Chapter 9 #2
When I get upstairs, I am desperate for four things: a cup of tea, my reading socks, a new book, and someone to finish taking down the wall for me.
I settle for the cup of tea, reaching for a cabinet door under my kitchen counter to retrieve my kettle. Instead, I retrieve the door. It falls off its hinges, and I recoil, still holding onto the handle for some inexplicable reason as it glances off my big toe.
“Ow, ow, ow. Ow.” I hop around, pulling my foot up to hold until the worst of the pain subsides. A sneaking suspicion crawls up my spine.
The cabinet still has its screws, but the thing came out with no resistance, so they must have been loose. The cabinet next to it appears to have loose screws, too, though I don’t try to open them. In fact… All of the bottom cabinets have loosened screws.
Jack.
He didn’t loosen the top cabinets, probably because he didn’t want to kill me, just enrage me. He must have discovered the tuna fish.
I find a multitool in the junk drawer and refasten the cabinets securely. And then I seethe.
I don’t hear him on the other side of the wall.
Quickly, before I lose my nerve, I run out of my apartment and down two flights to 3B. The father answers on the second knock.
“Hi!” I say, trying my best to feign cheerfulness instead of hysteria. “That project Olivia put together. Did she use all that glitter?”
3B, to my delight, has buttloads of glitter to spare.
Back in my apartment, I rummage through the cabinet under my bathroom sink until I find a squeeze bottle. I fill it part of the way with water and then try to pour the glitter, as best I can, into the bottle’s narrow neck. It gets all over my sink and floor.
“Dig two graves,” I mutter.
I rush across the room and flap the sheet out of my way, hurrying over to Jack’s bathroom, sure he’s going to erupt into the apartment at any moment. My pulse gallops.
His shampoo bottle is sitting on a toiletry organizer hanging from his shower head.
I lift it out gingerly, as if the sound of it sliding against the organizer will summon him like a genie.
Shampoo and conditioner in one. Good—no separate product to dilute the impact.
I unscrew the cap. Almost all gone. Perfect.
I squirt the contents of my brew into the bottle and shake it up.
Spying his shower gel, I give it the same treatment.
If this goes the way I hope it will, Jack’s going to look like he dry-humped Tinkerbell.
I set the shower gel back where I found it, wishing I could see his stupid face when he realizes what I’ve done.
Mission accomplished, I retreat back to The Hole to start on more demolition, my smile brighter than it’s been in ages. The idea that I may be part of this problem tickles the back of my mind, whisper-soft but niggling.
The smile fades as I take in my wall. The drywall on my side has all come down, more or less, but the areas where there was lath and plaster beneath it is riddled with pockmarks.
It’s proven really tough to take out the plaster and rip out the narrow horizontal slats beyond.
It gives me anxiety to see Mary Sue this way, but I reassure myself that it’s for a greater good.
Soon this wall will be down, then back up again with soundproofing, and then my apartment will belong to me.
We haven’t started work on Jack’s side yet, though stabbing through the lath has opened up little holes here and there on his side.
The only sizable spot still fully open to Jack’s apartment is the original Hole, although it’s now a touch wider and taller.
I can still spy undetected as a result—which I do the second I hear Jack’s door open.
He’s shrugging out of a gray suit, headed for his bedroom, when I peep past the sheet. I’m about to duck when he stops in the middle of the room and turns around, facing his kitchen but not moving other than to toss his jacket on his sofa and tug the tails of his dress shirt from his pants.
I can’t see what he’s doing, since I can only see the expanse of his back. I frown and shift as quietly as I can to my knees. My workouts do not allow for squatting for that length of time. This vantage point makes it so that his sofa blocks his ability to see me, but I can just see over the top.
Unbuttoning. He was unbuttoning. He wrests the white dress shirt off his shoulders and then pulls his undershirt over his head in one smooth motion. His shoulder muscles ripple as he pulls the shirt off. His smooth olive skin looks warm to the touch.
He reaches for his belt and yanks it out of its loops with a quick snap. And then his hands return to his middle, and his waistband goes slack.
My mouth goes dry.
“Hey, Jason Bourne. Your spy craft needs work,” he calls out.
I drop the sheet and lean back against the wall. Shiiiiit.
“I was just wondering what smelled like tuna fish in there,” I shout, my face contorted into a permanent cringe.
“Right.”
There’s a knock on Jack’s door, and I send a silent thank-you to whomever has chosen to enter Satan’s den. Until I hear a female voice.