by Nic Stone
And work with it, we do. Over the next two hours we visit a three-bedroom condo in the most expensive part of Atlanta (overkill), a loft in Midtown (not at all child-friendly), a penthouse downtown (is he serious?!), and an “apartment” within a larger Victorian house in some historic district.
Now we’re walking into a cute little two-bedroom cottage in Decatur.
“The best thing about this place is it’s got an open floor plan and no stairs, so if you’re here long enough for your kid to reach the crawling stage, you’ll be able to forgo the baby gates,” Greg says. “Have a look-see. I’m gonna step outside for a sec.”
“Okay, this kitchen is adorable,” Zan says, looking around. In addition to the modern appliances, there’s a potbelly stove in the corner. It’s got the perfect-sized table and chairs near the wide window, and a breakfast bar that overlooks the little living room.
And fine: it is adorable.
I’m so confused, I really could puke.
It’s like my brain’s being pulled in two directions: on the one hand, fake future-home-hunting with Zan Macklin is kinda thrilling. As he takes my left hand so we can walk around this place like we’ve done at the others, I’m reminded of how invigorating the sense of possibility can be.
But then there’s that right hand. The one Zan’s not holding. The one that’s been clenched in a loose fist since the moment he put his hand on my stomach. As nice as the near-constant contact and undivided attention I’ve experienced today have the potential to be, right now, all I can think about is how it’s a giant façade.
Despite the fact that we’ve been acting like a couple all day, that Greg Andree is under the impression I’m carrying Zan’s spawn, the hard truth remains: I’m not his girlfriend.
It’s just that the longer he treats me like I am, the angrier I get.
“My sister would have a field day decorating this place,” he says as we peek into one of the two bedrooms. “It’d be a good spot for us even without a kid.” He steps behind me and wraps both arms around my shoulders.
Which…“A good spot for us, huh?”
“Totally. It’s a nice area, two bedrooms, and a great location. We’ll be near enough to our families to drop in, but far enough away that they can’t drive us insane. Out of all the places we’ve seen, it’s the best option.”
The best opt—There’s no way he’s serious. Couldn’t possibly be.
If this whole thing’s a joke, it’s officially not funny anymore.
I pull his arms off and turn around to face him. “Are you really suggesting we move in together, Macklin?”
He shrugs. “Ness and Jess are. Maybe it’s a good idea for us too. We are both sticking around after graduation.”
**Tomorrow’s headline: TEEN GIRL SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUSTS FROM OVERWHELMING DOSES OF BEWILDERMENT**
“ ‘Ness and Jess’ have been a couple for two years, Zan. And as you made clear to your family, I’m not your girl—”
“You two get a good look around?” Greg appears in the living room, and that’s the end of that.
I (low-key furiously) take Zan’s hand so our “Realtor” doesn’t think there’s trouble in paradise. We haven’t actually gotten the info we need.
“We did, Greg,” Zan says. “This place is great. Probably number one at this point. Where to next?”
Nope. We’re done here. “Greg, what do you know about the owner of this place?” I say.
Zan looks confused, so I give him the I got this smile he gave me back when we visited Checker Cab (feels like an eon ago that we were there).
Greg opens the file in his hand and flips through a few pages. “Dutch guy,” he says. “This is one of four properties ORG manages for him, and the other three are happily tenanted.”
I nod. “What about the Druid Hills house? I know we haven’t seen it yet, but is the owner American?” God, I sound like a xenophobe.
Greg goes back to his file, and I can feel Macklin eyeing me. “Guessing by the name, yes, that owner is American.”
“What is it, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Name on the deed is Ethel Streeter.”
Bingo. (And thank Lita’s God.)
Zan clears his throat. “Does your file say anything about her? Do people think she’s a good landlady?”
He smiles. “Tenants who lease through us don’t usually interact with property owners. That’s kinda why we exist.”
“But she’s alive?” I say.
“I mean, I’d assume so, since her name is on the deed—”
“When’s the last time you had contact with her?”
Zan squeezes my hand. Yes, I’m coming on too strong now, but we’re so freakin’ close, and I wanna get out of here. Hearing all this with him beside me is making me itch.
Greg’s gaze shifts between us, but then drops to my midsection. He sighs. Goes back to his file. “Our interactions are with her asset manager at Dover Financial—”
“Shit! That’s the company we use!” Zan exclaims.
Greg and I both look at him. “Sorry, Greg. You were saying?”
“Not much else to say.” Greg shuts his file. “Would you like to head to that property now?”
Zan turns to me, his expression that of a kid who just found a treasure map.
Ain’t happenin’.
I put a hand on my belly. “Actually…I’m feeling kinda sick all of a sudden.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Greg says, face softening.
God, if you’re real, withhold the fire and brimstone, please.
“Let’s get you all back to the office. We’ll talk en route.” As Greg makes his way to the door, Zan’s face fills with questions.
I rise to my tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Guess that mystery is solved, huh?”
I squeeze his biceps and walk out.
My home—and it is my home since I’m the only thing in here that hasn’t been “renovated”—was built in 1934. And for the most part, I’ve been used for my intended purpose—heat. But when a young couple purchased the house in 1987, the husband told his wife I didn’t work so he’d have a place to stash the gambling winnings she didn’t know about.
Guy had a hell of a lucky streak.
That luck peaked in 1992 when he purchased a winning lotto ticket in South Carolina worth three hundred fourteen thousand dollars.
South Carolina permitted winners to claim big prizes anonymously, so he cashed in his ticket one weekend while his wife was away on a trip with friends, put the money in a black canvas duffel, and stuffed it inside me with the rest of his secret savings.
His wife, though, wasn’t so lucky: she returned home despondent over the three hundred dollars she’d lost gambling in the casinos.
He began to watch her like a hawk. Would hold his breath every time she stood close to me for longer than a few seconds.
One stormy night, he woke up, and she was missing from bed. He found her in the kitchen, just staring at me.
Like she knew.
As soon as she left for work the following day, he pulled all the money out to count it.
It was three hundred dollars short.
Or so he thought. In truth, he’d counted incorrectly. But since he was already convinced his wife had something to hide…
Well.
The next day, as soon as he sits down beside me in history, I pass Zan the note I prepped so I won’t lose my nerve:
You talk to your people at the financial place?
Good morning to you too, Rico.
MORNIN’ SUNSHINE! So, did you?
Somebody’s testy today…
Macklin!
OK, OK! Yes. I did.
And?
He said we could drop by this afternoon.
Excellent! Right af
ter school?
Yeah, if that works for you…
I’ll meet you in the lot.
He scribbles something else and passes it back, but I don’t read it. It’s either a question I won’t wanna answer or something ooey gooey that’ll distract me, and I gotta keep my head in the game.
I didn’t sleep last night. Too much swirling around in my chest. Rage over some guy I don’t know thinking I’m gonna be a teen mom when I’ve never been kissed (nor had a boyfriend). Confusion over Zan’s…well, over Zan in general. (“I really like you.” “She’s not my girlfriend.” “Had a little too much fun after winter homecoming…” “This would be a good spot for us.”)
What’s he even after?
Anyway: definitely need his help with what I hope is the final obstacle. Guessing the son of this financial firm’s (surely) biggest client will (likely) be able to get any info he requests. My plan is once we’ve acquired Ethel’s contact info, I’ll “set up a time for *us* to reach out,” but do it alone beforehand.
Just gotta dodge Zan’s questions/affections long enough to get through this next thing.
* * *
—
By the time we step out of the elevator on the twenty-second floor of the steel and glass skyscraper that houses Dover Financial, I am utterly exhausted. Turns out evasive maneuvering takes a lot out of a girl.
But we’re almost there.
Down the hallway…
And there’s the door.
Zan knocks.
“Come on in, Jandro” comes from the other side.
Zan pushes the door wide and moves to the side so I can enter first, and I get my best smile in place—
It crashes to the floor.
“Ricooooo!”
I’m either dreaming, or dead.
“You! Here!” he goes on. “In my workplace for once!”
Yep: dead. Definitely dead.
The name on the plaque beside the office door reads JOHN DOVER, MBA, CPA, CFP. But the guy sitting behind the desk, cheesin’ like the Cheshire Cat?
Mr. Fifty.
“You two know each other?” Zan asks, looking as dumbfounded as I feel.
“You bet we do! Rico’s my favorite employee at the Gas ’n’ Go in Norcross! What a small world we live in!”
“You can say that again,” I mutter.
Mr. Fifty—Dover—points to Zan. “You dating this guy?”
“Nope. Just friends.” I step into the office in front of Zan. Look around. Might as well use my advantage. “Nice digs!”
“Well, thank you, Rico.” He rocks back in his chair. “If I’d known you were coming, I’da ordered refreshments! Come in, come in! Have a seat.”
This is gonna be easier than I thought.
I take the chair on the right, and when Zan sits down, I can totally feel the…furywildermustration would probably be the best way to describe it. It’s coming off him in thumping waves that I bet match his heartbeat.
Probably best to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“So what can I do for you, Mr. Macklin?” Mr. Dover says to Zan.
Zan’s lips part but—
“I’m the one who needed to speak with you, Mr. Dover,” I say.
Zan looks at me. (Can’t even read his face at this point.)
Dover does too.
“So you know how my store sold that winning Mighty Millions ticket on Christmas Eve?”
“Yep. Took me weeks to forgive you for not selling it to me.” He wags his finger. “Anyone ever come forward with the big winner?”
“Nope,” I say. “That’s actually why we’re here.”
His eyebrows lift, and he leans back in his chair. “Do tell.”
“After you left, I sold two tickets to an older black lady. She gave one to me—”
“You didn’t tell me that,” Zan says.
“It wasn’t the winner.”
“Okay, but sti—”
“So it wasn’t important.” I focus back on Mr. Dover. “My boss said he sold a bunch, but this is the thing: the winner included the numbers that make up my birth date. Which was on the ticket the lady didn’t give me.”
“Whoa.”
“I know, right? Also: I can’t imagine anyone else not coming forward. I only sold three, and since the one I sold you and the one I kept were both duds, the third one had to be—”
“The winner,” Mr. Dover says.
“Exactly.”
“Hmm.” He rubs his chin.
“Zan and I have been trying to find the lady. My guess is she stuck it in her pocket or down in her purse and forgot about it.”
“That’s a heck of a thing to forget….”
“She mentioned some memory problems.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. In reference to something else, but still.”
“Ah,” he says.
“Anyway, the latest piece of the puzzle led us to you: apparently your company manages her assets. Her name is Ethel Streeter. We’re just trying to get some kind of contact info for her.”
“Streeter, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s a fairly new client. Just started with them last month.” He narrows his eyes, clasps his hands over his midsection, and looks between Zan and me. Sighs and leans forward.
Ah, crap.
“Now, Rico, you know you’re my favorite….”
Crap, crap, crap!
“I’ve been working with the Macklins since before this guy was even born, so good move bringing him here with you.”
Here goes…
“But I can’t actually give out client information.”
Even knowing that was coming, I deflate like a machete-poked bouncy castle.
But then…
“However. If one or both of you happened to slip over into the third drawer of that file cabinet in the corner and take a peek at the first page only of the file marked Streeter while in possession of a Post-it and ink pen while my back is turned…Well, there’s not a whole lot I could do about that, is there?” He rotates his chair away from us to face the window.
Now I look at Zan. And he’s looking at me. Neither of us moves.
After a few seconds, Mr. Dover goes, “Man, isn’t it a lovely day? In about one minute, I’m gonna turn back around and finish my work so I can get out of here.”
Zan and I both leap into action: he rushes over to the cabinet while I grab a stack of Post-its and a pen from Mr. Dover’s desk. By the time he gets the file out and open, I’m standing next to him, ready to write.
As he whispers the address and phone number of Bartholomew and Ethel Streeter, I scribble as fast as I can. Then he shuts the folder, jams it back into the drawer, and pushes it closed while I shove the Post-it into my pocket (jackpot!), and we fly back to our chairs and drop down into them just as Mr. Dover rotates back around.
It’s a little ridiculous, but I can’t stop smiling.
* * *
—
I smile on the way down in the elevator.
I smile out the door.
I smile as I take Zan’s hand and climb into the Jeep.
He’s in. Door closed. Car cranked. I’m still smiling.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the other ticket, Rico?”
Smile’s gone.
“It wasn’t important, Zan.”
He doesn’t respond.
So I go on. “What is important is this Post-it in my pocket. We got Ethel’s contact info!” I smile as I say this, but his face is stone-times-infinity.
“We.” He snorts. “You mean you. I might as well have not even come.”
What is he, nine? “What crawled up your ass?”
“I mean, for one, we get to Mr. D’s office
, and you act like I’m not even there.”
“And for two?”
“For two, it seems like ever since that day we—” He stops. Shakes his head. “You know what? Forget it.”
And for a moment, that’s all.
But then he sighs. Like tractor-tire heavily.
Which makes me nervous.
God, this is ridiculous.
I cross my arms and stare out the window. “Is there a for three?”
A beat, and then: “Kinda bummed that you were withholding information.”
“That doesn’t count as information, Zan!”
“Yeah, well, it would’ve been good to know.”
Now I snort. “I can think of a couple things you haven’t told me that would’ve been ‘good to know,’ ” I say. “You don’t see my panties in a wad over it.” Whoops!
Guess the lid’s off.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what? Don’t even worry about it. As you made abundantly clear to your whole family, I’m not your girlfriend. Though I am good enough to be your baby mama, and depending on who you ask, that’s better than nothing. Can we go now?”
“You’re not my—” He shakes his head like some stuff inside it has been knocked out of place. “What does any of that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing, Macklin. Forget it.” Please forget it and forget this whole hunt too. Forget you even know me.
“No, I’m not gonna ‘forget it.’ You’re the one who just told Mr. D we’re not dating—”
“We aren’t.”
“So what’s the problem?”
Well, that hurts way more than I would’ve expected. Worst part is I don’t fully get why. This has all been so confusing.
All I know is there are tears on my cheeks before I feel the pricks at the corners of my eyes.
Glad I’m the one with Ethel’s info.
“Can you take me home now, please? I gotta get Jax from the babysitter’s.”
No response. So I turn to make sure he heard me.
“You’re crying,” he says.
No shit, Sherlock. “I’ll survive. You wouldn’t know, but being ‘too broke to pay attention,’ as my mother likes to say, makes you tough.”
