by Olivia Miles
Mary blinked as the smile slipped from her face. Careful not to overreact, she swallowed and said, “End of the hall.”
Maybe he’ll want a sundae when he returns, she told herself, as he disappeared through the door. What kid can resist ice cream?
Outside the wind howled, forcing the door open a few inches. Mary frowned. Who couldn’t resist ice cream in weather like this?
Moments later, she heard the flush of a toilet, the running of water. Quickly, she tried to look busy by straightening some glass sundae bowls.
“Thanks,” the kid muttered, his shoulders hunched as he beelined for the door.
Mary tried to hide the swell of disappointment that was building in her chest. “Anytime,” she lied. She had a strict policy about this type of thing, usually. Desperately, she grabbed a coupon from the top drawer near the cash register and waved it with forced cheer. “Buy one cone, get half off the second.”
The kid hesitated at the door and then, with great reluctance, reached out a hand for the small slip of paper Mary had designed and printed herself, one equally quiet day a few weeks ago. She kept the smile frozen to her face until he had left, telling herself surely he’d hold on to it, come back with a friend, spread the word around school, until she spotted him dropping her cute little handmade coupon into the overflowing bin on the corner across the street.
Well! Mary counted to ten and talked herself out of marching across the snowy crosswalk, reaching into the trash, and salvaging her hard work. Instead, she plucked a fresh spoon from the canister and indulged in a hefty scoop of cookie dough—without the ice cream. Because yes, it was freezing outside, the wind was picking up, and the hair on her arms was still on end from the icy blast that had ripped through the door when that ungrateful coupon tosser had left.
Mary rubbed her arms, pressing her wool sweater a little closer to her skin. She hated to turn up the heat—just thinking of those bills made her stomach heave—but she couldn’t stand it much longer.
With a glance at the clock, and a silent promise to herself that it was okay to turn the sign a little early tonight, what with a borderline blizzard and all, she wandered to the back storage room to check the thermostat.
Her step slowed as she detected the sound of running water, and, pinching her lips, she marched to the bathroom, cursing under her breath when she thought of how quick that boy was to dismiss her efforts, how nice she had been to break her own policy and let him use the facilities, and flicked the light switch. The room was still, the sink off, and with a sudden pounding of her heart, Mary pivoted on her heel and stared with growing dread at the storeroom door, where, God help her, a trickle of water was seeping through the crack at the base.
She crossed the hall and flung open the door, her mouth gaping as her gaze shot up to the ceiling where water had formed a large brown stain on the freshly painted surface. A thick, icy drop hit her square in the eye, and she brushed it away quickly, her eyes dropping to scan the shallow puddle she was standing in, and the soggy, industrial-sized bags of sugar and chocolate chips that she kept back here. Another drop hit her on top of her head, and, when she looked up again, her cheek, and that’s when she decided her optimism had officially expired for the day.
Mary balled her fists and screamed. She screamed because she could. Because there was no one around to hear her. Because she’d been holding her frustration inside since the first of the year, when her Santa Sundae had officially stopped luring customers and spring was still nearly three months away. It had been festering and bubbling and building inside her and now, now just weeks before the final arrival of spring, there was a damn blizzard, and now she finally had a real reason to just let it all out. She screamed again, and then, realizing how good it felt, screamed a little louder. She could have screamed all day, except for the fact that every second she spent doing that, the big, rusty, scary patch on the ceiling grew a little bigger.
She thought fast. She had to turn off the water. When the contractors were here last summer helping her spruce up the place, they’d shown her how to do that. Of course, she hadn’t really bothered to pay much attention to the boring stuff, not when her mind was racing with new ideas for the menu, and struggling to decide between fourteen different shades of pastel-colored paint for the bathroom . . .
She sloshed to the utility room door at the back of the storage room and began frantically looking for something that would jog her memory. There were all sorts of knobs and switches. One did look a bit familiar . . .She blinked, hovering her hand just above it, and then, deciding she didn’t have much of a choice, gave it a good hard turn.
Okay, so the place hadn’t blown up. That was a good sign.
What wasn’t a good sign, she realized when she scurried back into the storage room, was that the water continued to drip.
Deciding not to let herself think about what she might have just turned off, she bit her lip, said a silent prayer, and cranked the handle in the opposite direction, back in place.
Still no explosion. She blew out a sigh. See, she could handle this.
Except that she still didn’t know where the water shutoff valve was. Yes, that’s what it was called. A water shutoff valve.
She stopped. Told herself to calm herself down, and tried to focus. It was no use.
Reaching into her back pocket for her phone, her finger paused over the digits. You didn’t exactly call emergency for this type of thing, did you? The contractors didn’t answer her calls even when they were being paid a pretty sum by the hour.
It was times like this when she wished she still had a dad. Or a grandfather. Or a boyfriend . . .
She thought of Jason, and his perfectly random text message he’d been planning for God knew how long, timed on a day she’d been looking so forward to. Then she thought of the carefully wrapped present she’d already purchased for Valentine’s Day, even if she had been getting a bit ahead of herself, which was now resting neatly at the bottom of her garbage chute.
She didn’t need a man. Not to hold her at night. Not to tell her how to shut off a damn water valve.
She could do this. She set a hand on her hip, thought long and hard, studied another knob for a few minutes, and, finally, turned it.
Within a few minutes the water had stopped dripping, and in less than an hour she had managed to mop most of the puddle from the floor. Two urgent voice mails to the contractor later, and not a customer in sight, Mary decided that it was officially time to call it a day.
***
He’d done it again. Ben Sullivan shook his head and muttered under his breath as he fished his transit card from his wallet and turned back to the “L” station, his steps feeling heavy as he climbed once more to the platform opposite the one he’d just exited.
He turned his coat collar to the wind and craned his neck down the dark tracks, frowning at the lack of headlights in the distance. He should be home by now. Home in the house he and Dana had moved into eight years ago, the one with the kitchen he’d personally designed and installed, the one with the sunroom addition he’d built four years ago. The one with his daughter sleeping upstairs.
Instead, he was in for another long night in front of the television, with a frozen pizza and an ice cold beer while the nanny put his daughter to bed, and his ex-wife focused on the real love of her life: her job. He squinted into the distance, through the heavily falling snow, past the restaurants and bars and buildings he had memorized over time, thinking of how close the house was, and how inconceivable it was that he didn’t live there anymore, and never would again. That an entire part of his life was now just a chapter, closed and shelved, distant and murky, and almost impossible to believe had ever once been real.
Ben jammed his hands into his pockets and turned back to the tracks, straightening when he noticed the lights appear in the distance. The train slid to a stop, its doors opening in front of him, and he stepped into the brightly lit compartment once more, eager to get away from his past and back to his new real
ity. The one he was still struggling to accept, even if he knew it was for the best.
When they’d first separated, Ben had assumed the apartment he’d rented would be temporary. It was small, but with a second bedroom for Violet on the nights she stayed with him, an efficient enough kitchen, given that he didn’t cook, a close walk to the train, and a carefully calculated three stops from his then soon to be ex—just far enough so he didn’t have to worry about running into her; just close enough so he could easily pick up his daughter on his scheduled nights and weekends. He’d assumed that by the time the divorce was finalized, he’d be back on his feet, establishing roots again, hell, maybe even dating.
So much for that.
And as for the apartment . . . Somehow he just hadn’t dragged himself to look for something better, and the longer he stayed in it, the easier it was just to go with the flow instead of pushing for something more. After all, that’s how he’d ended up in this mess, wasn’t it? By pushing for something more? His sister told him his complacency was due to the fact that he was secretly hoping he would get back together with Dana, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. It was more that he still couldn’t believe his life had come to this, and picking up the pieces, starting over properly, meant accepting that it had.
The wind raced through the warm train car when the doors opened again, and Ben hurried the four blocks to the tall brownstone building that still felt foreign and strange, more like a temporary hotel room than an established residence. He collected the mail and jogged up the steps to the third-floor landing, keeping his head bent and his eyes forward. His sister had thoughts on this, too. Claimed he was becoming a hermit. Said at thirty-three he was too young to close himself off to the world. Maybe he was. But he just wasn’t ready to let anyone back in just yet.
He reached the top floor and quickly slid his key in the lock, eager to close the door behind him and tune out the world for a bit, but a sudden noise made his hand still. He paused, waiting to see if he’d just imagined it, but there it was again, only louder this time, as distinct as the freckle next to his left eye. A woman was crying. No, not crying. Wailing. A woman was wailing. And it wasn’t just any woman. It was his neighbor. The neighbor he had been dutifully avoiding since she moved into the building two months ago and dared to toss him that big, friendly smile and say hello. He’d all but frozen on the word, grunted something of a response, and vowed to keep his distance going forward. A girl like her would have made him cross a crowded room back in his single days. But he’d changed since then. A bad marriage could do that to you.
Ben cursed under his breath and hurried with his key as the sound of a nose blowing filled the small hallway. But damn it, he wasn’t quick enough. From behind him he could hear the turning of the locks over a few determined sniffles, and then a voice, small and sweet, saying, “Excuse me?”
Ben closed his eyes. He’d seen the sign on the stairwell door. The petition for a proper recycling program for the building—no doubt she’d want to talk to him about it, ask why he hadn’t signed it yet, if he perhaps didn’t believe in recycling.
Since moving into the building, the girl across the hall was full of perky ideas for improvement. There had been the suggestion of the community garden on that back patch of dirt one might call a yard, an initiative for a “spruced up” laundry room in that cave of a basement, and the call for “beautifying” the front entryway, whatever that meant. And who could forget the invitation to an ice cream social to “get to know your neighbor.” When one sign came down, another went up. Next thing, she’d probably be suggesting a progressive dinner! Just another reason he’d been sure to avoid her.
He turned, raising what he hoped to be a polite but not entirely interested eyebrow and stared flatly at the girl across the hall. She was a several years younger than him, probably in her mid to late twenties, and she was pretty, not that it mattered. He had to admit he was slightly curious to discover that little miss sunshine had actually been crying, but he resisted the urge to ask the reason. It wasn’t his business, and he knew from experience that when things were rough, it was better to be left alone.
Her big brown eyes were puffy, swollen, and red rimmed. He swallowed, suddenly feeling like a jerk. In all the time they’d share the third floor, he’d barely spoken to her, and that was only in response to her initiation. He didn’t even know her name. Giving her a name would be making her real, making her someone he’d have to acknowledge, chat with about the weather—and all that would make it entirely too difficult to overlook the way her auburn hair bounced at her shoulders and her pink lips pouted when she stood at the mailbox, inspecting the day’s letters.
Only right now that hair was sort of standing on end, half pulled back in a messy ponytail, the rest frizzing out in every direction. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright and watery, and damn it if that didn’t make her even more attractive.
“I was down near the mailboxes today, and I noticed—”
He held up a hand. “Look, I know this recycling thing is important to you, but it seems to me that you have all the signatures you need. I have a lot on my plate right now, and while I support the cause, I just don’t have time to pitch in with all these little building initiatives.”
The girl’s eyes flashed in surprise and then narrowed a fraction. “That isn’t the reason I wanted to speak to you, actually, but now that you mention it, thank you for letting me know. I’ll be sure to include a note on my next little building initiative that it pertains to everyone but you.” Her nostrils flared slightly as she crossed her arms over her chest.
Ben dragged out a sigh. He suddenly missed Bonnie terribly. Bonnie, the fifty-some-year-old woman who had lived across the hall for years before he’d come along, who was content to wave a simple greeting, who needed nothing more from this world than her tabby cat and her boxed wine. Bonnie didn’t knock on his door. Or create petitions. Bonnie might not have been beautiful, as her replacement was, but oh, she had been the ideal neighbor.
He suddenly wondered what had happened to Bonnie, and shame bit at him when he realized he hadn’t even said a proper good-bye.
Maybe his sister was right. Maybe his life was unraveling.
“Look, I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant that I—”
Now it was her turn to hold up her hand, even if it did clutch a balled up and soggy-looking tissue. “I know, I know. Don’t worry. I’m not here to harass you into being neighborly. I wanted to let you know that I received some mail for you. At least, I think it’s for you. It has your apartment number on it, but it’s addressed to someone named Violet.” She tipped her head in question, and Ben felt his body stiffen in defense.
“Yes, that’s for me, then. I mean, for Violet.”
The girl’s eyebrows pinched slightly. “I don’t know why I thought you lived alone. But then, I just moved in and I’m rarely here on evenings and weekends.”
And when you are here, you’re busy making petitions, Ben thought to himself.
The girl disappeared behind the door for a minute and came back with a small box in her hands. It was the necklace he had ordered for Violet’s birthday. “Thank you,” he said gratefully.
“Well, that’s what neighbors are for,” the girl said, and with a purse of her lips, began closing her door.
“Wait,” Ben said, and then clamped his mouth shut, cursing himself. He knew the type. Outgoing. Happy. Fun. Eager to be involved, to rally people together. She was looking for some big happy family, and he . . .well, he’d had that. Lost it. “Is . . .everything okay?”
Well, now he’d done it. Gone and done the right thing. Next thing he knew she’d be stopping by to borrow sugar, not that he had any.
She blinked at him a few times, her cheeks reddening. “It’s just . . .It’s been a bad day.” She gave a watery smile.
Ben gave a small grin. “I’ve had a few of those myself,” he admitted.
Her smile was a little easier. “I’m Mary, by the way.”
<
br /> “Ben,” he said, but she was already nodding.
“I know.”
Of course she did. She’d swept into the building with an eager smile, full of cheerful hellos and good-nights, a friend to everyone from the garden level up through the second floor within a week. Alarm bells started to ring in his head. Time to leave, Ben. Time to go. End this politely, step inside your apartment, and shut the door behind you. And lock it. “Well, good night, then. And thank you.”
“As I said. That’s what neighbors are for.” She smiled, a sight so sweet, with those full pink lips and rosy cheeks and bright eyes that he felt himself waver.
Ben clutched the box tighter in his hand, thinking of his daughter, the tears in her eyes when he’d moved out, and tightened his resolve. There were lots of pretty girls in this city. Didn’t mean he was looking.
He only needed one girl in his life from now on. And she was five years old.
***
Could this day get any worse? Mary stared at her reflection in her bathroom mirror and watched as another tear slipped down her mascara-stained cheek.
Nope, she decided. It couldn’t.
Had she known that she looked like something out of, well, a horror movie, she might have thought twice about opening the door and handing over the package to her oh so hot and oh so aloof next-door neighbor. Here she’d convinced herself that her cheeks were probably just nicely flushed from crying, and it hadn’t felt right to withhold the package, especially when she rarely crossed paths with the man and didn’t know when she would again. She didn’t like the idea of knocking on his door—he hadn’t been very receptive the first time she’d done that, giving her a long, borderline menacing stare that made her heart speed up and her words stumble, when all she’d been hoping to ask him for was the code to the storage locker in the basement—and not knowing the contents of the package, it didn’t seem responsible to leave it on his doormat.
So instead she’d done the right thing. And made a complete fool of herself in the process.
