The Offer

by Karina Halle

  Then he’s gone and I’m alone in my apartment for the first time.

  If all of our interactions are going to be a mix of overt generosity and him being, well, him, I’m not sure what the next one is going to bring.

  All I know is that it’s definitely going to keep me on my toes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nicola

  “Mommy?” Ava asks me, puttering into the kitchen and dragging her Snuffy animal behind her as I’m unloading the dishwasher.

  “Yes, angel?” I say, peering at one of the glasses against the morning light, checking for water spots.

  “How come you don’t have to stick yourself with an ouchie?”

  Ah, shit.

  It’s been two weeks since I’ve moved into the new apartment and about three weeks of giving Ava her insulin shot. She doesn’t mind the finger prick from the glucose monitor as much because she thinks it’s like in Sleeping Beauty when Beauty gets pricked on the spindle – I think Ava thinks her Prince Phillip might show up. But the shot is something else. She doesn’t always cry but I can tell it hurts her and it doesn’t seem to matter where I put it. I guess it doesn’t help that she calls it her “ouchie.”

  I put the glass on the table and crouch down to her level. I brush her hair back behind her ears. “I don’t stick myself with the ouchie because I’m all grown up. You need the medicine to make sure you’ll be grown up and big, just like your mother. But not every child gets this medicine. Only the special ones. You’re one of the special ones, angel.”

  Ava pouts over that but then nods. “Okay.” Then she runs into the living room with Snuffy at her side. My heart expands inside me. Being a mother is such a curse sometimes, discovering that ability to love so much more than you thought possible and then being tied to that love forever, no matter how old they get, no matter how much you can’t protect them anymore.

  I sigh and finish putting away the rest of the dishes. It’s Saturday morning and I know I’ve forgotten to get yesterday’s newspaper from the mailbox. I’ve been applying to every job I can find, at least all somewhat related to my field, but I’ve only gotten one interview. That was for a clothing store as a sales clerk and it was one week ago. I’m no longer holding my breath. Even though I know most of the ads are online these days, I’m taking no chances and checking the classifieds as well.

  “Ava, mommy’s going to get the paper from downstairs, okay?” I tell her as I head for the door. “Stay where you are, I’ll be right back.”

  She nods, engrossed with the cartoon on TV. I look down at what I’m wearing – pajama bottoms, slippers and a tank top but at least I’ve put a bra on. I know who my neighbor is and the last thing I want is for my nipples to have a staring contest with Bram.

  I’d seen Bram come and go over the last two weeks and he’s checked in on me a few times. He has that perpetual smirk on all the time, like he’s just about to throw a zinger or some comment my way, but so far he hasn’t. I don’t know if he’s trying to be on his best behaviour or he’s just gotten bored with bugging me.

  What I do know is that the guy likes to get laid. A lot. A ridiculous amount. I’m surprised his dick hasn’t broken off at this point. My bedroom is next to his and I can hear him when I’m in the living room, which makes things a little uncomfortable when Ava is up and about. So far she hasn’t seemed to notice but that might be because I immediately put music on or turn the TV up when I hear him. He’s pretty loud and the girl he’s with is even louder. That’s assuming there is just one girl he’s screwing and I’m not too sure about that. It’s definitely not Astrid. Last time he was with this cocoa-skinned model with a booty that had even me staring at it, hypnotized.

  I also can tell the girls aren’t faking it, which means Bram is pretty damn good at what he does. Their cries in the heat of passion all sound surprised, like they can’t believe such pleasure could happen to them. I guess the mottos about him are true – one night in his bed and your legs are forever spread.

  Meanwhile there’s me, who isn’t seeing anyone and the last time I got off was in the shower a few days ago with my BOB, my Battery Operated Boyfriend. He’s the closest thing to a sexual relationship I’ve got at the moment and I’m starting to like his dependability.

  I get the paper from the mailbox in the lobby and then head back upstairs. While I’m approaching my apartment, I see the door to Bram’s open. My heart stills for a moment – I don’t know why – but then I see a girl with a dramatic bob exit. She’s wearing a black leather miniskirt that I can tell is faux leather, a crop top that looks like the glitter fairy vomited all over it and is carrying her Valentino knock-offs in her hands. She’s got day-old mascara under her eyes.

  Good ol’ walk of shame.

  She sees me and smiles sheepishly. “Hi.”

  “Hello,” I say to her as I open my door. “I like your shoes.” I mean, that’s not entirely true, but I do like the real versions.

  “Oh.” She eyes them, flustered. “Thanks.”

  I watch as she walks quickly down the hall and disappears into the stairwell, as if she’s fleeing the scene of a crime.

  Suddenly Bram’s door reopens and he pokes his head out, his dark hair tussled, the definition of bedhead. He’s looking down the empty hall and then he notices me and gives me a cocksure smile. “Is she gone?”

  “Yes,” I tell him. “Like a bat out of hell.”

  “Excellent album,” he says. Then adds, “Meatloaf. The singer.”

  “I know who Meatloaf is,” I tell him, moving to go inside my own apartment.

  “Hey,” he says quickly, and steps out from behind his door. He’s just wearing a t-shirt and his boxer briefs. They are grey. They are David Beckham’s. They are that close that I can read the label. And they seem a size too small for all the junk he’s packing in there.

  “Oh my God,” I say, covering my eyes and turning away. “Can you please put on some pants?”

  “Prude,” he says with a sniff. “There’s nothing obscene about underwear.”

  Maybe not for the average man, but for you, yeah there is, I think. But don’t dare say that, lest I add to his already over-inflated ego. I can’t help but think what both Steph and Kayla had said about Linden being well-hung and I can deduce that it certainly runs in the family.

  “I just wanted to ask you something,” he goes on and he sounds just serious enough that I turn around and look at him, keeping my eyes trained up there and nowhere else. I’m not even sure if I’m blinking. “Two things actually.”

  “What?” I sound impatient. I just want to go back inside.

  “I hope we weren’t too loud,” he says. “You know, I never asked the previous tenants if they could hear my, erm, antics in the bedroom. And every room. You know how it goes. But I can ask you.”

  “What makes you think you can ask me that?”

  He shrugs. “I’m going to assume now that you can hear me.”

  “I use earplugs,” I tell him. Which is true. I use them every night and shove them so far down I’m pretty sure they might come out my nose one day. As soon as I get more money, I think I’m going to take stock in an earplug company.

  “Too bad, you’re missing quite the show.”

  I give him a dirty look. “Did anyone ever tell you how inappropriate you are?”

  “Yes, many times.” He jerks his chin at me. “But knowing your wall is just as thin, don’t feel like you have to be quiet when – if – you ever bring a man over. I don’t mind. I like to listen.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “Why is it so hard for you to stay decent?”

  “Must be in my genes,” he muses, leaning against the doorframe, jutting out his pelvis just so. I refuse to look even though I agree with his statement.

  “Do I dare ask what the other thing is?” I say. I don’t even know why I’m humoring him and not shutting the door in his face. I’d hate to think I find something fun and amusing about our little interactions. He’s kind of like the kid in grade
school who used to pull your hair.

  “Ah, yes,” he says with a wicked grin. “Given the lack of sexual activity in your apartment and your refusal to take even one peek at my knickers, I’m curious if you’ve ever had sex before. I mean, I know you have a daughter but you hear about these virgin births all the time.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” I tell him, opening my door and quickly jetting inside, shutting the door hard behind me.

  As my cheeks flame, I can hear him say on the other side, “There’s the girl I wanted to see.” Then the sound of his own door shutting.

  What an asshat. I mean, I know he’s fucking with me like that kid in grade school, only pulling more than just my hair. But man, does he know how to get under my skin. Just because I’m not fucking everything that walks – or him – doesn’t mean I’m some uptight, virginal prude.

  Unfortunately, I also know he’s kind of right. Because in the last few years, I’ve been heading in that direction. Even though I’m not fat, I used to be way thinner and toned. Now, I’ve got cellulite on my thighs, an ass that won’t stop growing and stretch marks and a C-section scar on my poochy stomach. I’m sure I could make it work for me if I wanted to, it’s just that it’s so hard to look back on the person I was – happier, better – and be okay with what I am now. It’s like admitting defeat.

  The last thing I want is to strip naked with a guy and it’s unfortunate that the last guy I wanted to do that for was Bram.

  Crap. Maybe I really should go hook up with some random just to get Bram’s legacy out of my damn head.

  “Mommy.”

  I look over and see Ava on the couch, staring at me curiously. I realize I’m leaning back against the door as if Bram’s going to burst inside at any moment. I straighten up and shoot her a bashful look. “I’m okay,” I tell her.

  “Was that Bram?” She pronounces his name with extra care now, wanting to get that “R” in there.

  “Yes,” I say cautiously. I don’t like how she still continues to stay gaga over him. I don’t want to have to be nice for her sake and with him being the only male she really sees, the last thing I want is for her to see him as a father figure.

  “Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!” she sings loudly, popping Snuffy up and down. “Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!”

  Ding dong is right.

  “All right that’s enough,” I tell her. “How about we use our quiet voices, okay?”

  “Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!” she yells, running to her room and giggling.

  I exhale, unfold the newspaper at the kitchen table and start searching for a job.

  ***

  It’s about two in the afternoon and I’ve circled every job I’ve seen fit in the paper, even those I have no experience in like waitressing. I’ve sent out every résumé and cover letter and crossed my fingers a million times. Now Ava is racing around the couch, stir-crazy from boredom and I feel like I need a dozen espressos to even get through the rest of the day. At least she’s stopped singing her Bram song.

  A knock at the door. I feel like I’ve spoken too soon.

  I get up to answer it, giving myself a once over in the vintage mirror on the wall. I don’t look half-bad. I guess it helps that after our earlier altercation, I had a long shower and made a full-hearted attempt to make myself look prettier. My hair is wavy with just the right amount of product. I’ve shaded in my brows more (apparently one of my better features according to most women), put on a few strokes of mascara and a plum lip stain. My skin started going crazy during pregnancy but thankfully it’s calmed down and I don’t have to wear foundation much. I also skipped the blush since I have my cheeks to thank for that.

  I open the door and am not surprised at all to find Bram on the other side. Once he sees me his eyes widen appreciatively at my face and then at the rest of my body. I’m just in leggings and a long sleeveless tunic, but it’s a step up from pajamas.

  “Well, hello there,” he says. He holds out a bottle of wine. “Peace offering.”

  I purse my lips. “Peace offering?”

  “Yes,” he says, shaking the bottle at me. “Have you had the Don Melcher before? It’s brilliant.”

  “It looks expensive.”

  “It is,” he says and smiles. “But I feel I need it make it up to you.”

  “For what?” I want him to say it.

  “For being a right prick,” he says. “And for standing there with my dick on display. I shouldn’t tease you with it.”

  My eyes narrow momentarily.

  He catches himself. “Sorry, sorry. I will behave from now on, I promise.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  He crosses his heart. “I swear. The minute I say the wrong thing, you can kick me out.”

  “Don’t bet I won’t.” I sigh and step out of the way, letting him come inside. That fresh and woodsy scent, reminiscent of something I can’t place, but something that once made me happy, wafts past and I can’t stop myself from closing my eyes briefly and breathing it in.

  Thankfully he doesn’t notice as he comes in and places the wine on the kitchen table.

  Unfortunately, that kitchen table seems to have had it and one leg breaks from under it. Bram manages to grab the wine before it crashes to the ground with it.

  “Fuck,” I swear and Ava comes running out of her room.

  “What was loud?” she asks and then she sees Bram. Her eyes light up like a candle. “Bram!” she yells and runs over to him.

  He stares down at her, smiling, while I quickly close the door and assess the damaged table.

  “Bram, Bram, Bram!” Ava shrieks.

  “How are you, little one?” he asks her, clearly enjoying her attention.

  “I wrote a song for you, Bram,” she says excitedly.

  He looks over at me. “Oh really? So, she’s written me a song, but you haven’t?”

  I roll my eyes and put my attention back to the table. Though the leg snapped off from the bottom, I think I can glue it back together.

  “Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!” Ava starts singing at the top of her lungs. I ignore her and pull the leg out from under it then head to the “Drawer O’ Crap” in the kitchen to find the crazy glue.

  “That’s a very nice song, Ava,” Bram says. “Completely original.”

  “Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!”

  “Don’t encourage her,” I mutter and then Bram is beside me.

  “Crazy glue?” he asks, looking over my shoulder. “You need a new table, sweetheart.”

  I push past him and head over to it, Ava still singing her song and jumping up and down. “If you haven’t noticed, I can’t afford a table at the moment.”

  “I’ll get you one,” he says.

  I bristle. “You’ve done enough.” And I really need to keep my debt to him as low as possible. But I realize I’m sounding bitchy again, so I say, “Once I get a job, I’ll head to Goodwill and see what I can find.”

  “How is that going, by the way?” he asks. “The job search?”

  “Shitty,” I say.

  “Shitty!” Ava yells. “Shitty! Shitty! Bram-a-lama-ding-dong!”

  “Now that seems more apt,” Bram comments.

  “Ava, don’t say that word,” I scold her and then scold myself for swearing around her again.

  “Bram?” she asks.

  “No, the…you know what, yes. Bram. Don’t say that word. It’s bad.”

  “Very, very bad,” Bram comments, his voice suddenly husky. I don’t know why but goosebumps suddenly appear on my arms and my belly feels hot.

  I glance over to see him head into the kitchen and fish out a pair of wine glasses. Okay, so I guess this is happening now. Before I have a chance to tell him it’s too early to be drinking, the wine is being opened.

  “Mommy,” Ava says while I try to open the crazy glue container.

  “What?”

  “Bram!” she yells and then runs to her room, singing that song again.

  “Bram’s always been a curse word in my family,” he says, coming
over with a glass of wine and handing it to me. He then puts his hand on my shoulder, squeezes it for one hot second, and leads me over to the couch. “You sit here. Let me fix your table.”

  “But,” I protest.

  “Sit!” he says, pointing at me. “Relax for once, will ya?”

  Relax? He’d laugh at the notion if he tried to live my life for even a second.

  But still, I sit. I take a sip of my wine (it’s damn good). And I watch him as he glues the end of the leg, hoists up the table and sticks it back in place. Actually, I’m watching his muscles as he’s doing so. He’s in blue jeans with a tear at the knee and a grey V-neck t-shirt that looks really thin and really soft. His casual style is just as enticing as his suits, just in a different way.

  “Are you checking out the goods?” he asks, not looking at me. “Because you had more than a chance this morning.”

  “I’m checking out the table,” I tell him, turning around in my seat and focusing on the wine. “It looks good, thank you.”

  He plops down on the armchair beside me. “You’re welcome. That’s what good neighbors are for.”

  “Have you always been this helpful with them?”

  “Only the right ones,” he says then his expression dampens. “Back in Manhattan, I think all my neighbors hated me. Actually, I know they all hated me. Too many parties and none of them were ever invited.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  He looks surprised at that. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I suppose I had more of a routine over there, a scene. I knew who my friends were, even though deep down I knew they weren’t really my friends. In New York, it’s easy to find people who will follow you around like a bloody puppy dog as long as you’re the one that fills their bowl.”

  “Sounds like a pain in the ass,” I tell him.

  “Is that right?” he asks. “I would have thought somewhere in your past, you were somewhat the same. Not the puppy, but the big dog.”