17. Annabelle
Annabelle
We get three sunny days in a row, which is probably some kind of February record.
My new ear protectors silence the crashes from downstairs.
I’ve figured out the quirks of my kitchen and I’ve been cooking my Nana’s recipes.
I’ve been trying to work more but my butt hurts from my kitchen chairs and my kitchen table is the wrong height for drawing.
Lia takes me to Escanaba, where I find a decent office chair at Meijer. I rearrange all my living room furniture, add shelving units along one wall, and find a used desk at The Restyle Room.
Grant helps me carry it up to my apartment. Today, his t-shirt says “Yoop! There it is.” I don’t comment on it. It stretches across his chest when he lifts the desk. I don’t comment on that either.
Because here’s the thing. Grant and I? We’re not a match. He’s cynical. I’m romantic. He likes temporary arrangements. I’m holding out for my forever person. Is there chemistry between us? Absolutely. Are we going to do anything about it? Absolutely not.
Grant grunts as we reach stair number seventeen. “Remind me again why you needed a desk that weighs more than a baby elephant?”
“It’s rugged.” I adjust my grip on the edge of the oak desk. I’m taking the front end as we go up, so Grant’s bearing most of the weight. “Reliable. Classic.”
“It’s a desk, not a boyfriend resume.”
I inch up another step. “Someone’s feeling threatened by superior craftsmanship.”
“If this desk was a true gentleman, he’d carry himself upstairs.”
I take another step up. “The guy at the thrift store put this into my Escape with one hand.”
“What was he, the Hulk’s cousin?”
I pull, Grant lifts, and we make it up two more steps. “You’re doing great. Very determined. You’re sort of like a poodle trying to move a couch cushion.”
Grant’s gasp is half outrage, half laugh. “Insulting and condescending. Big talk for a woman who got this desk for twelve dollars and a coupon.”
“Good taste can’t be bought.” I’m pretending to love the desk more than I do. The light blond finish doesn’t match any of the furniture in my apartment and it has too many drawers. But this desk was cheap, available, and small enough to fit through my door, so it’s the one I have.
We’re almost there. I grunt as we go up the last step. My biceps are killing me and my armpits are damp with sweat.
“You know what can be bought?” Grant asks. “Movers. You can hire them.”
“Why? I have you.”
“You owe me,” Grant pants as we reach my door. “Big time.”
“I made pot roast last night. Roasted vegetables, the whole works.”
“Is that why the hallway smelled like heaven?”
“I have leftovers for days.”
“Not sure what that has to do with me.”
“I packaged up half of it for you.”
“I’m suddenly interested in getting this desk through your door.”
Grant and I lift and shimmy, and we get it into the corner of my living room. Grant levels it while I get the plastic container of food out of my fridge.
He peels up one corner and sniffs, then makes a yum sound in his throat that sounds very much like a bedroom noise, which is not a problem because we’re just friends, and very incompatible, and I’m not going to be thinking about that noise later at all.
“If this tastes as delicious as it smells, then I’m not even mad about the desk.”
“Oh goody,” I say. “Because they had this matching armoire that might—”
Grant speeds out of the room so fast I feel a breeze in his wake. I hope he hears my laughter as he clomps down the stairs.
Ted Ender: I’m going to come right out and ask. Can I buy your building?
Annabelle: How did you get this number?
Ted Ender: I can have the offer on your lawyer’s desk at 8:00 on Monday morning
Annabelle: Not interested
I’ve been trying to do laundry all day, but Grant’s been tying up the machines. We’re a little fuzzy on who actually owns the washer and dryer, so I’m not sure I can object, but I hate the way he keeps texting me “ten more minutes,” every ten minutes for an hour.
After I’m sure he’s washed half the clothes in Michigan, he texts me one last time.
Grant: Your Highness, the washer is at last vacant. The royal laundry chamber awaits your majestic presence
Annabelle: If the machine smells like your socks, I’m raising the rent for emotional damages
I drag my basket to the basement. After I throw my first load in the washer, I spot one of Grant’s t-shirts on the floor.
I pick it up and hold it at arm’s length.
It’s navy blue with white writing that says, “World’s Best Euchre Partner.
” The fabric is soft and broken in. I bet Grant loves this shirt.
I should give it back to him. But maybe wash it first? Is it clean? Dirty?
Don’t smell it, I tell myself. Just give it back to him. Whatever you do, do not smell that shirt.
I bring it to my nose. Inhale. It smells like snow and cedar and some unidentifiable scent that makes me go weak in the knees. Heat rushes to my core and I moan a bit. I actually moan. This dirty t-shirt wants me to take it to bed and sleep with it like a wubby.
No. Bad. Danger, Annabelle, danger. I fling open the washer and throw the shirt in. I breathe deep, calming my system. On my way upstairs, I detour outside for a moment where the fresh air doesn’t smell at all like a hot man.
When the wash and dry cycle is done, I sniff the shirt again, but all I can smell is Tide.
Now I can get revenge on the laundry hog.
The t-shirt slides easily over my heavy sweatshirt.
I look like a kid wearing the oversized jersey of his sports idol, but I don’t care about that. I only care that Grant will hate it.
He does.
I find him in the front room of The Break, unpacking a box of dishware with June. When Grant sees me, his eyes widen in surprise for a split second before his eyebrows slam down and he growls, “You can’t wear that.”
“This?” I ask, trying for innocence before a giggle escapes me.
“It’s my lucky shirt.”
“Aww, are you afraid my girl cooties ruined it for you?” I pull the shirt away from my body and lower my voice. “You will be cursed with losing cards from now on. Nothing but nines and tens.”
June gasps. “You play euchre?”
“Of course.” Euchre is an easier, rowdier cousin of bridge. It only uses half a deck and can be learned in the time it takes to drink one beer. I haven’t played since college, but I still remember how.
“We play every month at our family dinners,” June says. “You should come sometime.”
“Sure.” I know this is just Midwest politeness.
I’m not really being invited to the Neverly’s house.
But still, my heart flutters a bit. A big family dinner?
Mom adding another leaf to the table, and Dad putting more logs on the fire, and coats piled on the bed because they won’t all fit in the closet?
Eating and drinking with people who can remember what you did when you were five years old?
And it takes ten minutes to leave because you have to hug everyone in the room first, and then tell them one more story? That kind of family dinner?
“It’s on Sunday,” June says. “Does five o’clock work for you? I’ll tell my parents to set an extra place.”
“This Sunday?” I do a mental rewind. She was actually inviting me?
Grant’s mouth is pinched tight like he’s trying to hold in swear words. He’s gripping his wrists, one and then the other.
June straightens a stack of plates. “You can make it, right?”
Grant stiffens. “I’m sure Annabelle’s busy on Sunday.”
“No I’m not,” I say.
“She’s not,” June crows. “She’s coming.”
Grant’s breathing heavily through his nose. “Don’t you have more greeting cards to make? They’re probably not sweet enough yet and you have to add more—”
“What can I bring?” I ask June.
“My shirt,” Grant growls.
“Oh I like this,” June says. “Annabelle, you can be on my team. Bring some pop if you want. And bring the lucky shirt. We’re going to make him win it back.”