CHAPTER 19
“What’s with you?” Aggie follows me into my building after work on Friday evening.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve been a zombie for a week.”
I pause in the lobby and face her, but it isn’t Aggie I’m interested in seeing. I’m looking for Evan. He’s been MIA since the night we spent together. She snaps her fingers in front of my face. My eyes flitter aware, and I glower at her.
“Are you even listening to me? This is what I’m talking about.” She stabs her fist into her hip.
“I was,” I protest.
But I wasn’t. Not completely. Instead, I was counting the UPS delivery sticky notes on Evan’s door. There are three, which means he’s still in hiding. And on top of everything, the hot water in my shower is still broken.
“Okay, what did I just say?” Aggie challenges.
I peer at the ceiling, searching my mind. “Um, something about partying tonight?” A ridge forms in my brow.
“Not even close.” She crosses her arms.
I let out a defeated breath. “Sorry, I’m... I’m just not myself this week.”
What I can’t tell her is despite learning about Evan’s past, I’ve been busy dreaming of him. One minute I’m at my desk constructing an email and the next thing I know, I’m staring at a blank wall and twenty minutes has passed. Yesterday Linden caught me spinning in my office chair and humming to myself while I was supposed to be in a meeting with the marketing department. Needless to say, he was not amused.
“You’re right. You suck this week.”
“I agree. So, how’s Paul?” I divert.
She raises both hands and slaps her sides, her voice peaking higher. “That’s what I’ve been trying to talk to you about.”
“Tell me again. I’m listening. I promise.” We scale the stairs.
Over drinks I listen to Aggie for two hours. She’s gossiping about a friend who’s in some strange Bermuda love triangle with two boys. She then tangents to a historical discussion on Amelia Earhart, someone I’ll need to research later to remember. Then she segues our conversation to a new hair salon that serves bottomless pink champagne.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come out?” Aggie stands outside my door. She and Lou are attending a late comedy show.
“Nah, I have to—”
“I know, I know. You have to train for the marathon. Blah, blah, make up an excuse, blah.” She tosses a dismissive hand and steps away.
Though tonight, I’m not running. I needed time alone. Not to torment myself over Evan, my heart isn’t broken; after all, it’s only confused. I’m sane enough to grasp I barely know the guy, but this fact doesn’t shake my resolve. I level with myself. This crush is normal, even if I’m not sure it is.
The saddest part is Evan’s the first person I’ve connected to in this way. Maybe it’s because of our mirroring baggage, though vastly different if I’m to believe Lou’s information. Still, it’s enough to understand we’ve been so traumatized that we’ve carried the repercussions for years.
When I consider sharing my secret with him, I brush off the ludicrous thought. Allowing anyone to know my battle is not an option. I bargain. When I’m ready, I’ll tell Aggie everything first. She’s stood by my side through every depressed, down-in-the-dumps day. There are too many to count and one severe panic attack that sent me to the ER. With her sunny disposition on life, she’s brought me back from dancing on a razor’s edge, and for that loyalty she deserves my truth.
In my pajamas, I sit in my bed. A pillow rests flat on my thighs. My laptop sits on top. A reading light hangs above, brightening my workspace. I’m studying a bio on Amelia Earhart when my new email alert dings. At the sender’s name, my body recoils.
My mother’s been doing her homework. First, she sent me the letter. Then she found my cell phone number. She’s harassed me with calls, messages, and texts for weeks. Fed up, I blocked her number. Now this? She’s emailed my work account, so now she knows where I live and work. It’ll only be a matter of time before she and my dad appear on my doorstep. A headache forms.
My finger slides over the tracking pad, moving the cursor. The title of the email says, “We need to talk ASAP.”
“Not anytime soon.” I checkmark the email, select the trash button and click enter. A pop-up box appears, asking if I’m sure I want to delete.
“I’m sure!” I yell at the screen and tap the continue key three extra times.
Knock, knock, knock.
I pause, a knot forms in the back of my neck. I lean over and glance down the hallway, through the living room, and to the front door. There’s another knock. My back tightens. My first thought is my parents are already here. I know it’s unlikely considering the timing, but the fear of facing them plagues me.
Setting my computer aside, I slide off the mattress and make my way to the front door on silent tiptoes. I place my eye to the peephole and peer through. On the other side, an enormous blue eye widens below a gray, wiry eyebrow. The eye eases away, revealing a face I recognize—Mr. Gusterson. I exhale and open the door.
“Here to fix the shower,” he says.
His hand grips Evan’s toolbox at his side. It probably weighs more than him. In fact he’s favoring that side, one shoulder and hip dropping lower. I note his brown robe added meat to his boney structure, whereas tonight he’s wearing jean overalls. They hang on his pointy shoulder blades like a hanger. One strap’s sliding off. His shirt buttons are misaligned and his neckline askew. I glance down and find him wearing socks with holes in the big toe. When he wiggles them, I suck in my smile.
“But it’s ten o’clock.”
“You want it fixed or not?”
I do want it fixed. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, I step aside, inviting him in. “Let me show you—”
“I know where.” He waves me off, but I scrutinize him as he stumbles for the bathroom.
Before I close the door, I scan the hallway for Evan like this is some sort of joke. Until now, he’s handled all issues related to the apartment. And there have been many: the air conditioner, the heat, the garbage disposal, and the icemaker. If it could break, it’s broken. Sometimes multiple times. He’s come to my rescue every time.
Will Evan avoid me on purpose because we slept together? I’m irked by the thought, but I shake it off in search of answers. I find Mr. Gusterson already working. I can tell by the confident way he chooses his tools and an obvious system that he knows what he’s doing. Sometimes when I watch Evan, I’m unsure.
“How did Evan wrangle you into this?”
Mr. Gusterson doesn’t answer me, per se. Instead, he mumbles to himself, several words and phrases strung together in a garble of unrelated information. I listen close, but the few words I can identify during his mini rant are, “Evan, lazy, dumb shit, a good deal, Ms. Venti’s hot,” and then, “do I need suntan lotion in Alaska?”
“Okay.” I scrunch my face and cock my head, wondering if one does need suntan lotion in Alaska.
He pauses from his task, removes a flask from his pocket, unscrews the top, and lifts the container skyward. “Cheers to the youth. It’s wasted on the dumb.” He throws back a long gulp.
My brows pop high. This explains the alcohol cloud surrounding him, his bloodshot eyes, the messy nest of gray hair, and the fact that he resembles a bear awoken from hibernation, rather than a functioning human. In a word, he’s trashed.
He rises and teeters. I maneuver from his path like he’s a wild animal. He passes and beelines for the front door.
“Everything’s fixed,” he slurs.
“What about these tools?”
“Evan. Useless. Be up directly. I love muumuus.”
Mr. Gusterson pauses before leaving. He motions me forward with a wobble. As if this movement may send him toppling over, he steadies himself with one hand anchored to the door.
“Come here,” he says.
I take precarious steps in his direction. Even in his intoxicated state, he must sense my hesitation because he waves harder, his hand gestures quicker. When I close in, he latches his boney fingers over my shoulder and leans near.
“A secret,” he says.
I wince at his breath.
He places a single finger to his lips with a shhh noise and confides, “He’s lying.”
“Who?” But I have a sinking suspicion.
He steps back, releasing me, and waves his index finger, pointing. He continues, “That’s a freebee. No need to take off your top, kid.”
Feeling dirty at the memory of being topless in front of him, I wrap my arms over my chest and step back. Conversely, Mr. Gusterson seems pleased with himself as he zigzags across the hall and disappears into his apartment.
I stand frozen, staring at his closed door. I’m transfixed by this unusual encounter. I shouldn’t care about a mysterious secret from a drunken man I’ve never properly met, but I do. What could Evan be lying about, if we’re even talking about him?
Determined to find out, and perhaps to have a reason to see him again, I pack the tools into the toolbox, latch the top, and lug it down the stairs to his apartment. Apparently, Evan’s back from wherever he’s been hiding. As proof, the UPS notices are gone.
I knock three times. Footsteps stomp across the floor to the door. A shadow crosses the peephole where someone’s studying me from the other side. The door creaks open with a whoosh and Evan appears. Shirtless. Of course.
A bead of sweat dribbles between his defined pecs. It travels the contouring ripples of his abs, down his navel, and beneath the waistband of his lacrosse shorts. They sit dangerously low and snug across his sculpted hips. I attempt to swallow but it refuses to move within my tightening throat.
“What’s up?” He appears amused at my reaction. It’s how he acted before I gave him my one-night-stand playing card. Smug. At least I know he’ll be acting normal, whereas I’m unsure if I can.
I clear my throat. “I just—” On the six flights down I had formulated a plan to mention the odd conversation with Mr. Gusterson, but now my mind registers nada. Zero. Zilch.
“Hey,” he says.
It takes a moment to understand he’s not talking to me. His gaze settles beyond my shoulder. I rotate to find a bombshell, a Serena Williams and Halle Berry mash-up, with long dark braids stroll across the lobby to my side.
She says, “Hey,” to Evan, sidesteps me, and kisses him on the cheek before entering his apartment. Through the door, I study the ease at which she maneuvers his kitchen. At the refrigerator, she removes a Chinese food takeout box, opens the top, and sniffs the contents. She blanches, sticking out her tongue before tossing it in the trash and moving to the next item.
My face drains of blood. My core temperature drops as fast as my heart plunges into my gut. A thin layer of sweat forms over my forehead and palms. The toolbox handle begins to slide from my grip. The response is automatic to my disappointment, and it doesn’t help watching the woman eat his cold spaghetti from a Tupperware container and drink directly from his milk carton.
He’s lying. Mr. Gusterson’s words resonate in my mind. Is this what he’s lying about? That he’s had a girlfriend all along? He said he didn’t want one, or maybe he insinuated it? I can’t remember the exact wording now.
Whatever the scenario, I’m certain of this: this girl is much more than a friend. Is she like me? Friends with benefits? Maybe this is the girl. I step away, toolbox in hand.
“You okay?” He looks concerned.
“Fine,” I bite.
If there were something happening between us, I’d say it’s over now. I continue to ramble to distract my own mind and all the distressing scenarios it’s playing with, “I wanted to come down and thank you for having the shower fixed.”
I set the toolbox down in the middle of the hall, too far from his feet. “Just—thanks.” As normal as possible, I withdraw. But it’s times like these I forget what normal is. My movements twist awkward, and each step I take registers rigid like a puppet on a marionette’s string. The weight of his attention follows me until I’m out of his line of sight.
I need to talk to Mr. Gusterson.