Chapter 8
Happy hour at La Smith’s is always a crush of swaying bodies, bass, and laughter.
Today is no exception. After successfully navigating the crowd, I nod a greeting at La’s bartender and plop myself on the chair across from Margie.
She wordlessly hands me her drink, and I dutifully take a pull on the straw.
“Why isn’t breaking shit a faster process?” I moan. “Everything aches. Everything, all day today at work. And I work out!”
Margie tosses me a look.
“Sometimes. I work out sometimes. But based on what we accomplished last night, my muscles shouldn’t be hanging out in painful little knot gangs like this. We didn’t even put a dent in the wall demo.”
“Hmmm hmmm.” Margie bites the inside of her cheek and nods. “I was surprised at how slow it was going.”
“Maybe it would’ve gone faster if you didn’t spend all your time taunting me about Jack and playing a construction helper on TV,” I grumble. Margie swung exactly zero hammers, though she put on and took off a pair of safety goggles multiple times.
“I have a new show!” She gestures to her body with a sweep of her arm. “I can’t risk messing up my moneymaker. I’m there more for moral support. And I’ll carry debris downstairs for you. Also, not for nothing, I got you La’s promise to help rebuild after you take the wall down.”
I grunt. I don’t want her risking her job, and getting La to help was a coup.
But my head is throbbing. If there is ever wind in my sails, Jack has to act as a hidden reef.
Last night, after Margie and Avery went home, Jack started playing “What Was I Made For.” And then never stopped.
Even a song I love loses its charm after the eight hundredth repetition.
Paired with my achy body, it made for a particularly trying day at work today, which makes for a cranky Penny now.
“Okay. Sorry. I appreciate you.”
“You’re so moody.”
My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I pull it out. Mom. My shoulders tighten. I missed talking to her yesterday. “Give me a sec to take this, Margie?” I steel myself and press the button.
“Hi, Mom.”
“No call from you yesterday?”
“Sorry. It’s been wild. I’ve been working a ton.” And destroying my wall, weaponizing cat’s asses, and forcing myself to maybe get evicted.
“You work too hard, Penny! You need to find a better job. They’re not treating you right there.”
“You’re right. I do work too much,” I say, in my most soothing tone.
“It’s just I’m trying to buy my apartment, and—” At her indrawn breath, my heart slams into my throat.
Shit, shit, shit. Eyes wide, I mute myself and switch to speaker at Margie’s questioning look.
“I’m so fucked,” I moan, seizing the napkin in front of me and shredding it.
“Buy? You’re not buying there. If you want to buy something, come home and buy!
Cathy Santini died about three weeks back—you remember her?
She was the one who used to hand out the whole candy bars you liked so much on Halloween.
Over on Greenly Street? Heart attack, right in her kitchen.
And her house is on the market now. Come back and buy that!
It’s perfect for you. Or come back and stay with me and buy when you finally find a boy to settle down with. The city is just filthy, sweetheart.”
My breath catches. You can’t hack it there, is what she leaves unsaid.
Why do I feel guilty for working, for wanting to make a decision for myself?
I like my life here. I just need her to be okay with it.
Her approval is sunlight, and I’m a desperate houseplant turning my face to catch her rays.
I ball up my shredded napkin and squeeze it tightly in my fist.
Margie’s lips twist. “The dead lady’s ghost is an awesome selling point,” she says.
I unmute the phone. “Right. I’m not sure I want to move back, Mom.” I close my eyes, bracing for impact.
“When you find a guy—”
“Not even then.”
“Of course you will.”
I breathe in and out, almost dizzy. I don’t want this to spiral more than it has. “Maybe, yeah. I’ll think it over. But listen, Mom, I’m having drinks with Margie. Did I tell you she’s a series regular? So amazing. I’m thrilled for her. I’ve got to run, but I’ll call you later and fill you in.”
“Alright, Penny. Love you. I’ll ask about pricing on the Santini house,” she says.
“Thank you. Bye, Mom. Love you.”
I hang up and slump in the chair.
“You okay?” Margie asks.
I massage my jaw, trying to unstick the tension there. I wouldn’t have slipped and told Mom if it wasn’t for Jack and his nighttime antics. “No.” I move my fingers up to my temples and mutter, “Billie Eilish is a treasure. She shouldn’t be used as a weapon of war.”
Margie gives me a puzzled look, but in an effort to lighten the mood, she launches into a set story about a recent A-list guest star whose shifting hairline kept ruining the continuity of scenes. I’m chuckling by the time La joins us at the table.
“Hey Pen, I talked to my contact in the permit office. I’ve pulled what you need. Stop by the bar tomorrow and I’ll give you the paperwork,” she says, offering to do something I forgot I even needed.
“You’re an angel and I’m in your debt,” I say, so grateful that I don’t even mind when Margie shares a greatest-hits version of my war with Jack with her.
Hearing all our antics laid out like that makes me feel and sound very juvenile.
Is it so wrong to just want to enjoy my apartment in peace?
I was adult-ish before Jack barreled into my world like a juiced-up bull.
I fold my arms across my chest and harrumph, but watching them both laugh, La guffawing and leaning against Margie for support, I find my own lips twitching in amusement.
“How did it go with the cat allergy stuff?” Margie asks before sharing the details of our Cashmere caper for La. I grin and lean back in my chair, cradling my wine.
“I don’t know. After you left, I worked on the wall a bit and then cleaned up and showered before I turned in. I didn’t spy on him because I guarantee it would’ve been written all over my face.”
“And can I ask: what could he have done to inspire cat warfare?” La asks.
“He insulted me. I— I insulted him, too, but it was a mess with him trying to kiss me—”
Margie’s eyebrows launch up. I left that part out when I asked her and Cashmere over. “And then I found out he didn’t cheat; it was his sister I saw leaving his apartment. But he threw some stuff he heard through the wall in my face. Said some very mean things like a real scumbag. Scum. Bag.”
“I thought Margie was the dramatic one, and you were so go-with-the-flow,” La says.
Margie pulls a mock-severe look.
I was go-with-the-flow. Until Jack.
The walk home with Margie is a quiet one, with both of us lost in our own thoughts. And then Margie glances at me.
“Think we’re due for story time. That’s a pretty major detail you left out about the kiss.”
I blanch. I avoided telling Margie or Avery, partly because I didn’t want to give them ammo to tease me with, but mainly because I didn’t want to think about that moment too much myself.
Pirate Duke is scorching, bless Karin Shelby’s heart and pen, but that book and Jack’s clumsy advance have burrowed together into my hippocampus and procreated, birthing some truly awful thoughts.
Yes, I admit it. He’s handsome if you’re extremely near-sighted. Have some self-respect, lady! He insulted you!
“He’s the worst,” is all I volunteer. “It was nothing. I just want to forget he exists.”
“Maybe tonight he’ll be too busy itching to pay attention to you,” she muses before hugging me goodbye and continuing on to her apartment.
The thought brings me joy. I carry that joy with me on the walk home, images of Jack loading his shit into the back of a moving van prancing through my mind. Sad little garbage bags filled with his piney-scented wardrobe, those barstools I like so much…
My daydream morphs as I practically skip to my apartment: Jack handing his keys over to Gence. Me closing our building’s front door on him with a smile.
Once inside, I fill my watering can at the sink and envision my neighbors cheering as I triumphantly hold my mortgage papers aloft, my beautiful apartment mine forever.
I imagine Gence high-fiving me as I enter the lobby, happy to see me now that my nemesis is gone.
I grin like mad—until I notice my beautiful fire-escape garden.
The air leaves my lungs in a quiet gasp. I gently set the watering can down onto the floor next to me and force my mouth closed. My fire escape looks like the bottom of a bird exhibit at the zoo. Everything—literally everything—on my black fire escape is white. Or gray.
It’s covered in bird shit, is what I’m saying.
How does this happen? I open the window and lean out, looking up, eyes squinted in case I’m surprised by the biker gang of birds responsible.
There’s nothing there. I inspect my plants.
Feathers all over, enough that they compete with the bird crap for pole position.
Some of my seedlings have been uprooted entirely.
And…seeds?
I pick one out of the dirt in the pot closest to me, analyzing it like Detective Poirot. It’s a small yellow millet seed. And beside it is a cracked sunflower seed.
My lips firm. Jack fucking Craig. This was no accident. Jack knows what I did. And now I know he knows. And he’s going to know that I know.
I march to my kitchen, retrieve what I need, and stride toward The Hole.
And then I’m through, rushing toward the radiator over by his windows.
I kneel and reach into the tin, pulling out a scoop of tuna and smearing it onto the back of the radiator.
I repeat until the can is empty and then move to the second one.
And then I look out the window at the blindingly beautiful blue sky and wonder how my life has landed me at this new low.
Jack returns later, when I’m working at the wall, and pokes his head in on me.