Saint Nick
Chapter 1
1
L ow
The rumble of the oversized tires is the first thing I hear, the size of the envelope is the first thing I see, and the casual fling of the small white envelope toward my front porch is my clue that everything is wrong. Again. For the fifth time this week. And seeing as it’s only Thursday morning, five is an insanely high number.
Someone’s about to die.
I ordered a new desk chair. And from what I know about desk chairs, they aren’t small, they don’t fit inside tiny white envelopes, and you can’t exactly fling them anywhere. The package that just landed on my porch is clearly not mine. How hard can package delivery be? I lunge from my grandmother’s lopsided chair with the wonky wheel and launch myself up and out the front door. Behind me, my grandmother’s insufferable pet parrot starts yapping again. Of course, he does.
“Don’t even think about leaving,” I breathlessly demand to the mail delivery guy as I stumble forward, carelessly stubbing my pinky toe on the doorframe. I hop on one foot while my toe screams, “Idiot!” at me. I think I broke it again, and that makes me even madder. “Did you even bother to check the address this time?” Once again, I’m startled by his age. He’s got to be a senior in high school. Maybe.
Who cares. I’m out of breath and patience. The last one for obvious reasons, but the first one…I mean, I only ran five steps. I make a mental note to join a local gym. Unlike my last gym membership, I’ll try to go more than once.
“Of course, I checked the address,” he says with a longsuffering sigh. I don’t like his tone or his pimple-dotted face. “Lady, you remind me every time.”
Two things about this make my vision run blood red. One, I’m not even thirty. He can drop the “lady.” Two, he obviously needs reminding. The kid has the memory of a sand flea. Plus, he can’t drive for crap.
Yesterday’s tire marks on my roadside flower bed bear witness to his poor navigational skills. It’s beside the point that it’s early November, and all the flowers are long past dead. I hardly want next spring’s tulip bulbs ground into purple mulch just because this kid barely has a driver’s license. I cross my arms and press my throbbing toe into the concrete, trying to soothe the ache. It doesn’t help.
“Is my constant reminding working, though? Are you reading the sticky notes I keep putting on the front door,” I point to today’s note for extra emphasis, “or are they just blending with the bricks? This note is lime green and literally says, ‘Leave nothing except a chair-sized box.’” I wave the small envelope at his face, aware I’m acting like a deranged lunatic at this point. “Is this a chair-sized box? Because I don’t think it is, and I’m no longer sure what to do to make sure my correct packages get delivered anymore.” There must be a shortage of postal applicants because this kid needs to be replaced.
“I don’t know what to tell you. I read the address.”
I glance at the envelope, already knowing what’s typed in big, bold letters in the center of the envelope is not my address. “Read it again, please.”
He rolls his eyes, saunters back up the steps, reaches for the envelope, and takes a bored look at the label. Then at my house number. Then, at the envelope again. Then at me. He gives the same tired and annoyed look I’ve seen a half-dozen times already and tucks the envelope under his arm. “Well, who puts house 2838 and house 2883 next door to each other, anyway?”
It’s a valid question, one I’ve asked myself many times in the ten days I’ve lived here. Even and odd numbers should not be on the same side of the street, a pesky detail that someone from the zoning commission seriously overlooked. But the number of times I’ve ripped open my neighbor’s mail without checking the address label is embarrassing, and I won’t do it again. Especially considering the contents of a few of the packages.
The first was a package of Baby Alive diapers.
The second, nipple cream.
The third was a large box of grapes from some fruit of the month club my grandmother also belongs to, except her box was disappointingly filled with green apples. I considered keeping the grapes.
The fourth was an array of women’s panties so flimsy and intricate I had to avert my eyes, which I oddly did not do when I saw the nipple cream.
And fifth, a crate of party poppers.
“You’re going to love the sweet widower next door,” I vaguely recall my grandmother saying just before I arrived here to house-sit for her. “If you need anything, just ask him.” What she didn’t say was that the old man had some weird kinks. I wasn’t interested in bearing witness to any more of them. And as far as asking him for things, I won’t be doing that, thank you very much. Just the thought of him coming into the house and seeing my bras and panties lying around gives me anxiety. What if the old dude has some sort of disturbing fetish? With a shudder, I focus on the delivery boy.
“All I’m asking is, can you please try not to let this happen again?” I’m tired of driving to the neighbor’s house to switch out my mail.
“Sure thing, ma’am.” He emphasizes ma’am like a punk, then gives a little patronizing salute that I don’t like. It’s like the kid is purposely trying to get under my skin. It’s working. Especially when I glimpse his forearm and the “Stand Your Ground” tattoo staring back at me from his otherwise pristine skin. Great. He’s one of those guys. Is he even old enough for a tattoo? I bite back a growl and take a step back.
“Perfect,” I say, moving to close the door before catching it to ask another question. “Wait, did I not have any mail today?” Aside from the chair, I’m expecting a new microphone and ring light, both due here yesterday. The guy doesn’t break stride; he just opens his driver-side door, climbs inside, and looks my way long enough to smirk.
“There’s a good chance I dropped it all off at the neighbor’s house. Guess you’ll have to go check with him.” The kid slams the door and drives away while I make a mental note to file a complaint with the local postal service. Something I won’t do. I only like to be mad inside my mind, but I’m never angry enough to get someone fired. I was fired once, and it still stings. Especially considering the customer’s hair only caught fire because she leaned too closely to the birthday candles. It was a free slice of cake, but everyone blames the waitress.
I close the front door, aware my mood just crash landed on the front porch, and not because of the mail. The kid’s tattoo conjured up unwelcome reminders of my ex. Know Your Worth, Live Your Light, Feel Your Truth —Josh had obnoxious sayings inked all over both arms like a walking billboard for mental health. Funny enough, he lied like a professional poker player and had a temper that could burn whole apartment buildings to the ground. He once threw a can so hard across his kitchen that he shattered his window and the neighbor’s window across the alleyway. That sparked a yelling match heard across three states that I hope never to experience again.
And I won’t. Seeing as Josh ran off with my roommate on the night I na?vely thought we were getting engaged.
I give a hard snap to the rubber band wrapped around my wrist to chase away thoughts of Josh and Diana. They both leave reluctantly and not without a fight—I mean, what kind of woman helps you pick out an outfit for an engagement dinner knowing full well said engagement wasn’t going to happen? And what kind of man lets her?
“You should wear this dress, Low.”
I shook my head, dismissing the idea. Red with black polka dots didn’t scream engagement photos, at least not any I wanted to look at for the rest of my life. “It isn’t my favorite.”
An odd smile tilted her mouth. “Well could I borrow it, then?”
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation. After all, a friend is a friend, and I wanted her to be happy.
In hindsight, I should have wrapped the dress around her neck and choked her with it.
Diana was wearing that red and black dress in an Instagram post three days later, on a sunshiny hill overlooking the Amalfi Coast of Italy. Josh stood behind her, both arms around her waist, smiling into her ear like a snake sniffing out his next meal. Rat was on the menu that night. Blackened rat with a steaming side of wretched betrayal.
I never should have said yes to letting her borrow the dress.
I’ve made it my mission to say no ever since.
I close my eyes and breathe through my nose to calm myself down; finally, the maddening delivery boy slides to the forefront of my brain where he belongs.
I need that microphone and ring light. And chair. But the sun is already setting at 4:47 p.m., and the air is colder than I’m used to. My Texas blood runs warm and thin, but tonight, it’s developing ice crystals around the edges. So, I do what I always do this time of day. I shut off my laptop, pour a large glass of wine, tuck my shoulders underneath one of my grandmother’s crocheted blankets, and reach for the remote control.
I’ll drive to the neighbor’s house tomorrow and retrieve my packages off his front porch, seeing as he normally just leaves them there until I show up. And then I’ll hightail it home before anyone notices I’m there. Considering all his weird fetishes, I’d rather not make eye contact with him.
I point the remote at the screen and press play, sighing to myself when Harry and Sally’s faces appear onscreen. At least Sally has the good sense to wear a beige pantsuit.
Red dresses are for cheating roommates.