the bag from me, still looking like she might burst into tears. “It’s been a rough day, and I had no plan for dinner. I’m really grateful.”
I smile and stick my hands in my pockets. “It’s no big deal.”
She glances over her shoulder. “My mom’s resting. If you give me a second to put this in the kitchen, I can come out and chat for a minute.”
“I don’t want to keep you.”
“No, please.” Her eyes close. “I could use a break.”
“I’ll wait right here.”
She comes back out a few minutes later, and we sit on her front porch with the door open so she’ll be able to hear her mother call through the screen. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she lowers her chin to her knees. Instinctively, I go to put my arm around her, but then I pull it back.
“So, how are things going?” I ask.
“Well, I bought the detergent that gives her sensitive skin a rash. I fold clothes wrong and put them away in the incorrect drawers. I moved her reading glasses too far away on her nightstand for her to reach. The water I ran for her bath was freezing, so clearly I am trying to give her hypothermia. Oh, and she hates the walker the surgeon and PTs told her to use. It’s monstrous of me to force it on her. ”
I shake my head. “You’re a saint. I can’t imagine having to do all that for my mother.”
“You’d do it if it had to be done.”
“I guess, but I wouldn’t have your patience. I hope she appreciates you.”
“I think deep down she does.” Her tone is a little wistful. “She’s said a few times that she’s glad I’m here.”
“Good.”
“Guess what?” She straightens up. “I’m seeing Yasmine Friday night! We reconnected last week, and it’s been so nice. I can’t believe I waited so long to reach out.”
“See? I was right.” I elbow her side gently. “Now you should reach out to Gabi.”
“Maybe.” She pauses. “By the way, I meant to ask you—have you seen those Landing Pad posts from the Diner Detectives about looking into the fire?”
“Ripley mentioned something about that the other night. But I haven’t seen the posts.”
“They claim to have new evidence.”
I look down at her and shrink back slightly. “Seriously?”
“Yes.” Her blue eyes are wide. “But what could it be? Anything material would have been found back then, or destroyed in the fire. You don’t think…”
“What?”
“It’s just… You don’t think anyone else could have been there, right? It’s the only thing they could have ‘discovered’ after all this time, but I know the front door was locked. And the back door locked automatically, didn’t it?”
I think for a moment. “Yes. I always had to use my key to get in if that door wasn’t propped.”
“That’s what I thought, too. Weird.”
“Mila?” Her mom’s voice floats out from inside.
“Coming, Mom!” Sighing, she rises to her feet. “Guess I have to go in. Thanks again for bringing dinner. I really appreciate it.”
“Anytime.” I stand too, facing her. “Let me know if you can escape for a cup of coffee or a drink sometime. I’ll even let you park in my spot.”
“Deal. And you let me know next time you’re coming over. I’ll at least brush my hair.” She tries to cover her head. “I’m a mess right now.”
“You’re beautiful right now.”
She blushes, her freckles swimming in a sea of pink. “Thanks.”
I want to hug her so badly, but I don’t.
Later that night, she texts me.
Mila: Dinner was delicious. And the pie was so good! I forgot how good your mom’s baking is. I wrote her a thank-you note—I’ll drop it in the mail tomorrow.
Then she sends me a screenshot of the photo of me at the lemonade stand with the little girls.
Mila: This pic of you is so adorable. I can’t stop looking at it.
Everett: The real thing can be yours. Toddlers not included.
She hearts the message, leaving me to wonder.