Chapter 49
forty-nine
At nine a.m., my cell rings. When my eyes focus, I see the call is from a Maryland number. Cait.
I juggle the phone before swiping the face to answer. “Hello?” I say, sitting up quickly, faking alertness.
“Hi, um, Evan?”
“Yep. Yes.”
“This is Cait. Did I wake you?”
“Nope. What’s up?” I wipe sleep crud from my eyes.
“Sorry to bother you on a Saturday, but I nearly froze last night. The heater isn’t working. Any chance you can have someone look at it today?”
“No problem. I’ll be up in a few.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks.”
For the second morning in a row, I shower and dress with lighting speed. As I’m about to head out the door, Shelby stirs on the couch. In my excitement, I forgot she was here.
“Where are you going? I need breakfast. I was thinking omelets and fresh rosemary potatoes.” She stretches.
I throw a twenty-dollar bill on her face. “Breakfast is on me. Eggscellence Café is down the street. Lock up when you leave.”
“Evan!” she yells as I exit. Even with the front door closed, her rants follow me up the stairs.
When I reach the sixth floor, I don’t knock on Cait’s door; I knock on the one across from her—Mr. Gusterson’s. When he doesn’t answer on the third try, I jiggle the doorknob and find it unlocked. Typical.
Inside, the smell of booze hits me first. The TV’s on and the volume’s cranked.
He’s asleep in his recliner, wearing his brown furry bathrobe, which makes him look like skin-and-bones roadkill.
His gray combover won’t stay combed over, so the sparse hairs claw at the air on one side of his head like a drawbridge that never closes.
Perhaps sensing my approach, one of his silvery-blue eyes pop open. “Still sleeping. Go away,” he grumbles and turns over.
“I need your tools.”
“I didn’t know you knew what those were.”
“Very funny. Heaters are on the fritz in 6A again.”
“I’ll get to it tomorrow. Busy today.”
Usually, his laziness pisses me off, but today, it works to my advantage. “That’s why I’m here. Fixing it myself.”
“Ha!” he barks.
“In fact, from now on, anytime 6A needs work, I’ll do it.” The words burst out before I consider if I can actually do what I’m suggesting.
I’ve never had a handy bone in my body. I tried to hang some wire shelves in the laundry closet once, and though it seemed like a successful endeavor, they’ve since slumped to a 45-degree angle, leaving them unusable.
He looks over his shoulder. “What’s so special about 6A?”
I open my wallet, knowing it will take more than twenty bucks to appease him. I throw three twenties in his direction. His wrinkled paw grabs the bills before they land and disappear like magic before my eyes.
“That’s a good start, but I was thinking a hundred.”
“To do your work?”
“Think of it as a tool rental fee.”
“I’ll buy my own, if that’s the case. Or kick you out?”
He pops his recliner into a sitting position, suddenly fully aware. “Or I can remind our pretty neighbor about your past. Your choice, hot stuff.”
Damn it.
“She’s got the ambrosia, right?” He slides his hands back and forth on the chair’s puffy arms.
“It’s amnesia. And how the hell do you remember that?”
Mr. Gusterson worked here when Cait and I lived together. He was here when everything went down, which means he knows everything, because he makes it his business to see and hear everything.
“Still sharp.” He points to his head and raises his open palm for an additional payoff. When I shift my weight, he waggles his fingers. He knows he has me by the balls.
I sigh and reach back into my pocket, then wave the remaining forty dollars in front of him. “You keep your trap shut. No gossiping about this. She can never know, and I handle 6A’s maintenance issues. Deal?”
“And you’ll me give me one hundred a month off my rent.”
“Fine.” I slap the money into his greedy, wrinkled hand.
He counts the bills close to his face. “If I recall, Mrs. Venti lived here too, so you might want to visit her next. Heard she could use a new flat-screen TV.”
My temperature rises, and I cross my arms. Apparently, the two have been discussing their blackmail plans.
“And a Wii with two VR headsets . . . and ten games of our choice.”
“Don’t push it, old man.”
“You deliver and we’ll keep a lid on it.”
“Fine.”
“Tools are in the hall closet.” He reclines with a pleased smirk. I dig out the tools and retreat before I’m sending the two on a damn Alaskan cruise.
By the time I knock on Cait’s door, I’ve dug myself a pretty substantial hole. It’s well worth it when she answers. Sunlight filters in from behind her, casting her in a glowing silhouette and making her look like a damn angel. My knees weaken.
“Morning.” I beam at her, still astonished she’s here. How long will it take before it sinks in?
“Come in.” She steps aside.
“Which unit?”
“Bedroom.” She points.
“You’ve been busy.” I glance around.
“Stayed up all night organizing. Can’t stand messes.”
I remember. She reorganized my kitchen once and I about killed her, but it was a great argument, one that ended with sex on the kitchen counter. Twice.
In her room, I drop to the floor to inspect the AC/heating unit combo. I’ve watched Gusterson fix these plenty of times, but now that I have to do it myself, I’m drawing a blank. Or it could be that Cait’s behind me, watching everything I do, making me a nervous wreck.
Projecting confidence, I play with the digital controls. When the unit still won’t kick on, I release the front panel and poke around inside.
“This happen a lot?” She shuffles closer.
“Old buildings require a lot of maintenance.”
“Does it look fixable?”
“Looks like I have to buy the part,” I say, even though I have no clue. I’ll need to ask Gusterson what to do. Looks like I’ll be sending him and Mrs. Venti on a cruise after all.
“Will you be home later?” I ask.
“I’m hitting Ikea. I’ll be out for a few hours.”
“Perfect. I mean, I’ll have it fixed before you return.” I lock on the cover, grab my tools, and stand.
“So, I’ll owe you two pizzas,” she says.
“Yeah, I was thinking I could show you around next weekend? If Linden finds out I didn’t fulfill my tour guide duties this weekend, there will be hell to pay.”
At her reaction to my offer, it becomes painfully obvious she has no intention of sightseeing with me, even if her new boss mandated it.
“Another rain check?” She scrunches her face.
“No problem.”
Getting to know her won’t work if she’s resistant. Which I can see she is.
And this is the blueprint for the next several months.
Being near her is more painful than I expect.
I do my best to engage, but no matter how many appliances I purposefully break in her apartment, no matter how many times I fix them, and no matter how many times I joke like old times, she pushes me away.
The harder I try, the deeper she burrows into herself.
I discover there’s something very different about Cait now, as Shelby predicted.
She’s not the woman I fell in love with.
She’s not the person I pulled all-nighters with, watching movie marathons.
She’s not the person who filled pinboards with photos of all the places we wanted to travel.
She’s not the person who made fun of me for talking in my sleep.
She’s not the person I loved. She’s someone different.
The light that used to shine behind her eyes burns dim, if at all. From what I’ve observed, she’s lifeless and merely going through the motions, a shell of the woman who meant something to me. When I pass her apartment, I often hear her crying.
If she’s not home, I see her running. If she’s not running, she’s at work. Linden says she pours herself into her job. She’s become one of the best agents he’s ever had—a confident bulldog at work, but a complete wreck at home.
I want to rip open the door, rush inside, and hold her—convince her everything will be okay, that I’m here for her, and we can make it through anything together.
I’d tell her she should be easier on herself.
She doesn’t need to go through this alone, and I want to bear whatever she can’t. We’ll be stronger together.
But these are all the things I should have whispered to her before. Instead, in the present, where everything’s wrong, I keep a measured distance.
I remind myself she wants to be anonymous here. She doesn’t want to know the old me, even if I’m desperate to know the new her.
Eventually, I see her with a friend, a kooky little blonde who is her complete opposite.
Cait often seems annoyed with her. I think the blonde sees it too, but she’s determined to crack open her shell.
I’m happy Cait has someone, even if that someone puked in the building’s garden planter on Saint Patrick’s Day.
Over the years, I imagined Cait having a life without me, recovering and moving on.
But anyone can see she’s hanging by a diminishing thread.
The proof is in every movement she makes—the insecurities, the envelopes from her family she throws away, her perfunctory responses to any questions, her loneliness and lack of connection to the people around her . . . including me.
Until one day her glacial personality melts. Just a little.