Chapter 17 #2
“You’ve convinced me. When’s my first shift?”
He laughs, a rich sound that betrays his French background. I wonder if he whitens his teeth.
“Hey, would you like to get dinner sometime?” He asks it without a hint of self-consciousness, shifting the bin from one arm to the other.
I feel my mouth drop open, and then close it at once. So what if it has been literal years since anyone has asked me out? I straighten my shoulders and try to act like someone who is used to this type of attention, even as one of the voices in my head cackles maniacally.
“I wish I could say yes,” I say truthfully. (I mean, look at him!) “But I’m heading back to Seattle in a few days.”
The cackling voice stops laughing and adds, Plus we’re holding out for a certain redhead .
We are not , I chide her.
“Ah well.” Leo shrugs with a friendly wink. “Hope you enjoy the rest of your vacation. Say goodbye before you leave, yeah?”
I nod and wave as he returns to the other side of the counter.
We are, too , the voice in my head says. I ignore her.
At four P.M. , I decline a meeting and put an away message on Slack saying that I have an appointment. Which is true: I have an appointment with Alan at Pebble Cottage. I just hope Kat doesn’t notice that I’m offline in the middle of the afternoon, Seattle time.
I pull up to the house in Gramps’s car and immediately notice the familiar red bike parked in the grass.
I have a sudden urge to check my hair and teeth in the car mirror.
Of course Daniel is here, too. As my property manager, he’s supposed to be involved in all things Pebble Cottage.
I just wasn’t expecting him. Although, now that I think of it, he did reply to Alan’s latest email with Great!
! So maybe it was implied that he would join us.
I just wish I could act normal around him.
But I’m a spaz on the best of days, so when it comes to a property manager I shared a hot make-out session with that I now have to pretend never happened, there’s no hope for me.
I hop out of the car and greet them both in what I’m pretty sure is a normal way. Strong start.
Alan gives me a nod, sliding his phone into the front pocket of his overalls. Daniel, wearing skintight black bike shorts and a white T-shirt, smiles and bounces on the balls of his feet as he says hello. Is he always this happy? Maybe it’s the bike-riding endorphins.
“I still don’t know how you ride a bike everywhere in this heat,” I say, wiping sweat from my hairline as we step inside. He glances at me, like he wants very much to launch into a lecture on the benefits of biking, but then Alan starts to talk.
He guides us from the small bathroom to the boiler room, explaining what he’s fixed and pointing out the improvements.
I’m filled with a gut-sinking sense of impostor syndrome.
I have literally no idea what any of this means.
He could be completely screwing me over, and I wouldn’t know it.
I would just nod and smile and give him my money.
I’m familiar with this just-smile-and-nod feeling, because I’ve felt this way at work many times.
But now that it’s about Pebble Cottage—my house—the feeling is more troubling, because my ignorance could cost me huge sums of money.
On the one hand, I’m relieved to have Daniel here, because he actually does know what Alan is talking about, and his interests are aligned with mine now that he’s my property manager.
On the other hand, I really, really need to learn about all this house stuff.
I don’t want to feel like it’s just a matter of time before I become the victim of a con artist.
Back in the entryway, Alan claps his hands together and says, “So, that’s everything. Daniel’s already set up the payment plan. Give me a holler if y’all need anything else.”
“Thanks, Alan. Talk soon,” Daniel says, walking him to the door.
“Thank you!” I call after him.
“So.” Daniel’s tone is businesslike. I startle, realizing that we are now alone in my empty house. “Have you given any more thought to the…” He gestures from the retro carpet to the brown walls.
“Um.” I take it all in: the dark living room, the carpeted hallway. What’s some carpet and paint, really, when it comes down to it? “Yeah, I’m thinking I’ll just take care of it.”
The words have left my mouth before I can stop them.
“You mean…” Daniel presses his lips together, looking not so much puzzled as amused.
“As in, you’re going to do it yourself?” I see his bright-hazel eyes flick from my face down to my (puny) arms. I cross them defensively, and he looks back up at me, now trying and failing to hold back a snort of laughter.
“Size is no indication of strength,” I say.
Laughter bursts out of him like he just can’t hold it anymore.
“I never said—” He takes a deep breath to calm himself. “I mean, I’m sure you are—have you ever pulled up carpet before?”
I would very much like to lie and say yes, but instead I say, “No, I have not.” This only makes him laugh again.
“Is this a point-of-pride thing or a money thing?” he asks.
I stare at him, my face stone-cold. I am obviously not going to tell him it’s a money thing.
“Right,” he says. “Pride. Got it.” He glances around the room, and I follow his gaze, realizing how much work I just signed up for. There’s carpet everywhere . What is wrong with me? Why did I say it?
“Weren’t you planning to go home soon?”
“I was. I mean, I still am. But a few things came up. Including… all this.”
“Oh, this? If you know what you’re doing, you can change out the flooring and paint the place in a week or two.”
And if I don’t know what I’m doing? And if I’m doing the work in addition to my full-time job? How long will that take, six months?
“What are the other things?” he asks curiously before I can reply.
“Some stuff with my grandpa.” I tap my keys anxiously against my thigh. “I need to help him with a few things. Actually, he took my advice and went to therapy, so that was a win.”
“That’s great!” Daniel taps my shoulder in a manly way-to-go kind of way. He checks his watch. “I should get going. Keep me updated on your progress, all right? I’ll have my photographer buddy on standby to take photos when you’re done.”
“Photos?” I follow him to the door and stop short when he turns around.
“Yeah, for the listing. The rental listing.”
“Oh. Okay. Makes sense.” I’m clutching the doorknob and squeezing my belly in to make more space between us. He doesn’t seem to notice that we’re two inches apart.
“We won’t bother staging it. With the touch-ups and the right price, it’ll rent quickly, even with empty room photos.”
“Great.” We descend the two front steps and turn right toward his bike, into the sweet-smelling St. Augustine grass.
The idea of some strangers moving into the house and filling it with their own furniture, their strange belongings, makes my stomach clench.
Obviously, this is the goal. So that I can collect rent and return to my own place across the country.
But walking through the empty house and then picturing it filled with other people’s stuff—I don’t like it.
Of course, I can’t tell Daniel this. He wants to find new tenants as soon as we can, so he can take his cut of the rent. That’s his job.
He buckles his helmet and swings a leg over his bike.
“How do you do it?” I ask. “Bike, I mean.”
His mouth quirks to one side as he gives me an appraising look. “I drink a lot of water, for starters. And also…” He stops, apparently trying to think of the right words.
“What?” I prompt.
“Once you start, you can’t stop.” I feel my forehead scrunch with skepticism. He laughs and continues, “I mean, the feeling of fresh air whipping you in the face, compared with the cramped feeling of being in a car with the AC blowing at you—there’s no going back.”
“Okay…” I’ll keep the comfort of a climate-controlled car any day.
He lifts his chin and gives me a knowing sort of smile. “You’ll see.”
“I will?”
“I’ll get you on a bike someday.”
“Sure. Good luck with that.”
He laughs again, then kicks off and glides away into the quiet cul-de-sac. “Have a good one, Mallory.”
“You too, Daniel,” I mutter, but he’s already gone.
I stop by Foxy’s Market on my way back to the condo.
I grab a rotisserie chicken, a baguette, and a Caesar salad kit to share with Gramps for dinner.
On a whim, I also buy a package of Fig Newtons.
When I get home, Gramps is reading out on the balcony, and I stealthily empty the package into the cookie jar on the counter.
The one that Lottie always kept full. I can’t wait to see Gramps’s reaction.
I put the chicken and salad in the fridge and check the microwave clock to see how close it is to six o’clock, Gramps’s preferred dinnertime. It’s a quarter till, so I start to set the table, when all of a sudden, my heart freezes.
Shit.
I’ve been offline for two hours. No, no, no. What was I thinking? How could I just forget about work?
Hurtling across the room to where I dropped my bag on the floor, I check my phone with one hand and pull out my laptop with the other.
Slack is blowing up. I feel fizzy with panic, my armpits prickling with sweat.
I log into my computer and see that most of the messages are garden variety: team chatter, and some questions from stakeholders that aren’t necessarily urgent for me to answer right away.
But the name Kat White is flashing, with the number 5 next to it. Five unread messages from my boss.