Man Card

by Sarina Bowen

  Well. If I die tonight, at least I’ll be well fed.

  Instead of finding a table, I stand at the counter, so Dwight won’t notice me. He hasn’t made a sound since I walked in. I put my money on the counter and wait.

  A few minutes later, this establishment’s only visible employee comes back with a tray. “Not for you,” he says, just in case I was about to feel any pleasure.

  “Right.”

  He sets the tray down in front of Dwight and then returns to the kitchen. But he only keeps me waiting another two minutes. And the tray he sets down on the counter for me is mouth-watering. “Hey, thanks.”

  He grimaces.

  Okay.

  I take the tray and turn around. Dweeb is tucking into his meal. In a burst of bravery, I carry my tray over to his table and set it down opposite him. He looks up at me, the noodles spilling out of his mouth like he’s Cthulhu in man-form. “Dwight!” I say. “How’s it hanging?”

  He slurps in response. “Low,” he says. I nod and shovel some of this meaty heaven into my mouth. It actually warms me from the inside out. I’m feeling downright congenial.

  We eat together for several long minutes. I don’t know whether he doesn’t know me or he’s really just pretending. In the meantime, I’m enjoying some excellent soup.

  “I know you,” he says eventually.

  I nod, but don’t say anything, because of pho.

  “Don’t you bag groceries at that Martha’s Vineyard deli place?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Sure you do! You’re always wearing one of those holiday sweaters you can get at Meijer!” He’s excited about this.

  “I assure you, I don’t wear holiday sweaters from Meijer.”

  “Huh. Then you must be that douche that’s fucking my wife.”

  Wait a minute! Douche? His wife? I feel a swelling and realize it’s my testosterone levels. They’re rising from the normal range right into Rambo territory.

  “Ash is not your wife. Not anymore.” It’s hard to say this calmly, but I manage.

  He seems to deflate a little and pushes his bowl away. I keep eating my pho just to prove he hasn’t affected my appetite. This is a battle of wills and I am winning.

  “Yeah, I know. I really fucked that one up. I’m not so hot on relationships, you know? My therapist says that I’m trapped in old-school patterns of hostile masculinity, and I need to break out of that. This fucking pansy had the cojones to suggest I take up knitting. Knitting, can you imagine?”

  It’s not a bad idea, actually. Maybe knitting would help Dwight tap into his nurturing side.

  “I’m trying, man. To be better. But prison does things to you. I’m glad Ash is happy. You treating her well?”

  “Yeah,” I say, starting to feel like I stepped into a parallel universe where Dwight isn’t a dick and actually has a heart. “But here’s the thing. You need to back off.”

  “Back off? What do you mean?”

  I don’t hide my eye roll. “You’ve been following her. Calling her. Scaring her. Trying to approach her. That shit’s got to stop.” I’m done with my pho so I push my bowl away. I do this firmly. I’m channeling Jackie Chan right now, and it’s working for me.

  “Christ. I’m not trying to scare her. She’s got something of mine. It’s mine, and I need it. I’ve tried to talk to her with emails and then phone calls. I ran into her once in the parking lot. I just need this one thing and then she can have her life and I’ll have mine.”

  That sounds almost reasonable. “What do you need from her? Maybe I can get it for you.”

  Dweeb leans back and smiles. It’s an oily smile. It has charm on the surface, but I know better. Though I can totally see how Ash might’ve been sucked into his charm. Underneath that charm is a real, live snake, and I’ve just glimpsed him slithering.

  And now I’ve had enough. Of the Pho. Of Dwight. Of this night. “I came here to give you a message, okay? You’re going to back off, or I turn in the stack of evidence I have against you.”

  “Evidence? What evidence? Of my volunteering at the homeless shelter? Of me working cleaning carpets and being on time every day? You don’t know shit.” He laughs. That fucker laughs.

  Then I decide to lay my cards on the table, because Dweeb is not a good guy. Not at all. “My PI photographed you going in and out of a certain pawn shop seven times in the last week.”

  His face twitches at that. “So what? I need a TV.”

  “This pawn shop is run by a mobster who has an office in back. He followed you inside and took your picture chatting with that guy. Every few months his henchmen get thrown in jail for grand larceny, so he’s always on the lookout for new meat.”

  Dwight makes a face like he tastes something sour. “I was asking for his advice. I got a little technical problem I need to solve, and he knows a lot about, uh, home security.”

  I just shrug. “The police will be very interested in these photos, right? If you come within two hundred feet of Ash, I will take a pair of chopsticks and skewer your balls, one on top of the other. And then turn you and my photos over to the cops. Are we clear?”

  He actually gulps.

  My work done, I stand up and wave to the big dude at the counter.

  He gives me a big smile, exposing a rack of gold teeth. “Respect,” he says.

  Then I’m gone.

  26 Speaking Swedish

  Ash

  The next morning I go to work with swollen eyes. Braht is not at his desk. He’s avoiding me for some reason, I don’t know why. I can only deal with one major life trauma at a time, so I decide to worry about that later. Today is all about the cottage.

  Dennie brings me a cup of coffee and a worried glance. “Everything okay there, Ash-kicker?”

  I laugh in spite of my woe. “Is that my nickname around here?”

  “Well.” He lets out a nervous chuckle. “That’s how I think of you.”

  “I like it, Dennie. Good one.”

  He slips a document onto my desk. “Here’s the official offer letter. There aren’t any complicated contingencies, so I expect we’ll move to contract with no real difficulty.”

  My stomach dips. “Thank you. I’ll read this right away.” He’s right, too. This is a good offer. It makes no unreasonable demands and is not contingent on a mortgage or inspection.

  I sip the coffee that Dennie brought me and gird my loins for the call I need to make to my parents. I’ve sold the cottage for you. You got a great price. My mother will thank me. But I’d really wanted to make an entirely different call. I have a plan to personally save the cottage!

  But we don’t always get the things we want.

  It’s going to take a lot of yoga classes and several spa treatments before I can feel zen about this.

  I drain the coffee and reach for the phone. As I push Dennie’s offer letter away from me, my eyes snag on the buyer’s name. It’s foreign all right, complete with an umlaut. Mr. S. B. Honungsbjörn. Something tickles my senses about this name, and I don’t know why.

  Maybe I’m only stalling, but I open a translation tool on the Internet anyway and type in the name. Honungsbjörn is Swedish.

  And it means: Honey bear.

  What the…?

  Could it really mean…?

  No, seriously?

  I am flooded with several emotions at once. Hope. Shock. Confusion.

  Oh, and rage. Because if this is a trick by Braht to save the day, I can’t believe he didn’t just discuss it with me first.

  But if it is, some other things make sense. Is this why he’s acting so strangely?

  Or—am I crazy? Could this buyer be unrelated to Braht? No. Those are Braht’s initials, too. Mr. S.B. Honungsbjörn deliberately deceived me.

  “Dennie!” I howl.

  A few yards away a sheaf of papers goes airborne as a startled Dennie upsets them. “Yes? Is there a problem?”

  “Where did you get this offer?”

  “From a man! With a very thick accent. H
e called and asked for me!”

  Well, that seals it. Nobody ever calls and asks for Dennie. Braht is playing both of us for fools.

  I shoot to my feet. This is some serious bullshit. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it. Keys in hand, I charge out the back door and jump into my car. It’s not a long drive to Braht’s house. And yet I manage to get even angrier on the way over there.

  In the first place, Braht’s big plan is preventing me from solving my own problems. This was supposed to be the moment when I paid back my parents for all the help they gave me when I was in trouble. I’m a big girl, damn it.

  Furthermore—and more importantly—sneaking around is not how couples behave. How many times did Braht ask me to trust him? That’s right—dozens. He said he was nothing like my ex. My lying, sneaking ex.

  Is there no man on this whole fucking planet who isn’t out to deceive me?

  I am going to rip him a new one, because all it took to make this right was a simple conversation. Hey, Ash, I have a plan that affects your family and your future. Let’s discuss it together.

  How hard is that?

  And then it hits me—an even worse scenario. Maybe Braht is not trying to help me at all. He said he loved the cottage. Maybe he actually wants it for himself. Or maybe he has a plan to flip it for profit.

  In other words, Braht’s offer on the cottage is either a dramatic romantic gesture, or a super-sleazy maneuver. It has to be one or the other.

  My blood pressure is officially through the roof. So when I pull up in front of Casa Braht, I’m practically frothing at the mouth. I get out of the car and run up the walkway, flinging the front door open when I reach it. “Where are you, you sleazy snake?”

  “If that’s a sexual reference, please don’t explain it,” comes the answer. But it’s not Braht’s voice. It’s Bramly’s. A moment later he appears in the entryway, a granola bar in his hand and a camera around his neck. “Hello, Ash. If you’re looking for my brother, he’s not here.”

  “Oh.” And now all my bluster has nowhere to go. “Will he be back soon?”

  “No idea. I’m all done taking the photographs. Now I’m just raiding the fridge.”

  “Photographs?”

  “For the listing. Braht liked my work on yours so much, he asked me to do his. The listing just went up this morning, so it’s a rush job.”

  The listing. My blood pressure rises one more notch. “He put his house on the market,” I say slowly.

  Bramly puts a hand on the sleek wooden banister. “I’ll miss this place. When I was sixteen, Sebastian bought it from a divorcing couple whose sale fell through. It was great to move back into a real house. Our apartment was so skanky those first few years.” He shivers. “Anyway, Braht says he doesn’t need all this room anymore since I’ve moved out.”

  My head is spinning now. I clutch the banister, too.

  “Later.” Bramly shrugs, oblivious to my confusion. “Gotta run. Lock up when you go?”

  “Sure,” I grunt.

  He leaves a minute later, and I draw my phone out of my pocket and tap on Braht’s name. He answers immediately, on speakerphone. He must be in his car, because I hear road noise. “Sebastian Braht. What the ever-loving fuck is going on with you? You are buying my parents’ cottage? And you put your own house on the market?”

  “Yes,” he says after only the briefest pause. “I was going to tell you the whole thing tonight.”

  “HOW THOUGHTFUL!” I shriek. “You’re sneaking around acting like a complete nut job, and I don’t even get a phone call? How shady is that? Who does that?”

  “You’re right, Ash. It was shitty. I have a lot to tell you and I’m really sorry. There’s so much I should have already said.”

  “Well, yeah.” His outright apology slows me down. “So start talking.”

  “I will. I’m on my way home now. Can you come over in an hour?”

  “Listen, dicknozzle. I’m standing in your living room right now with nothing better to do than to hear your explanation.”

  He sighs. “There’s some kind of accident on the S-curve, and I’m stuck in traffic. I want to tell you all of this in person. And there’s a potential buyer on his way to the house right now.”

  “This house?”

  “Yes. Mine. I got some interest right after I listed it.”

  Figures. I put the cottage and my own house on the market and the only offers I get are from myself and Braht. He puts his house up and gets a call two seconds later. I hate him a little bit more.

  “I hate you right now,” I mutter.

  He sighs. “I know, okay? But hold that thought a little longer. Could you please let in my buyer if he gets there before I do?”

  My blood pressure goes shooting into previously uncharted territory. “Sure, hon! Let me just sell your house for you while you dodge my important questions!” My voice is echoing off Braht’s elegant high ceilings. I’m so done with him right now.

  “Listen. I know I’m an asshole of the most gaping proportions and I deserve every word of this,” he says. “Especially since the last guy you trusted took your money and stole from your employer.”

  “Thank you!” At least I’m not the only witness to the universe’s fuckery.

  “I love you and I never meant to hurt you, and God willing I’ll be there to say it in person within the half hour. But for the love of all that’s holy I need to get off the phone and find an alternate route.”

  “Fine,” I bite out. “But this is my client. If he buys your stupid house I get the commish.”

  He actually laughs. “I would have been disappointed if you didn’t think to nail that down ahead of time.”

  Against all my better instincts, I smile. I feel both love and rage right now, and those two emotions are duking it out in my chest. “Just get here already.” At that, I hang up on him. I really like getting the last word.

  And then I go right into realtor mode, because even in a crisis, I’m still me.

  Bramly left a few crumbs in the kitchen, and I quickly discard them. I start a pot of coffee brewing, because sixty-one percent of survey respondents exhibit a favorable emotional reaction to the scent of fresh coffee. It’s one of my favorite tricks.

  Upstairs, things are already tidy from Bramly’s photo session. There are a couple of debauched-looking roses reclining on each bed, and a terry cloth robe hanging invitingly in the bathroom. To make the bathroom counter appear larger, I put away four different luxury face creams.

  They all say “pour l’homme,” but I roll my eyes anyway. Braht uses nicer cosmetics than I do.

  I miss him so much it hurts.

  Downstairs, someone knocks twice on the front door.

  “Come in!” I yell from upstairs. I quickly finish up my work as I hear the door open and shut again.

  Then I hear the bolt slide shut.

  Okay, that’s a little weird.

  “Hello there!” I call. But nobody answers. And as I descend the stairs, no one is visible. Whoever just arrived has headed toward the kitchen.

  “Hello?” I call. “Braht?” Did he make it home?

  No response. But then I hear the back door lock, too.

  That’s when all the hair stands up on the back of my neck. Whoever I’m here with has just locked both doors. And now I hear footsteps treading slowly toward the living room, where I am now standing. “Hello!” I call one more time. “In here!”

  Still, nobody returns my greeting. I feel the sudden, irrational urge to flee. Every female real estate agent has felt this way, though. Touring empty homes with unfamiliar men is just part of the job.

  It’s nothing, I tell myself.

  And then the last man I want to see today steps through the doorway.

  27 Good Luck, Sucker

  Braht

  This traffic is horrible.

  I get off the expressway only to find that the roads are no better. There’s construction on Wealthy Street and I’m inching along, waiting to get past the asph
alt truck.

  My stomach is full of acid. Ash is pissed. And I know it’s only going to get worse.

  That’s when my phone starts pinging. And it’s an alert I don’t recognize.

  “Siri,” I grumble. “What the fuck is that notification?”

  “Let me check on that, Braht,” she says coolly. I love Siri’s voice, I really do. It’s half helpful and half good luck, sucker. Apparently I have a thing for smart, capable women who aren’t always warm to me.

  I wait. I inch my car up toward the next car’s bumper, because eighteen inches of progress is going to make a big difference in my life.

  “You have three alerts,” Siri says. “Bands In Town would like you to know that a Pink Floyd tribute band is playing in your area on Saturday. You have a teeth whitening appointment tomorrow at ten a.m.. And the target of your tracking app has approached your home.”

  Wait, what?

  I grab the phone off the dash and unlock it. I jab the PI’s tracking app and wait for the map to resolve itself. The red dot—Dwight Engersoll—is heading through my own neighborhood, in the direction of my house.

  Where Ash is waiting for me. “Holy fuck!”

  “I didn’t catch that,” Siri says frostily.

  The car ahead of me lurches forward maybe six feet and then stops again. Without even giving it a second thought, I use the extra space to pull off the road and onto the sidewalk. In what will be the closest I’ll ever come to a Dukes of Hazzard car jump, I buck the curb, peel through a church parking lot and then back onto the road in front of an open-mouthed road crew.

  Then I gun it.

  Later I won’t even be able to remember the next few minutes of driving. I basically go into ninja mode, my senses taking over while my brain is given over to panic.

  The drive should have taken nine more minutes, but I do it in four.

  Meanwhile, the app alert continues to bleat, and Siri continues to scare me shitless by announcing Dwight’s progress at invading my home.

  Beep beep. “The target is one kilometer away from Casa Braht.” Beep beep. “The target is a half kilometer away.” Beep beep. “A hundred meters.” And then, “The target is circling the block. Now he has stopped his vehicle in front of your home.”