7. CHAPTER SIX #3
The menu included a spinach and artichoke frittata, ham croissants, a fruit platter, and locally sourced cranberry juice.
And my brownies, which I made super last minute and which were definitely a little undercooked, on account of me pulling them out of the oven early (so I wouldn’t be late).
I was wearing running shorts and a t-shirt.
Flip flops. Sunglasses on my head to keep my messy hair out of my face.
I opened the door, holding the tray of brownies with my potholder-clad hands, and I kid you not, I was greeted with, “Hi, baby. What happened to your leg?”
Mom took the brownies from me and set them on the counter. I dropped my potholders next to them and wrinkled my brow. “What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Your left leg. The inside thigh – it’s covered in bruises,” she said.
Fuck. It didn’t even dawn on me to wear body makeup over my pole bruises. “Um, I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t even realize that was there.”
Dad walked in and gave me a hug. “Hiya, buttercup.”
“Look at her leg, Drew.”
“It’s nothing,” I insisted.
“It’s not nothing. Look,” she replied.
“What happened?” Dad said.
“I’m not sure, Dad. It’s just a black and blue mark.”
“Let me see.” He held me back from him and studied my legs. I turned my left foot out to second-position-in-ballet to reveal some wicked nasty bruises that honestly, I should have known were there but wasn’t looking for in my mad dash to get to brunch on time.
He narrowed his eyes. “Who did this to you?” he growled.
“No, Daddy. I swear, nobody did this.”
“You know what this looks like? Annie, do you know what this looks like?”
“I swear I’m fine.”
“What does it look like, honey?” Mom asked.
“Assault,” my father announced.
My mother gasped.
Dad couldn’t stop there. Ever the chief, he continued to push. “So, then, you tell us how you got these bruises, before I –”
It’s hard to think on your feet when you’re exhausted. Which, I guess explained my answer. “Oh, I know. It must have been the horseback riding.”
“Horseback riding?” my dad raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. For Jenna’s birthday. A group of girls went horseback riding.”
“Isn’t Jenna born in April?” Mom wondered aloud.
“Wow – good memory, Ma. Um, yeah; it was a belated celebration. Very hard to coordinate schedules.”
“I don’t remember you saying anything about going horseback riding,” Mom replied.
“No? I could have sworn I told you.”
She shook her head. I immediately felt bad for making her so confused.
“And when was this little equine adventure?” my dad asked.
“Um,” I considered the color of the bruises. Bright purple. Means they were probably about three to four days old. The daughter of a cop knows details about things like this. My palms began to sweat. “Wednesday,” I said.
“Didn’t you have work?” Dad retorted.
“Yup, but I went in late,” I lied. “We did the ride first thing in the morning.”
“Trail ride?” he asked. This is becoming an inquisition, I thought. Best to shut it down as quickly as possible.
“Uh huh,” I replied, knowing the only way he’d let up was if I give him something to hang on to. “The horse’s name was Boomerang. The trail was in Sandwich. Afterwards we went to Café Chew for brunch. It was a really nice time. She loved it.”
“So, how did you get the bruises?” Dad asked, but his shoulders were no longer up by his ears, so I could tell he was relaxing a little.
“Must have been from mounting,” I went on. “My horse was super tall.”
Dad nodded, a touch of skepticism still firmly lodged in his expression.
Mom said, “Well, next time, be careful. It looks awful.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” I replied. We went about our meal then, but I made a mental note to just wear pants next time.
To be clear, I felt terrible lying to my parents. I typically don’t lie well, for one thing. Also, I know my Mom and Dad just worry about me because they’re good parents, and I would never want to take advantage of that. But, some things you can’t share with your overprotective father.
You know, unless you want him to lock you up in a holding cell for the foreseeable future.
Still, despite my parental deception, I’m in a bit of a sweet spot, and I really can’t complain. I’ve never had a job that transformed my body and my bank account in a matter of weeks.
The only thing that sucks is having what’s-his-face living next door.
For someone who’s supposed to be the Assistant Manager at the Diamond Excelsior private dining shit parade, this dude is always around.
He put an admittedly cute small table out on the back patio with two chairs, and he eats breakfast out there every morning, always in a different color pair of those damn shorts.
I think he goes out for runs and then comes home and has his little bowl of cereal and cup of coffee while perusing God knows what on his phone.
Probably toe pics on Onlyfans or some other equally heinous offense, I’ve decided.
I can see him out the sliding glass door in my bedroom, and typically, this is the image I wake up to in the morning.
My curtains are floor-length, white sheers, which (thanks to Zoloft) have taken quite the beating courtesy of his sharp-AF kitty fingernails.
I don’t think Brady can see in, but I can see out, and in the early morning sunlight, with the remnants of sweat from whatever workout he’s putting his body through, well…
suffice to say there are worse things I could wake up to.
I just can’t reconcile his hotness with the fact that he got me canned from my last gig.
Although, joke’s on him, as I’ve made an entire summer’s worth of tips at the Diamond Excelsior in just a few weeks at Cosmo-pole-itan.
I saw Brady one time last week with his laptop outside around nine in the morning, having some sort of Zoom call.
He looked – I don’t know – pensive, maybe?
Nervous? Whatever. It annoyed me that he felt like it was okay to take his online business meetings in our shared outdoor space.
He’s no better than the dog from the C apartment down the way, I thought.
No regard for others. He wasn’t being particularly loud, and Lord knows he didn’t pollute the air with stench like the Labrador does, but it was auditory stench, with his chatter, or maybe visual stench – just his presence in the space made it impossible for me to get ready for my morning workout with the girls.
I kept being distracted by his jawline, his scruff, his stupid calf muscles in those shorts.
Like, please. We get it. You’re hot. You don’t have to constantly flaunt it.
I began to feel like he crawled into my head and took root. As if he was the human equivalent of lice. Or maggots. Or some equally offensive pest that requires professional extinguishing.
I started to catch myself looking for Brady.
First, out my sliders. Then, like, if I went to throw out the garbage or get my mail.
Or walking through the hallway to my apartment.
Or even at the grocery store. I learned that he drove a blue Hyundai Elantra with exactly two stickers on the back bumper: one granted him beach access to all the Brewster beaches, and the other was a Diamond Excelsior VIP parking pass.
On the occasions when I was out driving, I’d keep an eye out for his car.
Subconsciously, of course. That exact shade of blue.
The side-by-side stickers. That white and red Cape and Islands license plate that started with the letters CIJ.
Not that I had memorized it intentionally.
It just happened. Sometimes, I’d park beside him the lot, and when I’d climb out of my Fiesta, I’d casually glance inside his car.
He kept it neat in there. Neater than my car, that’s for sure.
He had a “new car” scented little cardboard tree hanging from the gear shift, a pack of Trident gum and a travel-sized hand sanitizer in the cup holder, and a burgundy hoodie sweatshirt in the backseat.
Not that I noticed.
On more than one occasion, I thought I saw him out somewhere – not his car, but him – and then got up close and discovered it wasn’t actually him at all.
The first time it happened was at the beach with the girls from the club.
There was a guy jogging in the distance whose muscular torso triggered me to squint my eyes.
He had a navy and teal brimmed baseball cap on – no shirt, mind you – and I popped up from my towel to “take a walk,” I announced.
I headed in the direction of the runner, like a magnet was pulling me towards his Hawaiian-Tropic-commercial-tan body, but when I got a little closer, I realized it wasn’t Brady after all.
This guy didn’t have the same nose – that was the first giveaway.
Brady’s nose is the tiniest bit upturned, and this guy’s nose was longer and pointier.
Then, I saw that the hair color was off – random jogger dude had blonder hair than Brady.
I walked away feeling something. Definitely not disappointment, in case you’re wondering.
It was probably relief. There was a little bit of a lump in my throat, but that’s common with the feeling of relief. I’m sure of it.
Another time, I was down at the mall in Hyannis looking for more work clothes – that is to say, half-shirts from H&M that showed off my entire belly and bikini bottoms from PacSun.
(This is a common outfit, and paired with platform heels it's incredibly sexy.) But, anyway. I was walking past Dick’s Sporting Goods and could have sworn I saw Brady perusing the sneakers, but when I went in, he was nowhere to be found.
Again, not that I was looking. I just happened to notice , that’s all.