Eluding Fate

by Delilah Mohan

  It was customary to hit the grocery store after a trip to visit my parents, to stock up on ice cream for a night of wallowing in my own self-pity. I should be ashamed that my actions consisted of the same woeful routine each month, but I wasn't. I learned a long time ago that you have to do whatever it is that gets you through the day, the week, each moment that challenges your strength.

  Halfway through the ice cream aisle, my hand basket weighted down by various pints, I got a text from Raylee reminding me it was taco night. As much as I appreciated our weekend meals together, I wished I had remembered to cancel this weekend. It sort of put a damper on my wallowing, but I supposed the moment she left, I could enjoy a little moment of silence.

  I strolled through the ethnic food aisle, grabbing some taco shells, seasoning, and a jar of salsa, before hitting up the meat case and the produce department for the remaining ingredients. When I finally made it to the checkout lane, the lines were long and my patience short. I tried to not huff out my frustrations because I knew it wasn’t the cashier’s fault the person in front of me needed a price check on a can of carrots, or the person in front of her decided to send the bagger to get five more cartons of eggs since they were on an “amazing special”. But, I also just wanted to get home, throw on a pair of sweats, and just be.

  After my time finally came to cash out, I did so swiftly. There was no use delaying a whole line because I couldn’t get my life together and remember the sour cream. I parked my car close to five o’clock, meaning that my plans to relax solo before the bestie came weren’t going to happen. After arriving in the lobby, gathering my mail, and hopping into the elevator, I examined my mail while I waited for the elevator to ding, alerting me of my arrival on the seventh floor.

  “Apartment seven forty-seven,” I mumbled to myself as I pulled out a piece of mail addressed to the residence of my neighboring apartment. The anti-social introvert in me begged me to drop it in front of the door, back away slowly, and pretend I never touched the envelope, but the extremely curious . . . okay, nosey . . . the extremely nosey part of me wanted to get a glimpse of the ghost of people who had been my neighbors for a few weeks without a peep, after dealing with weeks of construction that caused me to lose hours of sleep.

  Ultimately, my curiosity won out, which was why I found myself knocking on my neighbors’ door, awkwardly balancing my mail and grocery bags. It took two knocks before I heard any movement from within the apartment; footsteps coming from the back, working their way toward the door. The sound of the deadbolt tumbling echoed through the quiet hallway, and I had the urge to step back, giving me distance from the door in case I’d just woken a secret serial killer in search of his next victim.

  I was close, pretty damn close, because the moment the solid door was pulled back, and my brain processed what I was seeing, I was frozen. Out of all the crazy scenarios I had concocted in my head about my new, invisible, neighbors, I never once imagined it would be him. But, there he stood, wearing nothing but a towel tied around his waist, his dark hair dripping water trails that skid down his neck, past his pecks, and down through the valley of his abs.

  I tried not to let my eyes follow the drops as my hoarse voice stuttered out, “I got some of your mail.”

  He reached for the envelope in my outstretched hand. “You live here, too?” he asked, completely oblivious to the fact that he was pretty much naked. Which wasn’t a problem so much, because I wasn’t attracted to him, it was just uncomfortable with him being locally famous and me being well… me. Frumpy, curvy, slightly messy … me.

  My hand pointed to the door next to his and his lips quirked into a half smile. “Well, what are the odds?” he asked me. It was a rhetorical question, not meant to be answered, but that didn’t stop me from trying to awkwardly fill the silence.

  “A million to one,” I timidly offered as I shuffled toward my own door, taking an extra step or two. I cleared my throat a little bit, “So hey, I would say it’s nice meeting you, but I think that’s only for people who haven’t been intruding on your workspace a few times a week. So, have a nice evening,” I offered him, still creeping my way to the right.

  He laughed, a rich, smooth sound that seemed out of place coming from someone who had such a severity about him. “I don’t think you mind the intrusion. You haven’t rejected my offerings of muffins and coffee, yet.”

  I shrugged, a shrug that apparently had a force beyond my control because at the exact moment my shoulders hit their high, the bottom of the grocery bag broke, rolling my month supply of ice cream, which I fully intended to only last this week, onto the floor and into Spencer’s feet. If it wasn’t enough that fit, muscled Spencer was standing there in his towel, now the universe decided to advertise my unhealthy weaknesses right in front of him, waving them in his face so that he couldn’t miss what an unmatched pair we were.

  I felt my cheeks heat as he bent down, one hand clenching at the knot on his towel, as he picked up my carton of ice cream. Carefully reading the label, he looked up at me and held it out. “Cookie dough is my favorite, too.”

  I grabbed the ice cream he offered and picked up the other four pints on the floor around me. Avoiding his eyes, I shoved them into my unbroken bag. “Well, you enjoy your evening!” I told him. Not waiting for a reply, I hastily shoved my key into my apartment door and once inside, slammed it rapidly behind me.

  Chapter Ten

  SPENCER

  “Victoria. Get. Out. Of. The. Car,” I ground out, grinding my back molars together.

  “No.” Her chin was jutted out at a defiant angle while her arms were crossed stubbornly in front of her. She didn’t get it, she wanted to stay home all weekend, but I needed some me time. Two weekends a month, that’s all I got, and she was wasting it arguing with me, knowing damn well she had no choice.

  I reached over her body, unbuckling her seatbelt before grabbing her waist and throwing her over my shoulder. Once, when she was five, she had begged me to carry her like this, but now, at twelve, you would think I was a murderer with the way she was screaming. I skipped up the wooden steps of my mother’s porch and deposited her next to the front door, before hopping back down the steps so I could retrieve her duffle bag.

  When I approached the front door again, my mother was already standing there, wearing a frown upon her face. “What?”

  “Did you really have to make her scream like that?” she asked me disapprovingly.

  “I didn’t make her do anything. She chose not to leave the car, she chose to force me to carry her, and she chose to scream so loud the whole neighborhood would think I was chasing her down with a pickaxe.”

  “You know damn well that you could have approached the situation differently.” My mother’s glare shot daggers at me.

  “I don’t have time for her games today, mother. I have an appointment,” I explained.

  Her eyes rolled. “Always with your appointments. Come, dear, come have some cake.” She wrapped an arm around Victoria, ushering her into the house, coddling her, and it made me angry. It was always my fault as if I had asked to be in this position, raising an almost teenager when I had no experience. I wasn’t prepared for this; I didn’t think I was ever intended to be a father, and I was failing. I was failing so incredibly bad at it. Was it wrong that I resented Victoria a little bit for taking away everything that once defined me; my bachelorhood, my freedom, my space? Regardless, I loved her. It was a completely one-sided affection. Every single thing wrong in this world, she saw as a hundred percent my fault, and despite the unfair accusations that I was always assaulted with, I did it all because . . . I loved her.

  But loving her didn’t mean I didn’t need my space occasionally which was why it was two minutes past two and I was two minutes late in meeting Belen. I parked my car in her driveway, as usual, and after popping a mint, I exited and walked the short distance up her walkway to her door. She answered moments after my knock, no doubt waiting for me.

  “Right on time.” She smiled a
t me, her perfectly polished teeth shining brightly.

  I thought it would make me seem like an asshole if I pointed out that she was incorrect; I was actually four minutes late thanks to Victoria’s childish tantrum. So instead, I gave her my charming grin, the one that drove the ladies wild and told her, “I’d never miss an appointment with you.”

  She made a purring sound in her throat, something feral and if it weren’t just sex, I would admit it was unattractive. But, I was here for sex, an hour to release my pent-up tension on my own time. Because that’s what my every other weekend without Victoria was, my own time. Maybe scheduling a hook up every two weeks made Belen feel like a prostitute, maybe she liked to feel that way for some sort of crazy roll play, hell, I didn’t know. But, we were friends, and as friends, we had a mutual friend with benefits agreement. Every two weeks, two, rain or shine, I scratched her back, and she scratched mine, so to speak.

  Belen’s long red nails reached out and scratched against my cheek. She was trying to be seductive, and I wanted to cringe, the feel of her fake nails completely unnatural against my face. “Are you coming inside?” she asked me, and for the first time since we started this arrangement, almost a year before, I had to think about it. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about this time felt off.

  She was beautiful, that was undeniable, but I suddenly didn’t want this. I didn’t want some crazy arrangement just to get laid. I didn’t want to have to fight a twelve-year-old just to have sex once every two weeks. I wanted something real, something tangible. Something mine. Instead, I pushed all my wants aside, knowing how ridiculous it would be to crave something I couldn’t have, at least not with Victoria in my life and my own quirks holding me back.

  I gave Belen a nod, and her fingers traveled down the buttons of my shirt, stopping as they reached my belt buckle where she latched on and yanked my body forward. She pulled me down the hall, shooting sly smiles at me over her shoulder and causing a rock to form in my stomach. I didn’t want this, not anymore. But, what I wanted no longer mattered. As we entered her room, her dress dropped to the floor, and I forced my mind to go blank.

  It was quick, over in less than an hour. My choice, not hers. “So, I’ll see you in two weeks, two o’clock?” she questioned me. The moment we were done, I had jumped out of her bed, searching for my pants.

  I glanced over at her, her cream sheet barely covering her breasts, and I knew she should excite me, but suddenly this whole situation just felt wrong and dirty. “I don’t think I can make it, I’ll call you.”

  “What do you mean you don’t think you can make it? You’ve never broken a date before.” I laced my shoes, avoiding looking at her, knowing her eyes were drilling holes into my back.

  “I just don’t know if I can make it, Belen. That’s all. Don’t make it into a whole dramatic production,” I tossed over to her.

  I heard her body go limp and fall in a heavy thud against the mattress. Her voice came out in a desperate whine, and I’m sure if I took the time to look at her, her lip would be sticking out in a pout. “Can I call you?”

  “When have you ever bothered to call me before? I said I would call you, I meant it.” My response sounded short, and maybe it was, but I didn’t schedule time for her to suddenly become clingy.

  The bed sheets made a rustling sound with her movement, her body came up behind mine so she could trace my spine and back muscles with her finger. “You’re such a grouch today, more than usual. You sure you don’t want another round? It might loosen you up a little bit.” She peppered kisses on my shoulder and neck, and it was intimate, but that’s not what we did here, we didn’t do intimate. We didn’t do loving or tender.

  I pulled away, stood, and reached for my shirt. Putting it on, I began working the buttons, figuring my actions had to speak louder than the words she refused to listen to. She watched in awe, completely confused as to why I would turn down another round of sex, but she didn’t get it. She didn’t understand what I was trying to tell her, or maybe she did, and that’s why she was confused. This wasn’t working for me any longer. I wanted a break from this no-strings-attached arrangement. I’d call if I changed my mind.

  It was three thirty exactly when I left her sitting on the bed, clutching the sheets to her chest with a look of total betrayal on her face. That wasn’t my fault; she got attached, I didn’t. What she expected from me was greater than I was willing to give, and although I should’ve felt guilty for leaving her that way, I didn’t feel any guilt. In fact, I felt nothing. Blank. Hollow.

  I went directly to the gym to try to work off some of my frustrations, run off my feelings of indifference, and just try to forget. I needed this workout to empty my mind, let the burn of my muscles consume disturbances that seemed to have taken up permanent residence within my head, and in general, ground me to the reality of my life. Every lonely, confused, second of the day . . . this was my life.

  I parked my car at four eighteen, which meant I had exactly twelve minutes to get home if I wanted to make my scheduled shower at four thirty, and I needed that shower. I smelled of sweat, sex, and some sort of floral perfume that clung to my skin and made me a little nauseous. Despite it, I took my time going upstairs, knowing that every other Saturday was one of the rare times when I had nothing pressing scheduled. An evening waiting for me to just be me.

  The scorching water felt like heaven against my skin. So heavenly, in fact, that when there was a knock at the door, I almost missed it. I turned off the water, leaning my palms against the wet tiles as I listened again. Sure enough, a few moments later, another knock echoed through my apartment. I grabbed a towel off the bar next to the shower, wrapped it around my waist, and then paddled through my bedroom, down the hall, and to the front door, where I pulled it open forcefully.

  She was there. Maroon Sinclair. Looking at me like she had seen a ghost and most definitely preparing to bolt at any moment, while simultaneously keeping her arms outstretched with an envelope in hand.

  “I got some of your mail.” She pretty much stated the obvious since she was holding out an envelope with my apartment number on it. It wasn’t important, probably nothing more than a sweepstakes notice, but she was still kind enough to deliver it.

  “You live here, too?” I asked, but she didn’t respond, only pointed at the door directly next to mine. “Well, what are the odds?”

  It was rhetorical, obviously. I think she knew that, but she still answered, “A million to one.” She practically whispered before her voice gained strength and she said, “So hey, I would say it’s nice meeting you, but I think that’s only for people who haven’t been intruding on your workspace a few times a week. So, have a nice evening.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at that since she didn’t seem to object when I joined her for our coffee any longer. “I don’t think you mind the intrusion. You haven’t rejected my offerings of muffins and coffee yet.”

  She shrugged her shoulders at that, and that’s when her flimsy plastic grocery bags decided it would be the perfect moment to break. Her array of ice cream clunked onto the floor, rolling every which way, one directly toward me, stopping at my feet.

  I grabbed the knot on my towel, unwilling to have a wardrobe malfunction in my apartment’s hallway, as I bent down to pick up the pint of ice cream at my feet. Turning the carton around in my hand I read the label. “Cookie dough is my favorite, too,” I offered, trying to make her feel more comfortable, but apparently failing because she gathered up her fallen goods and practically sprinted for her door.

  “Well, you enjoy your evening.” She jammed her key into the door, opened it and had it slammed behind her before I could get a word out. I stood, staring at her door a solid two minutes, completely unsure what just happened but also enjoying this new piece of information about my new neighbor.

  I slammed my door shut and hurried to my bedroom. Pulling open the drawer to my dresser, I took out some sweatpants and a solid white shirt, throwing them on. I then shuff
led my way back to my living room in search of the remote. Television, I needed television to get the thoughts that churned in my mind to ease. Mari. My neighbor?

  It worked, television was the exact distraction I needed. Well, that was until Mari started cooking next door and the sharp scent of cumin and lime started seeping into my apartment through shared vents. Uncontrollably, my mouth watered and my stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I got up and went rummaging through my fridge, searching for anything edible that wasn’t leftover Chinese, questionable sour cream, or expired eggs; I came up short.

  I had only two plausible decisions I could make at this point: order in or crash Mari’s dinner. The constant ordering in had gotten old years ago though, and the thought of a warm home-cooked meal literally had me drooling. So, I put on some shoes, grabbed my keys, locked up . . . and five steps later I was pounding on Mari’s door, preparing to shut down all her rejections and put forth my best charm just to have some of her cooking.

  Her weird friend, the one that looked at me like I was a Popsicle on a hot summer day, answered the door. “Oh! Hey. Spencer, right?” I didn’t really know the angle she was going for, but I did know she already knew my name. She smiled at me, and she was quite a beautiful girl, just not the type of girl I was looking for if of course, I was actively looking for a girl. She looked over her shoulder at her friend and shouted, “Mari, look who’s here. It’s Spencer.”

  She opened the door wider, gesturing for me to come in and I gladly did so. Mari was in her kitchen cooking, visible from the open cut out where the bar counter was located. She didn’t look up when I came in, and by the tense set of her shoulders, I suspected that might have been intentional.