4. Angie
ANGIE
Six Weeks Later
There are certain things I’m really good at not thinking about.
Like those enormous Australian spiders. Or rabid dogs chasing me in the park. Or the way Rick snorts and grunts when his allergies are acting up.
Or how my period’s late. No, I don’t think about that, no way, no thanks.
I have bigger problems as I heft my grocery bags through the apartment building’s front door. The elevator’s broken yet again. I angle toward the stairs already preparing myself for an upward death march, purposefully not thinking, when I spot the landlord Dennis stalking toward me.
Ah, shit, that’s never good. I see Dennis once a month, when I hand over the check. Any other time, and it’s a very bad sign.
“Angelina! Can I have a word, please?”
Freaking Dennis. I turn and give him my best smile, arms getting tired from holding all my groceries. “Sure, what can I do for you?”
He pauses, stroking a hand through his patchy white beard. I don’t know how old Dennis is, but he’s definitely not young. The guy’s always in gray slacks and white shirts, and it’s like he’s a marshmallow person, soft and doughy, devoid of any color.
“There have been some complaints.” He crosses his arms and spreads his legs, getting into a power stance. Please, God, hurry it along.
“What happened?” I ask, although that really means, what did she do now?
“It’s the smoke. I know it’s legal in the city, but we have rules in the building, you know that.”
“I’m so sorry.” I lift one bag, getting a better grip. “I’ll talk to her.”
“I tried going to your mother directly, but you know how she can be. She says all the right things, but I’m not sure she’s really hearing me.”
“I promise, I’ll talk to her.”
“It’s too much, you know? That much marijuana can’t be healthy for anyone.”
He’s got no idea. “She’ll cut back.”
And then hell will freeze over.
“It’s not just the smoking. It’s the music?—“
“I’ll have her turn it down.”
“And the drums.”
“I’ll break them. I promise.”
He runs a hand through his thin hair. “I like you, Angelina. Unlike your mother, you’re dependable. I don’t want to cause you trouble, but you have to see my side. I have other folks to worry about. And your mother, her apartment is rent-controlled?—“
And he’d use just about any excuse to kick her ass out.
“I understand. I’ll talk to her.”
“I hope so.” He turns away. “Good luck with that.”
I grunt and push open the door to the stairwell with my hip. He didn’t even offer to help me with all this stuff, the bastard.
But I can’t be too mad at him. Dennis wants to get rid of us, but fortunately, he’s incompetent, lazy, and spineless, which means Mom has been able to skate past on her good looks for years and years.
The thing is though, without rent control, I don’t know what’ll happen to her.
We can’t afford this neighborhood anymore, and there’s no way in hell Mom’s going to move anywhere else, let alone get a job. God forbid she earns a living.
No, that’s been on me ever since I was fifteen years old.
I lug everything up the stairs. The conversation with Dennis gets filed away in the drawer of all the things I don’t think about, like my period being late—but no, nothing, never mind, it’s fine.
I fumble with the front door lock and step inside, greeted by the reek of weed and the stereo playing Jefferson Airplane.
“Mom! I’m back!” I sigh with relief when I get the grocery bags on the kitchen counter.
I don’t bother waiting for her to come help put it all away.
When I’m finished, I find Dawn Bellandi sprawled on the couch in a shawl and a pair of yoga sweats, a joint between her fingers, a stoned smile on her face.
“Hello, darling,” she says and wiggles her wrist in a greeting. “How was—“ She flexes her toes toward the wall. “The outside world?”
“It was great.” I yank open the blinds and crack the window. “You should try it sometime.”
“You know I love fresh air, but alas, my sciatica?—“
“I know, I know, it’s okay.” I sit heavily in a chair beside the couch. “Did you eat?”
“Sometime.”
“Recently?”
“I’m sure.”
“I’ll cook.”
“Darling, it’s fine.” She parts her thick, dark curls.
Despite being in her late fifties, my mother is still stunning.
She’s toned and her skin is immaculate. I swear, she looks like she could be my sister.
It’s simply not fair. I don’t know how a woman can sit around smoking weed and doing nothing else for twenty years and not age a day.
“You know the universe always feeds me.”
“My name’s Angie, not The Universe,” I mutter at her and stretch my legs. “What do you want? I was going to make some salads?—“
“Chicken nuggets.”
“Excuse me? I thought you were a vegetarian.”
Mom sits up abruptly and takes a big hit. “I got a sign! From the stars!” She gestures at the ceiling. “Chicken nuggets, my love. That’s what I need.”
“I don’t have… I mean, are you serious right now?”
“Nuggets.” She falls back on the couch. “Or bust.”
God damn it.
I could scream.
My mother hasn’t eaten meat in three months—before that, she would only have fish—and now she wants chicken freaking nuggets like she’s five years old. And we both know a batch of dino-shaped freezer nugs won’t be good enough. No, she’ll want me to do them from scratch.
And the sick part is, I get to my feet and find my wallet.
“Oh, love, and if you’re going out, we need more toilet paper.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that an hour ago?!”
Her fingers twist in the air. “I didn’t get a sign. And I didn’t notice.”
Fuck me.
“I’ll be back, and you’re going to eat these stupid nuggets, do you hear me?”
“Love you, darling.”
I storm out of the apartment.
This is my life. I slave at WashCo and I run errands for my flighty, pot-smoking mother.
I do it all because if I don’t, she’ll starve herself.
I’ve seen it happen before, the way the darkness takes over her and she spirals, turning stick-thin and gangly, and I won’t let it happen.
If that means going out twice and making stupid chicken nuggets, that’s what I’ll do. At least I don’t run into Dennis.
The city’s alive on a Saturday evening. Our apartment is a cage, but I put up with it because I love Bushwick.
It’s my home, always has been, probably always will be.
I’ll die pickled of weed smoke probably years before my mother does.
But at least there will be motion around me, neighbors on stoops, kids on the playground, young guys and girls on bikes zipping through traffic on the way to make food deliveries.
I pause at the corner, waiting for the light, and turn left to look?—
And frown when a car pulls out. It’s a black BMW, shiny and gorgeous, not the sort of thing I usually see around here. Parts of this neighborhood are gentrifying, but we’re in a holdout pocket still, though everyone knows it won’t last. I squint at the windshield, heart pattering.
I swear, the man behind the wheel is Connor Maguire.
The light changes. I hurry to cross, head down. That couldn’t have been him. There’s no way he’d ever be in this neighborhood, right? Connor belongs in Manhattan, in fancy Upper East Side apartments and brownstones, not crumbling Bushwick corner stores.
But when I risk a look back, I’m almost positive it’s him.
And he’s watching me.
I shiver with excitement. This is stupid.
I’m hallucinating. Too much second-hand weed smoke.
I haven’t seen Connor since that evening we shared six weeks ago now.
At first, in the days right after, I kept thinking maybe it would happen again.
I left him with three images—only three, he promised, and I believed him—and I wondered if maybe he’d come ask for more, or maybe he’d want to pose me against himself, and maybe he’d kiss me, fill me, fuck me, make me feel beautiful?—
Except it never happened. Days dragged, turned to weeks, and now I’m sure he’s avoiding me. I haven’t even seen him in the halls.
Nobody knows it happened. I haven’t told Nadia, which is a minor miracle. I’m not sure she’d believe me if I did.
I mean, I couldn’t blame her. Why the hell would Connor Maguire want to have sex with me? A nobody working in his accounting department?
That man is like a beautiful god and I’m about the most boring girl imaginable.
No, it’s a fluke. Connor doesn’t want me. He’s back to being nothing more than Big Boss. And there’s no way in hell that’s him driving the BMW.
Even as it rolls past me, and I swear his eyes are on me through the window.
I duck into the bodega, heart racing wildly.
Is he following me?
Why the hell would he do that?
But no, I’m being ridiculous. Weed smoke. That’s all it is. I’m contact high. Although I can’t imagine that’s true since I must have the strongest tolerance possible by now.
I greet the bored guy behind the counter and pick out what I need. The prices suck but I don’t feel like walking to the better grocery store ten blocks away. I’m about to pile everything on the counter when I pause in the personal care section.
There, down at the bottom, is a pregnancy test.
Cute box. Pink, gray, and purple. A stick, some gloves, what looks like a cup.
I don’t need it, right? I’m not thinking about the late period.
I don’t think about that, and I don’t think about how Connor fucked me deep and satisfying, the best sex I’ve ever had by a wide margin, and how he didn’t wear protection, and I’m not on birth control, and he finished deep inside of me?—
“Find everything?” The guy rings me up, bagging my stuff.
“All good, thanks.”
I hurry from the store. I fall into a flow of walkers and head toward the crossing again. Mom’s waiting. Pot smoke and laughter. It’ll be okay. I’ll cook, make her eat something. We’ll be fine. When the light changes, I walk to the other side, and spot that BMW again.
It’s the same one, rolling slow.
I pick up my pace. I don’t look over my shoulder.
That’s not Connor. He’s not following me.
I grip my bag tight, nearly running by the time I reach my apartment building.
My heart’s hammering and I’m out of breath as I duck inside, peering through the door as the BMW cruises past, moving much too slow.
I catch a glimpse of him. Sinfully handsome. Eyes like storms and mouth like hell.
What in the world is he doing here?
“Forget something?”
I flinch and turn. Dennis stands at the other end of the lobby. He smiles uncertainly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, it’s fine, no worries.”
I hurry past him, feeling like an idiot.
No, Connor Maguire isn’t stalking me. He’s not waiting in his car near my apartment so he can follow me to the local bodega.
That would be madness. And I don’t care that my period’s late, and I sure as hell don’t need a pregnancy test, and my mom’s going to be fine, she’ll cut back on the weed, we won’t get evicted, we won’t end up homeless.
Everything will work out.
So long as I can make these stupid nuggets.