Chapter 32. Micah
MICAH
What the hell just happened? How did our nice morning turn into her bolting? Decorate? I didn’t ask her to decorate.
Shaking my head, I walk through the kitchen to the back of the house and give the six-foot-three statue holding court in the center of the living room a shove. It moves a millimeter, if that.
I blow out a pent-up breath, scratching my head. Then I sniff my T-shirt. Maybe I do reek.
The employee database shuts me out from logging in on my personal laptop. I can’t find Meredith’s group text. I don’t recall deleting it. I scroll through old emails to find Brynn’s internship application. Her address: Brooklyn.
Should have escorted her to her place first. She thinks I’m more of a dick now. Want to come in? does sound a bit sleazy, considering she works for me. I search Brynn Gallardo and find a Basilio Gallardo on Bleecker Street.
I jump in the shower, not waiting for the water to heat up first. Dammit, I wasn’t trying to come on to her.
Well. We did hold hands for a minute. I’d hoped I could be the exception to her no-new-friends rule.
This girl, this girl. She infuriates me, yet I can’t stop thinking about her. I need to fix this. Why the hell did I let her walk away?
I check my phone for a text from her—a bit comical, since she couldn’t wait to get rid of me an hour ago.
Chasing after a girl is not my thing, but I need to fix this.
I trek up MacDougal and hang a left on Bleecker, my head whipping around nonstop like I might see her. Crossing over into the afternoon, the Village hums with weekend visitors. I dodge around them and bound up the steps to her brick building.
The directory lists apartment numbers without names. I sigh, shading my eyes, peering through the electronic door, ready to ring all the residences—when a guy pushes the door toward me, on his way out. I slide in behind him before it closes.
The floor runner along the entryway smells like a wet dog. Make that a pack of wet dogs. Holding my nostrils, I wander down a narrow hallway with beige walls and gray Florentine floor tiles to a black metal stairwell that echoes under my ascent.
I walk each floor, some twice, until I finally see Gallardo on one of the doors.
My heartbeat slides into my throat. I swallow and knock.
Footsteps sound. They stop.
I sense eyeballs peering through the peephole. I gaze down at my shoes.
The door opens without urgency. Still dressed from the gym, Brynn rubs her face, working through a yawn. Then her forehead creases into a scowl, as if she’s only just remembered our last exchange.
Shit. “Hi.”
She blinks a few times.
“I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d come by.”
“For decorating advice?” Her voice is tinged with unmistakable snark.
“Nope. Not looking for decorating advice.” I grimace. “Not now and not earlier today.”
She sighs, crosses her arms over her chest, and shifts her weight to her other foot.
“I’m embarrassed to admit this.”
“Try me.” She huffs.
“I received a very heavy . . . uh, present . . . a stone sculpture that I can’t move by myself.”
“So ask a friend.”
“I did.”
“Oh.” She cringes.
“I’ll spring for a late lunch or early dinner afterward? No pressure.” I hold my breath.
“Um, when?”
“How about now?” I peek around her. She didn’t mention having a roommate.
“I don’t know. I’m pretty beat. Long walk earlier.” She half smiles.
My shoulders relax. I grin like a dork. God, she’s irresistible. “Are you hungry?”
She holds her stomach, pausing. “I need to shower first.”
“Done.”
She hesitates; her eyes consider me for a moment before glancing back over her shoulder. Her lips turn down. She opens the door wider.
I steel my jaw from dropping. Talk about tiny; this place is like an interior cabin on a cruise ship tiny.
The mattress on the floor eats up most of the space.
The short wall holds up a combo mini fridge, stove, and sink.
Sheets lie rumpled in a ball on the floor.
I can’t help but picture her tangled in them.
Stacked boxes occupy the other wall beside a rolling rack of clothes.
“Just move in?”
“Something like that.” She lowers her lashes, yanks a towel off the curtain rod, and throws it over her shoulder.
Her apartment could fit inside a walk-in closet on Park Avenue. It’s maybe three-hundred square feet, if that. “Is this place legal?”
No response.
I’m not sure where she wants me to wait. I don’t see anywhere to sit unless you count the mattress.
She retrieves something blue from one of the open boxes and holds it under her arm. From another box, she grabs smaller items and scrunches them up in her hand. She picks up a plastic container of toiletries and exits.
“Hey . . .” I step into the hallway.
She keeps walking, inserts a key into a door a few down from hers, and disappears inside.
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. I stare after her, my mouth sprung open.
She sticks her head out. “If I’m not out in ten minutes, call the police.”
I can’t tell if she’s joking.
I meander around her apartment, looking for traces of the girl I think I know. A couple of framed pictures rest on a low stool next to the mattress. In one, she’s with a blond surfer-looking guy, wearing more makeup than I’ve ever seen on her. Must be from Halloween or something.
The woman in the next picture shares Brynn’s raven-colored hair. Her parents, I presume, the pair jamming on low-slung electric guitars with big, toothy grins and starry eyes locked on each other.
I suck in my breath.
Meredith said they both died in a car accident not too long ago. Like a jerk, I kept bringing them up when we went out to lunch.
She goes from living in Brooklyn to this shoebox? You’d think a creative person like her would have colorful posters or art everywhere. Maybe she’s on meds too.
Outside, a car horn blares for an obnoxious length of time. More horns join the cacophony; people start yelling. Her open window faces Bleecker Street. I imagine it’s hard to hold a conversation or hear yourself think with that constant commotion.
I’m studying one of the boxes against the wall when I feel Brynn behind me. I startle. That was a fast shower. She’s already in a different outfit—a sleeveless royal blue sundress. Stunning.
Catching my breath, I gesture at her window. “How do you live with the noise?”
She shrugs. “The street keeps me company.”
“Does it wake you up?”
“Yeah, if I leave the window open. On Sunday nights, a pack of motorcycles likes to storm the street at three in the morning. The first time it happened, the roar sent me straight up in bed. But I can sleep through anything now.”
I nod a few times. “Bleecker. Always so loud.”
“MacDougal. The quiet away.” She studies me for a moment before bending over to comb through her hair in front of the window. Water droplets seep into the pale wood floor around her bare feet. She straightens up, glances at her reflection in the upper window pane.
Okay, I have to ask. “Are you a minimalist or something? Why don’t you have any furniture?”
She turns around; her eyes slice into me. “Would need serious funds for that.”
I drop my head, the schmuck who had her working for free and is still only paying her minimum wage. It’s standard industry practice for newbies; everyone wants to be in advertising. I didn’t know she lived like this. Explains her bagel thievery every morning.
I motion to the picture of her mom and dad. “Where was your parents’ club?”
“Where Bleecker meets Bowery.”
“Wait, the Flaming Flamingo? Wow, that place was legendary. What happened to it?”
“Started to hit hard times when I was in high school. It got some negative publicity.” She shakes her head. “The building needed repairs and upgrades to adhere to new city codes.”
“They look happy here.” I pick up the picture again. “Your dad’s a badass with his crew cut and tats. You favor your mom.”
“Hm.” Brynn shrugs. “She’s tiny compared to me.”
“How do you pronounce their names?”
“Basilio and Katia.”
“I like the way they sound.”
“I know, musical. Then they give me such a boring name. Too close to brim. I’m always having to spell it.”
“You won’t receive any sympathy from me.”
“Is Micah biblical?”
I return her shrug. “People always leave off the h, like the mineral. Or nickname me after a countertop.”
Her lip curls. “Donovan sucks.”
I don’t want to talk about work right now. “It’s cool you’re Peruvian. Does Gallardo mean anything in Spanish?”
“Means gallant.” A faint smile graces her lips. “My grandparents almost Americanized it to Gallagher after fleeing Peru’s dictatorship in the early ’70s. I’m glad they didn’t.”
“I am too; I like Gallardo.”
“My mom’s maiden name was Baez.”
“As in Joan? Music legends run in your veins.”
“No relation.” She laughs. “But I did grow up onstage. My mom would wear me inside this wrap she tied around herself, put pink headphones on me to protect my ears. She told me I’d fall asleep to her singing. The show must go on, I guess.”
“Or she couldn’t bear to leave you.” My voice falters. If given the chance, would my own mother have worn me watching my dad play? Never crossed my mind before. My throat constricts. I look away.
“I don’t know, maybe.” The corners of her lips turn down.
I clear my windpipe. “How did you find this place?”
“My parents owned it. Rented it to musicians. They bought it after college in the late ’90s. With the communal bathroom and this being a pre-war building, the rent seemed reasonable for the West Village.” Her cheeks turn pink. “I think they conceived me here.”
I stare at the darkening ring by her feet. “I only ever knew my dad. And he wasn’t around much.”
“So, this thing we’re moving . . .”
I shake off the heaviness in my chest. “My father sends these unique gifts every so often, ones I can’t possibly use.”
“Rich people problems, huh?” She shoots me a wry look.
“He’s a musician too, actually. Plays in a different city every night, no forwarding address or working cell.” I sniff. “Okay, that last part’s untrue.”