Page 7

7

Whitney Cross is moving into the brownstone today.

I paid to run the background check myself, and it didn’t reveal anything concerning. No arrests, no warrants, no sex offenses—no red flags at all. Whitney is a law-abiding citizen from a small town in Jersey and has a decent credit score. And her boss at the diner assured us she’s a model employee.

So we asked her to move in.

She’s borrowed a friend’s car, and she’s driving over here with all her belongings. Because I am unemployed and also the one who carries the heavy items in our relationship, Krista volunteered me to help her move in. Which is fine. May as well make myself useful to someone .

I started scoping out parking spots an hour before Whitney was supposed to arrive. Parking is hard to come by on our street (or anywhere in Manhattan), which is why I don’t own a car. I tried to keep my car the first year I moved here, but I spent half my commute to work stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, so when a taxi rear-ended me and my car was declared totaled, I decided to stick with the subway from then on. No regrets.

Twenty minutes before Whitney’s arrival, a spot opens up right in front of the house, so I grab one of our garbage bins and plant it there to save it. I then have to physically guard it, because a car will almost certainly mow down the bin if I’m not here to keep it from happening. Good thing I don’t have a job.

While I’m waiting for Whitney on the steps of the brownstone, a girl I’ve seen a bunch of times on my running trail through Central Park passes by wearing a pair of pink shorts that barely conceal her underwear. She winks at me, and I smile back as blandly as I can. A few years ago, I would have been all over a girl like that, but not anymore. It’s okay to take a subtle look but never touch, and even looking is something I’m trying my best not to do anymore.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, and the word “Dad” flashes on the screen. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but when I try to remember the last time I talked to my father, I can’t. He’s been lonely in the last few years since my mother succumbed to breast cancer, and I feel guilty that I’ve been avoiding him. But we don’t have much in common, so most of our conversations are just awkward.

I check my watch. Whitney will be here any minute, so that will be an excuse to get off the phone. I take the call.

“Blake!” Dad says, and then he starts coughing, which makes me feel even more guilty. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” I lie. “How about you?”

“Oh, I’m great.” But then he coughs again. The last time we talked, he said he was getting over a cold, and it seems like he still is. “How is the job search going? Find anything yet?”

“Still working on it.”

“Because I was just thinking,” he says, clearing his throat, “that with Jeff quitting last month, I could really use some extra help at the store. And if you ever want to take over…”

“Dad…”

“The timing is perfect,” he says with growing excitement. “I need the help, and you need a job. And, Blake, the store is your legacy. My father passed it down to me, and now you should have it.”

Just what I want as my inheritance—a struggling hardware store in Cleveland.

As if reading my mind, my father adds, “A new housing complex just went up a couple of blocks away. Business has been good.”

“Dad…”

“You could sell that expensive tiny brown house of yours,” he goes on in a rush. “Move back here, and you can get a house five times the size for a fifth of the price. I bet Krista would be really happy here. And if you take the store—”

“Dad, I didn’t get a degree to work at a hardware store!” I burst out.

My father goes instantly silent on the other line, and now I feel like a huge jackass. He’s just trying to help, and God knows he won’t be around forever—I found that out the hard way when my mom died. He wants his only son to take over his business. It’s not a terrible thing to wish for, even though it’s the last thing I want.

“I’m sorry, Blake,” my father says meekly. “I just thought…”

Before he can finish his sentence, a rusty red Ford Pinto pulls up to the curb with Whitney behind the wheel. I rise to my feet, brushing off the seat of my pants because I don’t want to think about the crap that’s on the steps. “Dad, I have to go.”

“Okay,” he says. “I love you, son.”

“Love you too, Dad,” I say just before hitting the red button to end the call.

I have to move the garbage bin to the side so Whitney can fully pull into the spot. Once she’s parked, she climbs out of the car, her light brown hair pulled back into a high ponytail that swings behind her head. She’s wearing another pair of blue jeans with a skimpy tank top that’s appropriate given the heat.

Yes, I looked . So sue me. I’m only human.

“Hey,” I say.

Whitney grins at me, clearly delighted at the prospect of moving into our tiny spare bedroom. “Hey, Blake. Thanks so much for helping me.”

“No problem,” I say, like it wasn’t all Krista’s idea. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Whitney leads me to the trunk of the car, which she pops open using the car keys. I peer inside at the two large boxes and one giant duffel bag.

“This is it?” I ask in astonishment.

“I’ve got another big bag of clothes in the back seat.”

I stare into the trunk, trying to make sense of the fact that everything this girl owns doesn’t even fill the back of a Pinto. When I moved, I got a whole truck , and that was just for me. And Krista… I’m pretty sure she could fill that duffel bag with just her belts. (She’s really into belts.)

“I’m not that into clothing,” Whitney says, a touch defensively. “And I’ve been moving a lot, so I’ve had to pare down.”

Still. Still. Once again, those alarm bells are going off in my head, although they’re more like sirens at this point.

I can still turn her away. She hasn’t moved in yet. Of course, we have deposited her check and used it to pay bills. And Whitney has presumably given up her current living situation. It would be a dick move to turn her away at this point just because of a “bad feeling.” That’s something Quillizabeth would do.

“Well,” I say, “this will be quick then, won’t it?”

Whitney’s face relaxes into a smile as I reach into her trunk to pick up one of the boxes. It’s not even that heavy. Barely full. I could carry five of these boxes without breaking a sweat.

She attempts to grab the large duffel bag in the back seat of the car, straining with the weight of it.

“Hey,” I say, “just leave it. I can carry all the bags up for you.”

She grunts as she frees it from the back seat. “No, I got it.”

“But I can do it.”

“Are you calling me a weakling?” She flashes me a teasing smile. “I bet you five bucks I can carry more bags than you can.”

She adjusts the strap of the bag between the curves of her breasts, and I have to look away. Whitney is even sexier than I thought she was, and that is not a good thing.

Don’t even think about it, Blake.

“Hey, Porter!” a gruff voice calls out.

I rest the box on the edge of the trunk and turn around. My neighbor, Mr. Zimmerly, is hunched on the sidewalk in front of his own brownstone, wearing pajama pants and fuzzy slippers. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man in actual shoes the whole time I’ve lived here. I’m not sure he owns a pair.

“Hi, Mr. Zimmerly,” I say as politely as I can.

I have tried to be nice to Mr. Zimmerly, but he hasn’t made it easy. I don’t even know what his first name is because he never told me. I know it starts with H because when his mail accidentally gets delivered to me (and I’m nice enough to bring it to his door), it always says H. Zimmerly on it, but that’s all I’ve managed to learn about him in the six months I’ve lived here. Also, he hates me, and I don’t know why.

“Porter,” he barks at me, even though I told him my first name the first time we met. “Why is your trash bin out on the sidewalk again?”

Due to the rat infestation in the city, we are no longer allowed to put black plastic garbage bags on the curb and must instead put our garbage in bins: one for trash and one for recycling. During the week, I keep my bins locked up under the stairwell. (You wouldn’t think a bin reeking of refuse would be in danger of theft, but that’s New York for you.) Then on garbage day, I haul them to the curb for the garbagemen to empty.

Zimmerly’s biggest gripe about me is that I leave the trash bins out too long on pickup day. He wants me to watch for the garbage truck and grab the cans off the street the very millisecond after the trash is taken away. I have failed to do this repeatedly, and every time we see each other, he reminds me of that fact.

It’s not entirely his fault though. I don’t know how old Zimmerly is, but based on the deep wrinkles on his face and the tufts of white hair on his scalp, my best guess is eighty-something. He bought this place ages ago, when real estate in the city was still relatively cheap, and he expects everything to be done the way it was when he first moved in, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was just using it to save a parking spot. I’ll put it back now.”

He mumbles something under his breath and licks his lips, still not managing to clear away the glob of toothpaste encrusted there. He looks like he’s about to go back inside, but then he freezes when he notices Whitney standing next to me and the boxes in her trunk.

“What’s going on here?” he demands, as if I’m trying to prank him.

I force a smile. “This is Whitney. She’s going to be staying with us for a while.” But hopefully not too long.

“Another woman?” Zimmerly grumbles. “My God, how many do you need, Porter? You’re turning the neighborhood into a brothel!”

Okay, I have had one woman living with me the entire time I’ve been here, which clearly falls short of a brothel. But there’s no point in explaining this to my neighbor.

“It’s very nice meeting you,” Whitney says politely. “Mr. Zimmerly, is it?”

Zimmerly is nice enough to Krista, but he doesn’t seem to feel the same way about Whitney. He grumbles something under his breath and then stomps back up the steps in his slippers.

“He’s always like that,” I say to her apologetically. “Don’t take it personally.”

Whitney seems unconcerned by Zimmerly’s rude behavior. I don’t know why, but it drives me nuts that my neighbor doesn’t like me. I didn’t care when my coworkers didn’t all love me, but this bothers me.

One of the old man’s bottom steps has crumbled slightly—probably eroded after years of snowstorms—and for a moment, he stumbles on it. He catches himself, but it’s a close call. An idea hits me, and I dash over to the steps before he can get inside.

“Mr. Zimmerly!” I call out.

He turns around, his sour expression unchanged. “What now, Porter?”

I kick the damaged step, and a little more cement comes loose. “I can fix your step if you’d like. So you won’t trip on it.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “How much?”

“No charge,” I say quickly, even though I could use the money.

He snorts as he looks me up and down. “You don’t look like you could do the job. They don’t teach you how to fix steps in college .”

“I know how to fix a concrete step,” I say defensively. It’s the kind of thing I used to do with my father when I was a kid. Although I admittedly haven’t done it in years, I remember how to do it. It’s like riding a bike. And if I get stuck, my dad is only a phone call away, eager to help.

For a moment, Mr. Zimmerly looks like he’s considering it. But then he waves a hand at me in disgust. “You’ll probably just make it worse. You can’t even manage your own trash!”

With those words, he turns around and goes back into his house and slams the door behind him.

Well, I tried.

Since Mr. Zimmerly clearly doesn’t want my help, I return to Whitney’s car. I heave the box back into my arms and also throw one of the duffel bags on my shoulder. Whitney follows behind, carrying the bag from the back seat, even though I told her I’d get it. I left the front door open, so it’s a quick trip to get her stuff up the flights of stairs to the top floor. She sets about unpacking while I grab the final box from the car.

When I get back to her room, Whitney has already unpacked about half her clothes. She smiles up at me. “Thanks, Blake. Just drop it on the floor.”

I still can’t get over the fact that Whitney managed to squeeze her entire life into two boxes and two bags. “Are you sure there isn’t anything else?”

“Actually…” She steps over to the door and shakes the doorknob, which rattles loudly, threatening to fall right off. “Do you think we could get this knob fixed? I have this fear about the doorknob falling off and getting trapped in my room.”

Prior to losing my job, this was the kind of thing I would have called a repairman to fix because I was just too busy and also because I could . But much like the broken step, a loose doorknob is something I can fix. I’ve got a tool kit, and I’m perfectly capable of fixing this and anything else that’s broken in this house. My father taught me well.

“No problem,” I say. “Anything else?”

She shakes her head. “I just need to make a trip to the drugstore to get some toiletries.”

“If you’re too tired to go out after unpacking,” I say, “you can use our soap and stuff in the meantime. Or our laundry detergent. And you’re welcome to use whatever you want in our kitchen too. Pots, pans…ketchup, mustard.”

“Thanks.” She sets her eyes on me. I previously thought they were brown, but now I can make out flecks of amber. “I really appreciate everything, Blake. You’re a good guy.”

She’s just being nice when she says that. She doesn’t know if I’m a good guy. She doesn’t know me at all.

“It’s really a beautiful room,” she says as she folds a pair of jeans identical to the ones she’s wearing and slides them into an open drawer. “You did a great job decorating.”

“Actually,” I say, “Krista did all that. She picked out the furniture because she wanted a really nice guest room.”

“Well, your wife has great taste.”

I manage a lopsided smile. “Krista and I aren’t married.”

“Oh!” Her eyelashes flutter, and she touches a hand to her chest. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought—”

“No big deal,” I say. “I mean, we’re engaged. So, you know, we will be married.”

“Did you set a date?”

No . I was working superhuman hours after my proposal, and once I got fired, I didn’t feel like planning a wedding I couldn’t even afford. But I’m not sharing any of that with Whitney. “Not yet.”

She stares at me for another few beats—long enough to make me squirm—but then she goes right back to unpacking her belongings. As she refolds her clothing and places it in drawers, it hits home that it’s too late to turn back.

Whitney lives here now.

“So…uh…” I rub the back of my neck. “I’ll leave you to it then. But…” I feel like I have to say something else before I go, so I add, “We should have dinner sometime.”

Whitney lifts her eyes from the box she’d been ripping open with her bare hands. “Dinner? With you ?”

“And Krista,” I say, in case it wasn’t obvious. Christ, I don’t want her to think I’m hitting on her five seconds after moving in.

“Oh, sure,” she says. “That sounds great!”

Her enthusiasm makes me feel a little better about everything. Yes, we are bringing a stranger into our home, but Whitney seems really nice. Maybe the three of us will have a great time together.

But even if we become the best of friends, soon I’m going to find a job that’s even better than the one I lost, and then we’ll show her the door.