Sebastian

 

I lean back against the door and exhale a breath of irritation. My scowl lands on my phone, still discarded on the floor where I tossed it after ending the most recent call from my father. I push off from the door and bend down, swiping up my phone and setting it down on the kitchen counter. I open the fridge and scan the shelves until my eyes land on a lone bottle of beer. I pop the top and take a long sip, closing my eyes and reliving the same guilt-ridden conversation that I’ve been subjected to for most of my adult life. Every couple of weeks, Barron calls under the guise of wanting to catch up or check in, and every time the conversation ends with him not understanding my anger nor my need to withdraw myself from the family. What a joke. We’ve hardly been a family since my mom died seven years ago. We’ve been even less of one since the night I learned that when presented the choice, love’s got nothing on money.

My thoughts wander briefly to my freckled red head of a neighbour. Guilt begins to gnaw at me when I recall the uncertainty in her expression as she tried to set me straight no less than two minutes ago with her eleven p.m. ultimatum. I didn’t mean to be an asshole to her, unfortunately she caught me at the wrong time and in the wrong mood. I smirk at the thought of her showing up tonight. She’d stick out like a sore thumb in her prim little dress. I’ve caught the odd glimpse of her since moving in, but nothing more than the passing flash of dark red hair as she’s coming or going.

Last night when she showed up over here in her pajamas and asked me to tone it down was the first time I’d seen her face to face. I didn’t form much of an opinion one way or the other, but I suppose she’s cute enough, in a plain kind of way. Her size, along with the scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose made her seem young, until I looked her in the eye and noticed a kind of wariness that didn’t quite fit with the rest of her. She seems like she could use a drink or two to loosen up, that’s for damn sure. I was about to invite her in when Mallory? Mel? Whatever the hell her name was, wedged herself between me and the back of the open door, leaning against it and shutting it right in her face instead. 

Before I can let my thoughts get too pensive and my baggage too heavy, I shoot a text to Mason and let him know that we’re on for tonight. I don’t have to think when there’s too many people around. I don’t have time to remember or feel fucking bitter. And that’s the way I like it.

 

*

 

The smell of cinnamon hits me hard as I peel my eyelids open and roll over, facing the large window and the streaming sunlight that beams through it.

“Fuck me,” I mumble.

“I’m pretty sure Jenna did that last night man,” Mason snorts.

Jenna. Fuck.

“Is she st-.”

“Relax, she knows how you operate,” he reassures me. “She was sneaking out of here two hours ago while you were getting your beauty sleep.”

I sit up slowly and look at the mess of red and blue solo cups and empty bottles that litter the coffee table and kitchen counters. Three nights’ worth of partying and probably bad decisions…in the form of trash. I wipe the grit from my eyes and shoot an annoyed glance at Mason, who’s leaning back in one of my dining room chairs, his feet propped up on the table. He’s chewing so damn loud I can hear him from the ten feet that separates us.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I mutter.

 Mason is one of my oldest friends and he’s like a brother to me, but I’m battling the mother of all hangovers right now and the last thing I want is company. He pops another bite of whatever he’s eating into his mouth and groans loudly.

“Fuck man, if I’d have known you had Martha Stewart living next door, I would have introduced myself the day you moved in,” he mumbles around his mouthful.

“What are talking about, Martha Stewart?” I stand from the couch and walk to the sink, turning the faucet on as cold as it will go before filling a glass and chugging it back.

“The chick next door,” he explains. “I was about to take off and she was standing outside your door holding this plate of fucking heaven. I told her I’d pass them along.”

Freckles?

“Here,” he says, tossing a folded piece of heavy blue paper taped to an envelope toward me. “She had this taped to the plate.”

I unfold the card and look down at the neatly printed note, written in black felt marker.

Consider this an olive branch. I know for a fact that these cinnamon rolls are delicious. Welcome to Duke Manor.

Sincerely,

Anna Brookes (your neighbour, who really likes to sleep at night)

I don’t think a woman has ever baked for me before, for any reason, let alone to bribe me into being a decent person. I don’t realize I’m smiling until the screeching sound of a chair reminds me that I’m not alone.

“What’s so damn funny?” Mason asks, plucking the card from my hand.

“Hey, do you mind?”

“Nope. Aw, she baked for you,” he grins. “I gotta go, meeting a client at noon,” he says, placing the half empty plate on the counter beside me.

“And by client, you mean…?”

“A lonely middle-aged woman named Lynn who has been searching for love in all the wrong places and needs the solid advice of an expert to guide her,” he says proudly.

“You’re a glorified hooker,” I mutter, grabbing a garbage bag from under the sink.

“I’m a business man,” he scoffs. “I offer premium dating advice as well as continued moral support for a small fee. I’m like a fairy godmother.”

“And if your client just so happens to fall for your bullshit and wants to reward you with a blowjob, that’s just a perk, right?”

“Life is grand, isn’t it?” he says, heading for the door. “Enjoy your olive branch, and try not to be such a grumpy prick.”

The door shuts firmly behind him as I reach for a glazed pastry. I take one large bite and moan. Fucking Martha Stewart. I leave the garbage bag on the kitchen floor and head straight for the bedroom, swallowing the last bite before falling face first onto my bed and passing back out, continuing to sleep off the night before.

 

*

 

It’s late-afternoon when I open my eyes again. I roll over and place my feet on the floor, feeling more stable than I did this morning. I throw the covers back in a half-ass attempt to make my bed and head to the bathroom. As the shower warms up, I brush the stale taste of beer from my mouth and grimace at the dark burgundy stain near the base of my neck. Nearly twenty-seven years old and I’m rocking a fucking hickey. Christ.

I wash off my hangover and don’t bother shaving before I throw on a white T-shirt and a worn out, stained pair of jeans. I slip on my Vans and tidy up the kitchen and living room a bit, filling two garbage bags while I polish off the plate that was delivered this morning. I figure the rest of the mess can wait and head for the door. I don’t like to be bothered when I’m working, so I leave my phone sitting on the counter.

I haul the two garbage bags to the end of the hallway and chuck them down the chute before heading to the top of the staircase. My eyes flicker briefly across the hall and I figure I should stop by and at least check to see if she’s home so I can thank her. I pause in front of the door marked 2A and knock but she doesn’t answer. She’s probably busy, doing whatever it is that prim little ladies like her do. I’ll try again when I get back. Despite the fact that I’ve admittedly become quite careless, I’m not a complete bastard.

I climb into my pickup and drive the twenty minutes to my studio, pulling up right in front of the ground level warehouse space that I’ve been renting for the last six years. The area is pretty much industrial with a couple auto body shops and a U haul rental lot. There’s a floor above the space that I rent but it’s never been occupied. The city owns the building and can’t tear it down because of the intertwining pipes and city water lines beneath it. Which works out well for me, the rent is cheap and it’s quiet. 

I unlock the heavy steel door and kick it shut behind me. The natural smell of damp earth fills my nose as well as a metallic scent from the last time I was here firing. I flip on the lights and turn on the stereo, searching for something mellow to listen to while I work. There’s a corner of my studio that has some old furniture and a small table where I can do my invoicing and paper work, a room in the back for drying and the rest of the large open room serves as my workspace.

  I turn on the ceiling fans and open the large window I had installed, letting some fresh air circulate into the room. I had to make a few modifications to the space when I signed my lease to make it safe for firing. Luckily, the city planner is an acquaintance of mine and he helped me to ensure that everything was up to code.

In the last six years I’ve managed to accumulate a clientele of partly commissions and partly retail. I refuse to be one of those pretentious asshole artists who sells their shit with stipulations. If you want it and I can make it, consider it done. If I can get a contract with a local shop for an assortment of designs, I’ll take it. Working with my hands and creating something from nothing is all I want. Each piece that I make whether it be a fruit bowl, a tea set or some badass intricately designed vase, is made with care and passion.

I grab a cylinder of clay from one of the plastic bins sitting behind my wheel and set it down on my wooden work bench. I begin to wedge the cold lump with my hands, methodically kneading and folding until the clay softens and it becomes pliable. I head back over to my wheel and slap the clay down in the centre of it. I dip my hands into the plastic pail filled with watered down clay and use my bodyweight to form it into a column. Each step is like riding a bike, my body knows what to do without thinking too much about it. I begin to shape and re-shape, gliding my hands up and over as many times as it takes until the clay begins to smooth out and I can mold it however I want. My mind drifts as I work, and even when the muscles in my back begin to groan, I feel calm and centred.

It’s late by the time I get back home, my stomach grumbling as I climb the stairs. I roll my shoulders a few times, trying to work out the knots when I turn into the hallway and spot her. She’s standing in front of her door, rummaging through a small purse, muttering under her breath.

“Hey freckles, you okay?”

She turns to face me and narrows her pale blue eyes. My gaze trails down her body, to the noticeable stain on the front of her dress and then all the way back up to the dark smudges beneath her eyes and the fact that the hair on one side of her head is wet while the other side is dry. Her glare softens as her bottom lip wobbles slightly.

“No, I’m not,” she says firmly. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I just had the absolute worst date of my entire life. And now, when all I want to do is shower off the stench of garlic butter and Merlot and crawl into bed, it dawns on me that I can’t even do that,” she continues. “Because of you.”

She crosses her arms in front of her chest and continues to stare me down with far more authority then I would think possible for such a wisp of a woman.

“What? No smart ass retort?” she demands.

“I was hoping to catch you,” I say. “I wanted to thank you for the baking you brought by this morning.”

She looks surprised and loosens her arms, eventually relaxing completely and letting them fall to her sides.

“I’m sorry,” she sighs. “I had a really bad night, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m glad you enjoyed them,” she adds with a smile.

“No need to apologize to me, I’m a big boy,” I smirk. “And I probably deserve it anyways. But rest assured, I won’t be having company tonight.” She looks relieved and I can honestly say it makes me feel like a fucking dickwad. “You take care,” I say, before turning and crossing the hall.

“Can I ask you something?”

I open my door but turn to face her again. “Ask away.”

She licks her lips and glances down at her feet before looking me head on, “Is that a hickey on your neck?” she asks with a grin.

I was expecting her to ask me some kind of loaded bullshit question about what men want or if there are any decent men left on the planet. I was not expecting her to tease me.

Well played freckles.

She turns her back to me before I can answer. “Sweet dreams, Sebastian,” she says before her door closes.