Greer

Double-parking is a huge problem in this city.

I’ve made more than my share of enemies on the force by ticketing department vehicles that linger too long, blocking bike lanes and congesting the avenues. At noon on Monday, there isn’t a damn spot in sight outside the post office—the fourth one I’ve driven to today. And I should really take that as a hint to stop searching for Elvis stamps, return to the precinct and do my fucking job. Yet here I am.

Gritting my teeth, I circle the block one more time, looking for somewhere appropriate to leave my car that won’t disrupt the flow of traffic. It’s amazing in a city so huge that one damn car can screw things up for miles. An artery blockage on wheels. Sort of like how I’ve felt since Saturday night. Blocked. My blood is the traffic, and the fact that I might have hurt Danika is stuck right in the center of my vein, dividing me in two.

I’m an idiot for thinking stamps are going to help. In fact, they’ll probably make things worse, because she might read something into it. What? Like, the truth, maybe? That kissing her Saturday night made me feel like everything was going to get better? Until I left, that is. Nothing has gotten better since then. I was sick to my stomach until I remembered Elvis, and that’s all I’ve been able to focus on. Now if the United States Postal Service would cooperate and make the damn things available, I could go back to being miserable at my desk, thank you very much.

I’m waiting at a red light, trying to massage the headache from my head with punishing fingers when my cell phone rings. Being that it has been ringing nonstop since I set out on this fool’s mission for square adhesives, I almost answer without looking at the screen.

Silva, Danika (your recruit, asshole) flashes in white, digital letters.

I sit up straighter in the driver’s seat. She called me to check in yesterday and I missed it, because I was watching a suspect interrogation. It turned out to be a good thing, though, because she left a voice mail that I listened to more than once. Probably an unhealthy amount of times, actually, but who’s counting?

Lieutenant Burns, this is Danika Silva calling to check in. So . . . ch-ch-check. You’re writing on that clipboard right this very second, aren’t you? Knew it.

The memory makes my mouth edge up at the corner as the light turns green. But the ghost of a smile disappears when I remember how fast she talked, like she’d had to work up the courage to call me. The phone stops ringing by the time the post office comes into view again, forcing me to coast to a stop so I can listen. Right there on the avenue. Jesus, she has turned me into a double-parker.

Hiiii, no it’s fine, don’t bother answering. You, uh, never really specified what I’m supposed to say during these check-ins, but Charlie marked your birthday on our community kitchen calendar, so you’re getting your horoscope.

She’s talking fast again and that bothers me because it’s my fault. But I can’t help but feel a tug in my chest. She looked up my birthday? How many pages did she have to flip to find it?

Pisces, cautious Saturn is in your money corner, so it will throw the penalty flag if you consider that impulse buy. Retail therapy is not your friend, so before you hand over that plastic, think hard. Do you need those nude pumps? Food for thought, Lieutenant. Byeeeee.

Oh Christ, how cute was that? I can’t even hear the passing traffic over the ricochet of my heart off my rib cage. How mad or disappointed can she reasonably be if she’s reading me my horoscope? Either she has decided me showing up unannounced to give her head was no big deal, or she’s just putting on a brave face to hide her real feelings.

I have extreme dislike for either option.

And I’ll go to another hundred post offices to get the stupid stamp, if necessary.

Ignoring the eye rolls from passing motorists, I slam the car door and enter the post office. Everyone is attempting to mail shit or score money orders on their lunch break, so of course, the line circles the interior. Twice. If I get in the back of the line, there’s every chance Elvis will have left the building by the time I reach the window. Nope. Not happening.

With a sigh, I take out my badge and hold it up, approaching the first postal worker with an opening. But an elderly woman moving with the assistance of a walker beats me there, as if I haven’t taken enough punishment today. “I’ll take a book of the Elvis collector’s edition stamps, please,” she says. Because why not, universe?

The teller hits a few buttons on his computer screen. “You’re in luck. It’s our last one.”

Oh, so this is really happening. Incredible.

They both notice me at the same time. “Can I help you, sir?” asks the teller, looking nervous. Probably because I look ready to grab the stamps from an old lady and run.

“I’m going to need those stamps, ma’am.” My badge is attached to my wallet, so I flip it over and open the money pocket. “How much is it going to cost me?”

“Nothing. They’re not for sale.”

“We have Marilyn Monroe,” supplies the teller. “Or Spock.”

I shut him up with a withering side glance. When I come back at the woman, she has already squirreled away the Elvis booklet and put on her game face. Apparently I’ve met my match. “Hundred bucks.”

“Nope.”

“Three hundred.”

She sniffs, taking me in with a sweeping look. “You don’t strike me as a collector.”

I clear my throat and make sure there’s no one else within earshot. “They’re for a girl who’s mad at me. She’s the collector.”

Perfect. Now she’s smiling. What is it about women that they love to see one of their kind bring a man to his knees? And I realize that’s where I’m willing to go. One taste of Silva and I’ve lost my damn mind.

“Are you useful around the house?” Stamp Stealer asks me.

“I have no idea.”

“Lord. Can you at least change some light bulbs?” She gathers herself up, like she’s getting ready to lay into someone. Hopefully not me. “My landlord won’t change them because of some liability nonsense, and my son lives in Texas.”

I weigh the mountain of paperwork on my desk against becoming a handyman for an hour and finally getting those stamps. It’s no contest. “My car is outside. Let’s go.”

She waits until I open the passenger side door for her to ask, “How about litter boxes? Mind changing a couple of those, too?”

Christ.