Page 10 of Under Locke & Key

Stupid. This is the stupidest, most reckless thing you’ve ever done .

The voice in my mind is pissed at this turn of events.

She was particularly nasty when I dropped my resignation on Andrew’s desk first-thing on Monday, effective immediately, and walked out to him sputtering behind me and thrown for a loop before 9 a.m. But I ignored her then, just as I will now.

Choosing what’s good . I remind myself. Not what’s comfortable .

After quitting, I grabbed a coffee and headed to the Home Depot in Brentwood for a shitload of boxes, and then the U-Haul on the other side of the tracks.

Sebastian and Farren agreed to my hasty text message asking them to help me find a subletter.

And I spent the next two days feverishly packing up the last ten years of my life from my tiny dorm to my shoebox basement apartment.

It takes less time than I expected, something that helps and hurts.

Now, I turn onto Church Street and down the side alley the owners of the building told me about.

Feeling far too closed-in by the brick walls on either side with a truck I barely know how to drive, nerves skitter under my skin.

Ten years with the Metro have spoiled me and the only time I really drive has been when I’m in Delaware with my parents.

Each turn is hairy, every time I have to stop the truck too suddenly I cringe at the sound of my life rattling around in the back.

The dress bag with my outfit for this afternoon’s interview hangs off the “oh shit” handle on the passenger side and it sways every time I take a turn.

And then I’m in front of the building, hazards blinking. Mr. Collins meets me out front, a kind older gentleman who smells vaguely of pipe tobacco and strong coffee. Handing me an old metal key, I follow him as he explains the eccentricities of the place.

The brick leans more brown than red. Three stories, the middle with a huge bay window that begs to be a reading seat or a spot to people watch.

The third floor lives under the charcoal roof tiles, but the windows are full-sized.

The ground floor is a cute tea shop that houses rows and rows of flavors and various kinds of sugars.

It looks cheery and light through the glass doors.

Mr. Collins owns it and the apartment above it.

“There’s a spot for a car around back that’s included in the monthly rent. Water is also included, as we discussed. You’ll be responsible for your own electric and internet.” All run of the mill, all things I know.

“The door sticks when it rains, so you’ll have to kick the bottom here.” He points down at a permanent scuff on the bottom corner, an indentation into the otherwise-beautiful robin’s egg blue door.

The hinges squeak when he swings it open and the landing smells a little musty, as if it hasn’t taken a proper breath in months, and truth be told, neither have I.

We climb the narrow wooden steps and I make a mental note to be careful on a night when I go out for drinks.

Taking a spill down these will be nasty.

He encourages me to slip my key into the slot and there’s something very satisfying about turning a heavy metal key into an antique keyhole.

The door has a handle, not a knob—burnished brass that’s cool in my hand when I push my way in.

There are coat hooks on the wall beside the door, and a small closet with the water heater in it.

If Sebastian and Farren’s floors look old then these are ancient.

Broad hardwood from old-growth trees is covered by a runner down the entrance passage and one of the planks creaks underfoot as I step fully into the space.

There’s an old oil radiator beneath one of the windows in the living room.

The room is separated from the passage and kitchen by a stately arch, the rich wood a similar shade to the floorboards.

The walls are sage with wainscoting, the window trim white, and I’m completely in love.

This house has what ángel would call “character” and I get it.

The space smells like old books, wood oil and dust.

“The upper level is mostly used for store overflow and storage for things we don’t have room for in the shop, but feel free to stow whatever you want in there,” Mr. Collins says and he continues down the passage.

I can do nothing but follow and try not to run my fingers along the wainscoting as I walk. He points out a bathroom with a clawfoot tub/shower combination with a curtain going all the way around.

“You’ll have to give it a few minutes to heat up when you get the shower started. Don’t be alarmed if you hear the pipes groan when you do, they’re temperamental.” He talks about the place like it’s a person.

The woodland-themed wallpaper is a slew of dark greens and golds, and I’m not sure I’ve seen a bathroom with wallpaper instead of tile. The taps are split between hot and cold, metal handles with little white tabs on top that once would have denoted which was which but have since faded.

Mr. Collins continues on, pushing through another squeaky door and I’ll have to get some WD-40 for all these unhappy hinges. The bedroom has two large windows that look out over the back yard, a brass queen-size bed frame with no mattress, and soft blue toile wallpaper.

“There’s another bedroom just across the hall that the previous tenant was using as an office space, but this is the master. If you think of anything you need, just come down to the shop. We’re open most days, except alternating Sundays and if there’s some kind of emergency.”

I stick my hand out to shake his and his skin is papery and dry in my grasp, some strength still there even though he’s got to be at least seventy and should be retired by now.

“Thank you for being so accommodating. I know this was last minute but when I saw the listing I knew.”

His smile is understanding, blue eyes crinkled in the corners with the movement. “She’s a beauty. If it weren’t for all the stairs we probably would’ve moved in here when we downsized, but my Tess has arthritis in her knees and I’m not getting any younger either.”

We drop our hands. “Well, thank you again.”

“I’d offer to help you carry stuff up but I’d be no use to you.”

“It’s no bother. I have some guys coming to help me carry the things inside. The unpacking will be my worry but at least I won’t hurt myself trying to cart everything up these stairs.” God, I can only imagine how miserable it would be trying to shove my mattress or couch up.

Mr. Collins heads down, his knobby knuckles standing out stark against his skin as he clutches the bannister on the way down. Pulling out my phone I check the progress of the U-Haul guys who are going to help me and they’re out front within fifteen minutes.

Standing in the middle of the living room as they make quick work of what took me hours, I direct them like a flight traffic controller from my spot in the middle of nowhere and out of the way.

Boxes with scribbles on each side are stacked in their respective rooms and part of me—the pragmatic part—says I should wait before I unpack them.

No point getting comfortable if it’s all for nothing.

The lack of a backup plan makes my stomach feel like a black hole but if I’m going to go so far out of my comfort zone—so removed from what my parents expect of me—I might as well go all in.

Can’t focus on anything but the positives right now.

Shucking my moving clothes, I wait a few moments for the shower to heat up and scrub the day from my skin.

No hairdryer means I have to French braid my damp hair to keep it under control.

The dress is goldenrod yellow, bordering on burnished, and I know it’s bold but it plays well with my black hair and brown eyes.

It’s a warm shade but not as aggressive as red.

I pair it with a cream blazer to bolster against the early spring chill.

My usual black dress seemed too somber for an escape room interview.

Fastening my smartwatch to my wrist, I take a deep breath before I slip some plain pearl earrings on, and carefully apply makeup around my dark brown eyes that’s meant to look like it’s barely there.

The semi-steamy bathroom mirror says I look okay.

The doubt in my mind says this was a silly idea.

I didn’t even take the time to google this person.

From the name and the general tone of the listing, I’m picturing late forties—someone who's saved up money and is tired of their day-to-day in an office—graying, maybe a little nerdy-looking, not that it’s a bad thing to be but my mind has a certain view of the kind of person that would start a business around a concept like an escape room and “jock” isn’t it.

We’re meeting at a coffee shop a block from here and my heart thunders every step of the way.

Waiting for the green walk symbol, I clutch my bag against my body as if it’ll protect me from a bad outcome, and my heels eat up the tar with broad steps to cross quickly.

Mr. Dawson— Bryce —said he’d be sitting in the window with a denim shirt on.

Am I dressed too formally? I didn’t exactly have a backup plan and half my closet needs to be ironed after the haste with which I shoved it into bags and boxes.

I round the corner and Bean-y Baby—a nineties-themed coffee shop—is right there. In its large boxed window, a man sits at a hightop table facing the door, his back to me.

His hair is light brown, too dark to be considered sandy but not quite what I’d call brunette, and it’s just a little on the side of too long.

If I’m right and this is Bryce, then he has some scruff going on his face and a hand wrapped around a ceramic coffee mug—no to-go cup here.

I can’t make out much more, so I steel myself with a hefty breath and hurry into the building.

The bell above the door tinks as I enter and Bryce’s gaze shoots up to catch on mine.

Fuck .