by Sara Ney
“That’s not true.” Sophia gives me a meaningful look. Raises her brows and mouths, Brooks.
My head shakes. No, I mouth back.
Tell her, Sophia insists. She’s going to find out eventually.
There is nothing to tell! I want to shout, because it’s the truth. WE ARE JUST FRIENDS.
Sophia’s palm hits the table. Stop it.
I scrunch up my face. No, you stop it!
“So, Abbott met a nice young man in her apartment building and they’ve been spending some time together, Nan.”
Nan perks up, a pâté sandwich paused halfway to her lips. She returns it to her plate, removes the white linen napkin from her lap, and dabs at the corner of her mouth.
“A young man?”
I groan. “Thanks a lot, Sophia.”
My best friend smiles happily and sets to stuffing tiny finger foods into her traitorous mouth.
Rude.
“There is no young man, Nan. Don’t get your hopes up.”
“But you have met someone?”
“No. It’s just some guy who lives in my building—nothing more, nothing less.”
“But he does live in your building.” Semantics are not lost on Nan—she has a penchant for details and parsing out specifics.
“Lots of people live in my building, and some of them are male.”
“Abbott Margolis, don’t get cheeky.”
“I’m not!” I say to her. Then to Sophia, I hiss, “This is all your fault.”
Sophia shrugs, chomping on a miniscule slice of cheesecake. If anyone loves these little high teas more than me, it’s my friend. She will drop everything to sip champagne and eat dessert, no matter the day of the week or the time of day.
“Does this neighbor have a name?”
“No.” The last thing I need is my grandmother catching wind of any form of a relationship between Brooks and me. She’d latch on and start digging, drawing conclusions she has no business drawing since he and I only just met.
“His name is Brooks,” Sophia says at the same exact time I deny Nan the information, and I groan. Damn her, she always does this!
“Brooks, hmm?” Nan sips her tea, the innocent expression on her face anything but innocuous, the wheels in her crafty brain no doubt spinning.
Nan cannot stay out of anyone’s business; her business is meddling.
“Is he on your floor, or just in the same building?”
“I’m not sure.”
Nan studies me above the rim of a champagne flute she’s just lifted from the table, grasping the stem with two manicured fingers.
Narrows her steel gray eyes. “I don’t know why you’re being so tightlipped—it’s not like I have any vested interest in the matter.” She purses her lips and takes a sip of bubbly.
“If there was something to tell, I would tell you. Brooks and I are just friends—that’s it.”
My best friend gives my shin a swift kick and I flinch, my grandmother pretending not to notice any of our halted actions—but the truth is, she has noticed everything, and she isn’t going to let this go.
9
Brooks
Abbott: Hey buddy. Quick question.
The text from my perky little neighbor comes first thing in the morning, on a Monday, my phone pinging on my desk as I drag a technical pencil along a giant sheet of drafting paper. Long, straight lines that will someday be an exterior wall are truly a thing of beauty.
I stare at the text, reading it again, the reason she nagged for my phone number last night now about to become clear.
Buddy? What the hell?
Granted, she’s my neighbor—not really a friend, though if I had to guess, I’d say we’re headed in that direction. Still. Being called buddy stings just a little, as if she doesn’t think I’m sexy and doesn’t want to bang me. No girl calls a guy bud or dude unless they are friend-zoning him.
Me: What’s up, bro?
I chuckle at that and wish I could see her face to gauge her reaction.
Abbott: I’ll be gone the entire day today and have late dinner plans, so I have no idea when I’ll be home. I put out enough food for Desi to graze, but if you could check on her to see if her water is clean, I’d be forever grateful.
Abbott: She’s been an asshole the last few days, tipping the bowl over.
Me: The cat is an asshole? Shocker.
Me: I’d love to help you out, but how do you expect me to get into your apartment? I might be a magician, but I have no experience with breaking and entering. This isn’t Harry Potter—I can’t just walk through walls.
Abbott: INCIDENTALLY, I left you a key at the front desk…on the off chance you were available to pop in. If you’re busy or won’t be home, I totally understand. But if you could spare one hot second to check on the cat…
Me: That cat gets more attention than I do.
Abbott: Whose fault is that? Are you one of those guys who doesn’t want a commitment but who also wants girls falling all over him?
Yes. One hundred percent.
Me: No.
But yeah. Totally.
I’ve always been that way, since the day I discovered girls have tits, plus vaginas—and when I slid my dick into a vagina, it felt like nothing I’d ever experienced before. Heaven.
Orgasmic.
The problem was: no woman has ever made my heart feel the way her vagina did—all warm and tingly and euphoric and hard. Therefore, I’ve never wanted to commit myself to one woman.
I came close with Kayla.
Abbott: So can you?
Me: Sure, why not? Just check the water, right?
Abbott: Yup, that should do it. Make sure Desi hasn’t gone crazy, ha ha. KIDDING. She’ll probably be sleeping in the window. If she doesn’t run and hide when you walk in…
Me: Great. The cat’s going to play hide-and-seek. As long as it isn’t planning a sneak attack, I think I can suffer through three seconds of checking on her bowl.
Abbott: If you’re tempted to play with her, I won’t be mad.
Me: THAT’S not happening. Dream on.
Abbott: I figured, but just had to say it. I keep forgetting you’re scared of a ten-pound cat.
Me: I’M NOT SCARED OF THE CAT!
Even though I am scared of the cat, just a little. I don’t trust the fucking thing. It looks like that damn cat from the movie where all the cats are evil and try to take over the world, whatever that stupid movie is called.
Abbott: Thanks, Brooks. I owe you one. Next time you need someone to grab your mail or whatever, I’m your girl.
If I ever went anywhere, yeah, that would be swell.
Me: Don’t worry about it. I’ll grab the key and let myself in this afternoon.
Abbott: That’s perfect!!! Thanks!
I plunk the phone on my desk, upside down so there are no further distractions, and add Check on Desi the Terror Pussy to my ongoing list of shit to get done tonight.
Cat. Dinner. Laundry. Basketball game on TV.
Big night in, most likely with a set of blueprints and a bowl of popcorn.
No women.
No sex.
No distractions.
I stay productive most of the day and, at roughly three twenty-five, look at the clock then the side of my hand, which is covered in lead from sliding my fist over pencil markings. I push back my stool.
Stomach grumbling, I quietly put my things away, storing my expensive measuring devices and writing tools, and click off the light on my drafting table.
Grab my coat and give the room a once-over. Nothing amiss or out of place, I flip the overhead light off and call it an early day; I have a cat to check on.
Cutting out early isn’t the norm for me, and a bit of guilt churns in my gut as I pass Taylor’s desk.
“Oooh, going somewhere? A hot date you have to shave for?”
God this dude is so random.
“It’s just been one of those days, so I’m checking out. I’ll finish this up at home.” I give the rolled paper, stored insi
de a hard tube and tucked under my arm, a solid pat. “Game is on tonight and I have some errands to run first.”
“What kind of errands?”
My brows go up. What kind of errands does he think I’m doing? “The normal kind?”
“Like grocery shopping?”
“No.”
Taylor narrows his eyes. “So like, the post office?”
Huh? “No.”
“Grabbing your dry cleaning?”
“No.” I sigh, setting down the plastic storage tube. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t. I’m just curious.”
That’s caring. “If you really must know, I have to check in on my neighbor’s cat.”
He sits back in his rolling desk chair and crosses his arms. “You’re running home two hours earlier than usual to check on a cat?” Now he’s looking at his fingernails. “Don’t cats usually fend for themselves or whatever?”
I thought so, too, but if Abbott wants me to check on McTerrorPussy and it only takes a few seconds, what’s the harm in helping her out?
“It’s not your average cat.”
Taylor considers this information. Then, “Wait—is this your neighbor neighbor, or just a neighbor?”
What the hell is that supposed to mean? “It’s a neighbor.”
“Is this neighbor a man?”
Jesus, the way he says man makes me shake my head. “No.”
“Is this neighbor a hot little brunette?”
Sigh. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Doesn’t she have, like, thirty servants to babysit the cat?”
“Because she’s from a wealthy family? Her apartment is the same floor plan as mine.”
With a better view, nicer appliances, more expensive furniture, and artwork on the walls that’s probably authentic and not a bunch of knockoffs from a discount store.
Other than that…
Our shit is mostly the same.
Mostly.
“So you’re racing home to watch her cat?”
“No, I’m going home because I’m tired and can work from my living room, and the basketball game is on tonight.”
A pen materializes from nowhere and gets tapped against Taylor’s pointy, intrusive chin. “You better be careful or you’re going to end up falling in love with this girl.”
That—that makes me laugh out loud, and the sound reverberates through the reception area with its polished marble flooring and tile walls.
“Take a picture of her apartment for me, would you?” Taylor’s request has me scowling.
“What the fuck, dude—no.”
“Bring me a lock of hair! Maybe I can become the next Margolis heir if I clone her.”
That makes absolutely no fucking sense, but oddly enough, I kind of get where he’s trying to go with that whole idea.
“Bye Taylor.” I walk to the elevator bank and punch the down button with my knuckle.
“Take a mental picture at least. I’m going to have a million questions tomorrow—don’t disappoint me.”
“I’m sure I will.” I’m sure Abbott Margolis has had people betraying her confidence her entire life; I don’t need to be tacked on to the end of that list. Wouldn’t want to be.
It’s not that I’m feeling protective of her, but she’s a nice girl. Clearly wants to fly under the radar, and I don’t actually give a crap how or where she was raised as long as she acts like a decent human being.
Which she does.
So, I’m checking on her cat, following a twenty-five minute commute from the office.
After presenting my driver’s license to the newbie manning the front desk in the lobby, I grab the key to her place and dump my work in my own place.
Change out of my work clothes, too, throwing on sweats, an NBA T-shirt, and flops. Pad across the carpeted hallway and let myself into Abbott’s apartment.
The lock unlatches easily, and I turn the gold knob. Push the door slowly—not sure why. I know she’s not home, but for some reason it feels like I’m about to invade her privacy. Her inner sanctum? It’s weird, so I move slowly, not rushing.
I also kick my flops off because entering her place with shoes on also feels wrong?
Whatever.
“Here kitty, kitty.”
Why the hell am I calling the cat? All I need to do is check its water bowl.
Wait—where is the water bowl?
I make my way toward the kitchen, head peering around the wall to the cozy galley, metal feeding bowls tucked neatly beneath the lower cabinets. One is full of food, the other…
Is empty.
A wet mess beside it.
Well shit, the little bastard did empty its water bowl—which has an engraved plate on it that reads Duchess Desi.
Groaning, I grab the hand towel that’s hanging from the stove and lower myself to the ground so I can soak up the water. Just as I start swishing the terrycloth around on the sleek tile floor…
“Don’t move, scumbag.”
An older woman’s voice from somewhere above me tries to sound menacing.
What the…
I turn my head to look over my shoulder.
“I said don’t move! Are you hard of hearing?”
Seriously. What the actual fuck?
“Abbott sent me. Who the hell are you?”
This time I do turn around, standing in one motion, facing the intruder. A woman is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a large glass vase in one hand, Desdemona tucked protectively under the other.
“Wait a second, are you stealing the damn cat?” I accuse, stepping toward the pair of them to snatch the purring feline.
Little traitor. Of course it’s friendly with a thief.
Is this woman nuts?
She doesn’t look like a nutjob, or a schizo. I’ve certainly never seen her in the building before—though that isn’t saying much because I’d never laid eyes on Abbott until very recently, either.
“Am I stealing the—are you out of your mind?”
“Just give me back the cat and get the hell out of here before I call the police.”
“I beg your pardon?” She is affronted, still holding the vase, still holding Desi.
“I said, give me the cat and I won’t call the—”
“Young man, I’m not hard of hearing. Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my granddaughter’s apartment?”
Granddaughter’s apartment.
It’s then that I really take a good look at the older woman. She’s in her sixties or seventies, wearing an expensive baby blue suit. Striking silver hair that’s been professionally styled. Large diamond rocks in her ears and…
My gaze travels south, to the hand cradling Desdemona.
Larger rock on her ring finger.
Shit. This must be a Margolis.
Maybe even the Margolis.
Fuck.
Shit.
“I’m here to check on the cat. Abbott won’t be home until late.” I root about in my track pants and produce the key. “See? I have a key.”
Her perfectly manicured brows rise to her hairline. “You have a key?”
This information interests her, and she stoops, bending her knees to a near curtsy to release Desi to the floor. The cat, being a snoop and in no rush to hurry off, sets its ass on the tile in front of Abbott’s grandmother and stares at me along with her.
“She needed a favor.”
“A favor?”
Why is she repeating everything in that weird tone—like everything I’ve just said is groundbreaking and intriguing?
You have a keeey?
A favorrrrr?
“Yes, ma’am.”
The vase gets set down on the counter, and the woman leans a bouclé-covered elbow on the cold granite. “What’s your name?”
“Brooks Bennett, ma’am.”
Her regal head gives a nod. “I’m Nan.”
“Nan—the giver of Sunday brunch and eggs Benedict.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop t
hem. Should I have said all that? Shit, what if she gets the wrong idea about what I was doing here Sunday morning? “I met Abbott in the hall the other day—I didn’t spend the night.” That sounds just as bad. “I mean…we just met Sunday. I didn’t know her before that. We ran into each other in the hall and I invited myself in.”
Creepy as fuck—that’s how you sound, Brooks. What the hell? Get a damn grip.
A true interrogator, Nan looks on silently, letting me hang myself with the word vomit spewing from my mouth.
“We talked because I had breakfast here. I ate your food. I didn’t just force myself in—she was going to invite me.”
I think.
“I see.” That’s all Nan says, picking up the vase and disappearing back around the corner from where she came.
I follow and find her in the living room, setting the vase on a hutch, a small bouquet of freshly cut flowers resting on its surface.
Nan goes about arranging them like I’m not in the room, freaking the fuck out.
What’s the big damn deal? Abbott has a grandma and she took you by surprise—so what? Get over it and get the hell out. Text Abbott that Nan took care of the cat and move on with your life.
Over and done.
“Are you going to stand there rudely with your hand down your pants or are you going to grab some of these and help me?”
Hand down my pants?
What the fuck.
Nan is no shrinking violet, nor is she a washed-up socialite.
“Sorry.”
Nan hands me the stem of a daisy and says, “These are Abbott’s favorite. They’re small and white—dainty and petite, like she is. Not like the large Gerbera daisies that are more popular.”
I’m not sure why she’s telling me this, but I jam it inside the vase next to a pale, white rose.
