He shakes his head. I could go on and on about factory farm practices, but I sense I’d lose him, so I keep from preaching.
“They’re responsible for a lot of the methane released into the atmosphere, not to mention the deforestation going on in South America to make pastures for them.”
“Huh. I had no idea being vegan was linked to environmentalism.” He picks up his sub again.
“It’s not for everyone. That’s just my why.”
He tilts his head and studies me for a moment.
“What?” I shift under his gaze, reaching for my drink to have something to do with my hands.
“Why are you so hell-bent on saving the world?”
I’m not sure why I’m taken aback by his question. “I’m not hell-bent on saving the world. I’m hell-bent on doing my part to make it a better place. I’d rather add positivity to the collective conscious than negativity.”
“You sure about that?”
Ugh. Why is he always pushing me? Just when I thought we were getting along. “Yes, I’m sure.”
I stand from the table and take my tray over to the composting station, then separate my recycling, compost, and what little waste there is.
“I wasn’t trying to upset you,” Keane says behind me. “I was just curious if you knew why.”
I’m not willing to look too closely at what he’s saying, at how close he is to the truth. “I need to get back to the apartment. I forgot to call my mom about Jemma’s party next weekend.”
He opens his mouth to say more, but he closes it and separates his own waste.
The ride back to the apartment is quiet and feels longer than it should. Our tenuous truce feels fractured, and I can’t tell whether I’m disappointed or whether I expected it. Either way, I barely look at Keane when he tells me he’s heading out for a run and leaves.
Rather than dwell on whether I’m mad because he was so close to the truth or mad at myself for exactly what that truth is, I call my mom.
She picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Mom, how’s it going?”
“Oh, Fiona sweetie. I’ve been meaning to call you. We haven’t chatted in a while.”
“Sorry, I’ve been busy at work. I’m working a different shift now.”
“You are? How come?”
I launch into the situation with Jerica’s mom and how I’m working overnight at the shelter now, something she’s not thrilled about because she thinks it’s not as safe as working through the day. Once we pass that hurdle, I get into my reason for calling her.
“Jemma’s having an engagement party next weekend and she wanted me to invite you.”
“Next weekend? Oh, sweetie, I would, but I’m away with some of my friends. We’re having a girls’ trip up to the Finger Lakes area.”
Since my parents split when everything went down with my dad, my mom has made it her mission to have a robust social life. Though she doesn’t really date at all, she has a large group of female friends and she’s always busy doing one thing or another with them. Whether it’s trips to the spa, wine and painting nights, or weekend getaways, she’s a hard woman to keep up with.
“Oh, that sounds nice. You must be looking forward to it.”
“I am. Even working part time these days is more stress than I want to deal with.”
My mom works at an accounting firm in Boston that deals with high-profile clients. She’s lucky all the bullshit with my father didn’t derail her career. But the partners at her firm stood strong and backed her during the worst—when my father’s misdeeds hit the news and he went to trial—so she was able to continue on at her job. Last year, she shifted down to part time only. She’s never said so, but I think she feels a loyalty to them since they were there for her through the tough times. But I know she’d probably retire if she had her way.
“Everything good at work?” I ask, picking at a piece of lint on my jeans.
“Just the usual stuff. Nothing to worry about.”
“Okay, well, I’ll let Jemma know that you won’t be able to make it.”
“I’ll be sure to send a present to her.”
“I don’t think she expects you to do that.”
“I want to,” she insists. “With any luck, you only get married once. Finding your person is worth celebrating.”
I can’t help the dark chuckle that escapes. “Okay then. I’m surprised to hear that come from your mouth.”
“Honey, just because your father pulled the wool over my eyes doesn’t mean love shouldn’t be celebrated.”
I’m not even going to touch that statement. After what my dad put her through, I can’t believe she thinks that way. “Well, I’m sure Jemma will appreciate it.”
“Speaking of love, what’s your love life like these days?”
I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. Here we go. “I don’t have a love life. I’ve told you that.”
“What about that boy… what’s his name? The one who works at the grocery store and gives you all the stuff for the shelter?”
“Adam?”
“Yes, that’s it. Adam. Has he asked you out?”
I made the mistake a few months back of confessing to my mom that I thought Adam might ask me out and she hasn’t forgotten. Which tells you how pathetic my personal life really is. “No, he hasn’t, and I haven’t done anything to encourage him either. He’s a nice guy, but there’s no attraction on my part. Not in that way.”
“Well, you need to do something.”
I huff. “I’m good, Mom. If I’m meant to meet someone, I’m sure I will.”
“And how exactly do you think Mr. Right is going to find you? If you don’t go out and do something to find him? He’s not just going to walk into your apartment or fall onto the hood of your car, Fiona.”
“I swear, Marlowe should be your daughter. You guys think alike.”
“Well at least she’s giving it an honest effort, getting herself out there and meeting people.”
The apartment door opens, and Keane walks in with his T-shirt tucked into the back of his shorts, his sweaty, muscular chest on display, his hair damp as rivulets of sweat drip over the peaks and valleys of his six-pack.
My god, I’ve never wanted to lick the sweat off of someone before in my life, but looking at this man right now, I understand why one might want to. He’s breathing heavy as he takes out his AirPods and returns them to the case on the entry table. Then he pushes a hand through his hair and looks at me, seeming to notice for the first time that I’m sitting on the couch.
“Mom, I gotta go.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it, honey. I just think you need to live a little. Enjoy your youth.”
Keane gives me a silent nod hello and heads into the kitchen. The fridge opens as my mom rambles on about something, but I’m still stumbling on the mental speed bump of how Keane looks and how it lit up every endorphin in my body.
I hear him, so I shift toward the kitchen entrance from where I am on the couch and see his head tipped back, downing almost an entire bottle of water from the fridge. His Adam’s apple works overtime, and holy hell, why is that so sexy? I take the opportunity to study his body and commit it to memory. Every dip and curve of his abs, the pattern of hair below his navel, and the way the drying sweat glistens on his skin.
When he starts to pull the bottle from his mouth, I quickly sit up straight.
“Well? What do you think?” my mom says.
With the water bottle in hand, Keane points toward the hall and says in a quiet voice, “You don’t need the shower, do you?”
I shake my head. “What was that?” I say into the phone.
My mom releases an exasperated huff. “Were you even listening?”
“I tend to tune out when we’re talking about my love life.” The bathroom door closes down the hall. “Mom, sorry to cut this short, but I have to run. Can I call you later?”
“Sure, honey. But make sure you do. We’re not done talking about
this.”
“Definitely not. Love you.”
“Love you too, sweetie.”
I hang up and beeline it into my room, closing and locking the door. Once the shower starts, I pull open the bottom drawer of my nightstand and move my underwear to the side, revealing my vibrator.
Ugh. I am the worst kind of person. I’m going to masturbate to images of a man I hate. Or used to hate. I don’t think I know how I feel about him at present. Whatever. I can wash off the shame in the shower once I’m done.
Thirteen
Keane
This week has been… interesting to say the least. I thought that spending more time with Fiona would help to get her out of my head 24/7, what with her unending optimism about the world and her mission to save the planet and all its beings. But it’s only made things worse. Do you have any idea how hard it is to hear the shower running and try not to picture her in there—naked? I dare any heterosexual, red-blooded male to try.
So meeting Jacques at the building is a chance to get out of the apartment. When I left my sister and Fiona, they were painting each other’s nails and swapping menstruation horror stories. A shiver runs down my spine at the thought.
I follow my phone’s directions to the building and park in an empty spot a few buildings down. When I step out of my Jeep, I look around. The area appears okay. There are a few mom-and-pop shops lining the street, an oxygen bar, a hipster-looking barber, and a sustainable goods store across the street. On this side of the block, there’s a small bookstore, a coffee shop, and a pharmacy. And then there’s a beat-up old building where Jacques stands. He waves and smiles as I approach.
“Morning,” I say. “So, this is it?”
I tilt my head up at the building. It’s brown brick with a large metal double door that was once painted a bright baby blue but is now more rust than paint. South-facing windows above the door would let in a lot of light during the day.
“This is it. Want to see inside? The realtor just ran to the coffee shop,” Jacques says.
“Let’s do it.” I rub my hands together, ready for the next step in living my dream.
He pulls a key from his pocket and wrestles with a padlock that holds both doors together, finally pulling it off and pocketing it and the key. The doors groan when he pulls them open, leaving them wide. “The electric isn’t on in here, so we need all the light we can get.”
I follow him inside and immediately bring my T-shirt up to cover my nose from the smell of stale air, mold, and something else I’d probably rather not know. One side of the building houses all the windows. They’re at least ten feet tall, though I can barely see through them thanks to all the dirt and grime on them. The ceiling soars over our heads, but when I glance up, there are a few places where the sun passes through cracks, which accounts for the smell of mold. There are remnants of old furniture, mattresses, and discarded clothing.
“Squatters used to hang out in here before the place went on the market,” Jacques says.
Fiona comes to mind. She’d probably love this place and see nothing but potential here. Me? All I see is a goddamn mess and dollar signs.
“Speechless?” Jacques says.
I nod. “A little. Though I understand what you meant about needing a wrecking ball.”
He laughs. “It’s a shame really. This place was probably pretty nice back in the day. But the area is up and coming and the houses within walking distance are in high demand and have had the highest increase in sale prices for three years running. Which is why I want the lot. I think it’s a good location to be—while the neighborhood is reestablishing itself and being reborn, we can become a permanent fixture. Get in low and flourish as the area does.”
“Makes sense.” I step farther into the building only to find more of the same. “So when does demolition begin?”
Jacques steps up beside me. “I have to apply for a permit with the city first. I’ll get that done in the next couple of weeks. I’ve already got an architect assembling some plans for the new place. Have you heard back from the bank about the loan yet?”
My lips turn down and I shake my head. “No. Probably not until next week.”
He nods.
We’re both quiet for a moment—probably because we both have a pretty good idea that the bank will most likely not approve me. My next step is to ask my parents.
“I have a back-up plan if that doesn’t work out, don’t worry.” Thankfully, I sound more confident than I am that my “back-up plan” will come through.
“Good. Have you given any thought as to what type of cuisine we might specialize in?”
Now that I can answer with confidence. “I have. I’ve been thinking—what if we do an Italian restaurant? But not American Italian but a true Italian restaurant that features traditional dishes you’d find in different regions of the country?”
I was fortunate enough to travel through Italy the first summer I entered culinary school, and the flavor and diversity of the dishes I found there has stayed with me.
Jacques nods, mulling it over. “It’s not bad. I’d have to make sure, but I don’t think there are any other Italian restaurants close by. There’s certainly not an abundance of them in town.”
“That’s what I was thinking. We could carve out a place for ourselves. Have fresh-made pasta. Fresh seafood is easily accessible here. Keep the recipes simple and delicious.”
He nods as I speak. “All right. Get to work developing some ideas for recipes and we’ll see how it goes.”
“Awesome.” I grin, buoyant with the hope that I’m one step closer to having what I’ve wanted for so long.
All that hope is flushed down the drain the following Monday when the guy from the bank calls to tell me my loan application was denied. The news isn’t a huge shock, but it’s a blow. The silver lining, if you want to call it that, is that if I can get someone to co-sign for me, he should have no problem pushing the loan application through.
Now all I have to do is to work up the nerve to call my parents and ask them to be co-signers. But that’s easier said than done. I could play out the entire conversation in my head. It’ll take a lot of convincing to get them to see that I’m not the irresponsible teenager they lived with. My mom texted me to let me know that they’re coming to town in a few weeks for my thirtieth birthday, so I decide that’s when I’ll approach them about co-signing the loan. Hopefully the face-to-face and the fact it’s my birthday will make it harder to say no to me.
My coping mechanism for today? I decide to get drunk. Not exactly the act of a responsible adult, but sometimes you just need to tie one on in order to get past something life throws at you. Sometimes forgetting feels good.
It’s nearing one in the afternoon and I’m a few drinks deep already when Fiona finally makes an appearance from her bedroom. It’s not like her to stay in there so long, but I left her, figuring maybe she didn’t get a lot of sleep at the shelter last night because something went down. But when I first spot her, I’m certain it’s more than that.
Her blonde hair is tangled and hanging limply, and she has bags under her eyes as she shuffles out in… are those… yep, Ruth Bader Ginsburg slippers.
“Morning, sunshine.” I lift my drink in her direction.
She stops shuffling and eyes me, then tilts her head. “Are you drinking?” Then she looks at the oversized decorative clock on the wall near the front door. “At one o’clock?”
“Are you just getting out of bed?” I tilt my head and look at the same clock she did. “At one o’clock?”
She shrugs and shuffles past me into the kitchen. The fridge opens. Moments later, she’s sitting on the other side of the couch, beer in hand.
I turn down the volume on the Vietnam documentary I’m watching and shift to face her. “Rough night?”
She nods and slugs back a good amount of beer.
“Yeah, well, join the club.” I hold out my glass and she clicks her bottle to mine.
“What happened?” she asks.
“Well, my boss offered me a partnership with him on a new restaurant. And the bank called first thing this morning to tell me they turned me down for a loan.”
She turns her head in my direction. “I’m sorry.”
I toss back the remainder of my drink and stand. “I’m getting another. You want something stronger?”
She shakes her head. “I’m a lightweight. A few of these and I’ll be toasted.”
I nod and retreat into the kitchen to make a mixed drink. When I return, she’s changed the channel to some woman’s daytime talk show. Normally I’d complain, but she’s bothered by something too, so I keep my mouth shut.
She sighs. “Remember Ralph from the park?”
I nod.
“The director of the shelter called me this morning to let me know he was in last night for dinner and had an episode. Someone dropped one of the metal trays and the sound of it must have set him off. He ended up having to be transported by ambulance to the hospital. When one of the volunteers tried to intervene and help him, he panicked and punched him several times.”
“I’m sorry.” Before I take stock of what I’m doing, I take her hand and squeeze it.
She jolts when I make contact, as though she’s surprised, but I can’t help it. She looks so distraught. I just want to make her feel better.
“Thanks.” She pulls her hand from mine and wraps it around the beer bottle in her lap.
“You really care about the people you’re helping, don’t you?” I lean back in the couch, tipping back my drink.
“I just feel bad that I can’t do more for them.” She tilts her beer back and takes a few good swallows. “And a part of me feels like maybe it’s my fault.”
“How’s that?” A haze washes over me from the alcohol in my bloodstream. Finally.
“I’m the one who’s always trying to get him to use our services. Maybe he’s just not capable. Maybe I should’ve let him do what works for him instead of pushing my agenda.”
“Fiona, look at me.”
She brings her gaze from her lap, where she’s picking at the label on the beer bottle and looks at me.
Three's A Crowd: A Best Friend's Older Brother Rom Com (Love in Apartment #3B Book 2) Page 7
