Penny
I’ve heard of people walking through fire. Well, in the lobby of the Bachelor Tower, I passed through a blazing field of testosterone. I couldn’t tell if all the men were judging my casual attire or undressing me with their eyes. Either way, it was harrowing and my sister owes me big-time.
“Tell me,” Kylie demands as I put the phone to my ear. No hello. No niceties. “Are you in the apartment?”
“Yes,” I sigh as I drop my purse on the gleaming hardwood floors and immediately pick it back up. It doesn’t feel like my place, because—well, because it isn’t. “Believe it or not, Kylie, I can swipe a key card. I’m not an idiot.” The thought of my elevator ride has me flushing. That guy, that arrogant snob who’d insulted me should not have any space in my head.
So full of himself. I wonder if his trousers are packing anything impressive enough to back up his inflated opinion of himself. Definitely not my taste, even if he is hot.
I’ll admit this place is a little intimidating. Hell, this place would have any woman flustered. There are so many penises I’m surprised no one has had their eye poked out accidently.
“Penny, I do not think you are an idiot,” Kylie insists, but we both know she’s lying. She’s the CFO of a Fortune 500 company. It’s hard for her not to think an occasionally employed yoga instructor is as capable—of anything. Kylie can’t imagine anyone choosing the life I have. The funny thing is I can’t imagine wanting her life either. I already know what she’s about to say as she starts to speak. “You understand why that apartment is so important to me, right?”
In our normal ritual, I pretend her tone doesn’t sting. I don’t bother pushing back and trying to get her to understand that an apartment shouldn’t be this big of a deal. That my priorities aren’t inconsequential just because they differ from hers. She never has, and probably never will, value the simplicity of having a nice meal with friends or volunteering at a food kitchen.
Just once I wish she’d see there were some things more important than furthering her career.
Being healthy.
Being kind.
Little sisters.
It’s pointless. When we were children and made crafts, she used to measure everything in centimeters because, as she said, it was more accurate. I measured with my crayons because they were more colorful and crafts were supposed to be fun. The product of our labor ended up very different, but—to me at least—equally beautiful.
I try to comfort her. “I know, and I’ve got you covered. This apartment will be perfect when you get back from China in a month. Nothing to worry about at all.”
“I’m the first woman to ever live in that building. I’ve spent months working every single angle possible to make this happen. The connections I could make there are priceless. Stick with the plan.”
I’ve barely slept in the apartment. Even if I were trying, how much could I have messed up already?
“I am.” Kylie’s plans are infamous. The problem is I’ve seen what happens when things don’t go the way she thinks they should. It’s bad, and that’s why I’m here. “I promise, everything will be fine. I’ll make sure I follow all the terms of the lease until you get back.”
“And the checklist? You’re doing the checklist?” The urgency in her voice reminds me how tightly wound she is. I would tell her she needs to get laid, but I’d never hear the end of it. She doesn’t need dick. According to her, she doesn’t need anyone.
Until now.
Just this once she needs me.
She might change her mind about having a sex life once she moves in. It’ll certainly be convenient. If half the guys look like the neighbor, she’ll soon be more relaxed than I am on a meditation retreat.
A memory of the neighbor’s broad chest has me wondering what it would be like to rub my hands over those muscles.
But that’s not what I’m here for.
My sister asked me for help, and she’s never needed a thing from me. I will not let her down.
“I’m going to keep up with the checklist,” I assure her. “How hard can it be?”
“Penny,” she barks. It’s easy to see why people at work call her Kylie the Killer. She has earned every opportunity in her life, and she’s done it by using that exact tone in her voice. I have a sudden image of her high school boyfriend, Evan. He carried things for her, ran her errands. Is that a boyfriend or an intern? I smile and wish I could share that thought with Kylie. She wouldn’t find the joke as funny as I do. Or funny at all, most likely. “The checklist is mandatory. Just like the two interviews and applications I filled out in order to even be considered. If the old man didn’t die and leave the co-op to his niece, I would never have gotten a shot. But there are still bylaws and community rules I can’t break or they could boot me out. And trust me, I’m sure these guys will be looking for a reason to get rid of me. You have to abide by every one.”
“Remember what Dad always says,” I sing out cheerfully. “Today’s worries are tomorrow’s wrinkles.”
“And that’s why Mom divorced him,” Kylie groans, clearly not interested in my happy-go-lucky demeanor. “She needed someone she could rely on.”
“Well, okay then.” We’ve had this discussion before as well. “You can rely on me,” I say, wishing I knew how to make her believe that.
“I’ll be home next month,” Kylie says, and I think there’s a little hint of her softening but I’m sure I’m only imagining that. “Call me if anything goes wrong. I mean anything. I have very little service out here, but leave me a message. I check mine every hour on the hour.”
I’m sure you do.
“Bye, Sis.” If I don’t hang up, Kylie never will. She’ll find a thousand ways to ask me the same things over and over again. All it really boils down to is, can a flakey, fun-loving girl like me do what I’m told? Kylie, after all these years, isn’t sure. It’s fine though. I’m sure enough for the both of us.
When I’m off the phone, I hear some voices in the hallway and stiffen. It’s probably my insufferably arrogant neighbor. He’s likely running a hand through that shaggy, sandy-colored hair or flexing his bicep enough to stretch his formfitting tailored shirt. He is exactly the kind of man my sister would go for—if she wanted some—and besides the boxy jaw, gorgeous eyes, fit build, I just don’t get it. He might tick all the classically handsome boxes, but I have always put personality above looks.
I’d like to go back out there and give him a piece of my mind about how he acted in the elevator, but there’s a tiny voice in my head warning me against it. I don’t like that I find him attractive.
I decide to shower and put some dinner in this gourmet-chef-style oven. That’ll put him out of my mind. Food is my friend.
Although I am really good at multitasking . . . and indulging in a little fantasy never hurt anyone.