"Can you grab me a screwdriver?"
"I don't have one."
"Under your sink," he says. Like magic, I retrieve it, slapping it into his waiting palm with a smile as he winces.
When he's finished, the mirror stands on its pedestal in the corner and it's better than the first one. The frame is carved and gorgeous. Aidan wipes the glass clean with his elbow. He stands back, suddenly grabbing my wrist and pulling me to him. We stare at our reflection and he bumps my shoulder with his.
"I think we can be friends, can't we, Lydia?" he says.
"Sure," I say, but as he moves away, I want to drag him back. I want to push him onto my bed, pull the mirror to the edge, and have him watch the hundred or so things I'd like to do to him.
Instead, he leaves, and I go to my cupboard for a drink, but my cupboard is bare. Four days of moping will do that.
Thanks again, George.
Since the liquor won't come to me, the only thing I can do is go to it. I open my closet and begin the selection. It's at least a little easier to be dressed properly now.
<<<<>>>>
Three hours later, I step into the hall and lock my front door behind me just as Aidan's swings open. A woman's laughter wafts into the hall from his open door and I feel a tinge of something I refuse to acknowledge. I remind myself that I am perfectly dressed and ready to snag a dozen men as I put up my chin and walk down the hall, past Aidan's place.
"Lydia!" His voice is deep and unmistakable as he calls to me. An older man exits the apartment, brushing past me with a smile and a wave over his shoulder as people from inside shout goodbyes. Two brunettes are bookends for a guy parked on the middle cushion of Aidan's couch and another guy is standing beside the kitchen bar, dipping into a bowl of chips. Aidan is perched on the arm of his recliner beside a blond, but he still motions for me to come inside.
"I'm just on my way out," I say, pointing down the hall. Comfy little gatherings like this, without any blaring music, swirling lights, or bartenders, just aren't my thing.
"Come on in and say hello first," the man on Aidan's couch shouts. He also smiles at me, while the dark-haired girl beside him eyes me with a lot less enthusiasm. The second brunette on the furthest cushion, cranes to see me.
"Is that your neighbor, Aidan?" She raises her fingers and visually air-quotes neighbor. "Make her come in!"
Make her? The small grin on my lips thickens like old Jell-O, but the younger, perkier brunette jumps off the couch and scurries toward me.
"This is perfect! I'm Ila, Aidan's sister. Come on in! We've heard all sorts of things about you!" She's as toothy as a sorority sister and all I can do is gape at her. What has Aidan told these people? That I hid in his apartment while George busted up my place? That I'm married to an asshole? That I'm the slut who lives next door?
"You must be thinking of someone else," I hardly get the words out before Ila is dragging me into Aidan's apartment. Dragging. "We're just neighb..."
"You're Lydia, aren't you?" a man says behind me.
I swing toward my name and spot the owner of the voice, the man in the chips at the counter. He's a cross between up-tight (ironed khakis) and punk rock (short, shaggy hair) and when the lemon-faced brunette jumps off the couch and goes to his side, he slides an arm around her waist. Retired Punk Rock has a tight smile, as if his girlfriend has a Jedi vice-grip on his balls.
"Do I know you?" I ask, hoping it's safe to own up to my name, since he hasn't slipped his hand off of his girlfriend's waist. All I'm thinking is, please say you're a waiter or a bank teller or a stripper at a bachelorette party...anything really, besides 'I've seen your vagina.' Please. My track record has shown that it is rarely a good thing for a man to admit to knowing me, especially while he's holding another woman, and it's crazy how many men just don't get that.
"You should, but I guess Aidan's admiration only goes in one direction. He's told us all about you." Punk Rock laughs and his brunette cracks a bitchy little smile. Ah yes, she hates me. I'm just a little floored that Aidan's been talking about me enough that they'd want to meet me. I'm not sure what to think of that. Flattered? Embarrassed? Stalked?
Punk Rock puts out his hand. "I'm Shane."
All I can do is blink like the village idiot.
"Shane?" I say. Oh no. My-belly-button-tastes-like-a-Mojito Shane? That Shane? Oh crap. He's seen my Who. The Whoberry. The tropical Whoflower in my pants.
I glance at the brunette girlfriend. She catches it and I watch as my shock and hesitation disintegrates her smile like dandelion fluff in a breeze. She steps away from him.
"You know each other?" The dimples in her smile tighten down like bolts in her cheeks. "How?"
"It seems like it, from all of Aidan's stories," Shane says, still sporting the dopey grin. He's looking at me, not her. He should be looking at her. Jeezus. And he should wipe the stupid smile off, before we both kill him. Instead, he just takes in my attire with politely raised eyebrows. "Do you bartend, Lydia?"
"No," I say, "I just tend to hang at the bar."
"Ohhh, you're on your way to the bar," Ila says, her tone cresting as if it was a mystery I just solved instead of a simple answer. Her eyes cut to Aidan.
I don't know why--except that Aidan's my neighbor--but I get this sudden burst of possessiveness, like the proximity of our apartments makes him more mine than any of theirs. Holy shit. I've got to shake that off. He's just a dude that lives next door to me.
That I kind of want to bang.
But won't.
Maybe.
"You're not hanging at the bar, are you, Aidan?" the guy next to her says. My ears perk. The mood in the room suddenly slants toward something like an intervention. What the hell? I don't care what they think of me, but I am a little offended that everyone in the room is throwing their parental controls on my neighbor.
Who belongs to me.
Who I will not bang.
Probably.
Aidan ignores the guy's question, taking me in from head to toe instead. "I like your shoes."
I slant my foot to show off the gunmetal-gray pumps, but mostly the translucent spike of the heel.
"I usually hate gray, but..."
"They look good on you."
"I used to have a pair like those. Bar shoes," Shane's girlfriend says. She air-quotes bar shoes separately. Whoa. Whatever they think they're looking at, it's definitely not me.
I turn back to Aidan. "You can come along if you like."
I hope he'll say yes just to piss them all off. I try to keep it casual and friendly, even though now I really, really want him to come. I want him to choose me over his pack of bossy friends.
But, it's not like I own him.
I don't.
Yet.
He looks at me and it's like everyone else has cleared out of the room. Aidan smiles.
"I probably shouldn't," he says and even though my smile lags, I hang onto it.
"That's fine," I say. "I'm going to get moving then. Nice meeting all of you."
"Why don't you stay with us instead? We're more entertaining than Mojitos," the guy on the couch says. Doubtful, but the reference to the Mojitos sends my eyes to Shane. Aidan told them about my belly button, but Shane is still acting like he doesn't have a clue of who I am. Miss Air Quotes still looks like she'd like to incinerate me. Shane steps forward.
"You're welcome to stick around," he says.
"I can't. I'm meeting friends," I say. It's not a lie. I meet friends at Modo's every night. "Have a good night."
Aidan rises off the arm of the chair.
"You sure you can't stay?" he asks. His gaze reaches for me, instead of his hands, and it's stronger than if I was trapped in his arms. I can see that he wants to make me stay, like he wants to beg me or tie to me to a chair, but I just smile.
He's got to be just a neighbor.
No matter how much I would love to have him begging me, or tying me to his furniture.
We're just not going there. We can't.
/>
And I've got to get out the door.
"I'll see you around, Aidan," I say.
"Absolutely." His eyes drop, along with his smile, as I turn away.
<<<<>>>>
The evening at Modo's is not what it should have been. I'm annoyed and I can't put my finger right on the exact reason why. Part of it, I think, is that no one measures up on the ruler that has Aidan burnt into it tonight. I can't get my neighbor off my mind, no matter how many shots I down.
And then there are the drinks. They all taste flat and pissy. Every single one stirs thoughts of Aidan's next-door-soiree that seemed like a full-blown, intervention of strangers. I should've knocked Miss Air Quotes in the head and called out Shane, the one-night-wonder. I should've let her know that her boyfriend's tongue once had an intimate conversation with my belly button.
"I thought you'd be here," a man's voice says from my elbow and the voice is unmistakable. I turn to him with a frown.
"What the hell are you doing here, Des?"
"Checking up on you."
"Three times in two weeks? You're starting to act like you're my husband or something."
"You can always look at your ring finger, if you forget."
"Don't get me started," I grumble.
"You look lovely..."
"Seriously, why are you here?" I snap. "You know we shouldn't be seen together in public like this."
"Change of rules." He shrugs. Like it's that simple to just reconfigure the whole game. He steers me away from the bar, to a corner table where I can hear what he's saying. Grabbing a waitress, he orders me a Slippery Nipple and himself a Hole In One, twerking his eyebrows at me as he does it. He tips the waitress a twenty, dumping it on her tray without even looking at her, once the drinks are on the table.
He takes a slow sip, watching me over the top of his glass. I can smell the warmth of the booze clinging to his words. "I see you all the time, right beneath Claudia's nose at the house, so I thought, why not here?"
Yeah right. What I think really happened is that he just got a good look at Aidan and it's just like dangling a carrot in front of an ass.
"I can tell you why not here. Because Modo's is hardly a 'professional meeting' kind of a bar. You're going to blow your cushy ride if you're not careful," I say, chewing on the straw in my drink. "Maybe end up in jail. Besides, I don't want you here. This is too confusing as it is."
"There's nothing confusing about it. You are my designer. It's not like we can't meet for drinks to discuss a project. Christmas is coming. I'm meeting you to discuss plans for an upcoming party."
"That I can never attend."
"It's a conflict of interest." His eyes flash. He knows it's a veiled threat. Des doesn't do threats well. "And you are a loyal wife. Your husband's firm always schedules their party two Fridays before Christmas, just like we do. Don't forget, Lyddle, you've been part of this deal from the start. If I go down, you're coming with me." He reaches across the edge of the table and twirls the skinny tip of one of my dreads around his fingertip. "I wish I'd never gotten you involved in any of this, Lydia, but my only alternative was to divorce. You know I can't live without you. I'm not the one being selfish here. All I've ever wanted to do was give you everything. If it means a little creative license here and there, well, I guess we've proved that we can both live with that."
What can I say? He's right. I don't have any money without him. I have no skills to get a job and I can't go back home to be a burden on my mother. I gave up everything to be with Desmond and that means accepting whatever he can give me, even if it's not him.
My buzz mercifully kicks in, from sucking my drinks through the stirrer straws, and I don't want to kill it with this conversation. Better yet, I'd like Des to go on home to his fake wife so I can get my groove on and find a new face to focus on for the night. I set down my drink.
"Alright, I got it. You can go home now."
"I think I'll stay for a while. Claudia's visiting a retreat."
"Come on, Des. I know why you're really here," I say with a grin. He perks an interested eyebrow. "You don't have to be jealous--he's not coming. My neighbor really got you nuts, didn't he?"
"Not at all." He leans back in his chair, arm loosely extended on the table as if he's the king of this domain. I almost laugh. I like that he's a little jealous. It's a nice switch.
"The only time I see this much of you in one week is when you think there's another man around. So let me just put you at ease. Aidan's only my neighbor. You don't have to scout out my apartment complex anymore. I'm not fucking him."
"So crass, Lyddle" he chuckles. "You think that he's why I'm coming around?"
He reaches under the table, the tips of his fingers sliding over my leg and then under, to the tender back of my knee. It melts me more than I'd like to admit, but I manage to croak out a throaty, "Yes."
His touch is expert and soft, as if his fingers slide up into a more intimate place then just the crook of my knee. The delicate pressure he applies makes my head spin. He catches my gaze and his eyelashes flutter like the nimble legs of a seductive spider, enchanting me with their lazy dance.
His voice is deeper than the bass beat on the dance floor. "He is not the only reason, Lyddle."
CHAPTER SIX
WARS AND GAMES
My tongue tastes like an old shoe that has spent the night walking through a sewer. And the rest of me--my arms, my legs, the tips of my hair--is a pitiful collection of limp socks. I wake, face-down on the pillow like I was trying to smother myself. With my first breath, I suck my pillowcase into my nostrils. Jerking up my head sends atomic throbs through my skull and makes me think I should've let myself finish the job with the pillow. I lay back and try to breathe between the hyper, Richter ripples of my hangover.
On mornings like this, I have to lie very still until the throbbing ebbs and my memory can kick in again. But, today, I should've just enjoyed the pain and left it at that.
Des was here. I remember draping myself over him so he could drag me down the hall to my apartment. He felt me up for the door key. Mrs. Lowt opened her door and shut it again once she saw Des. She doesn't want anything to do with grabbing his butt.
I almost threw up in the kitchen sink. Des told me I was a mess and put me to bed. He slipped between the sheets shortly after. I scour my memories for sex and feel around, looking for clues, but I think Des only took off his shoes.
One of my nightmares woke me at dusk. I reached for him and felt the soft fabric of his pants, the tight knit of his shirt, the ribbing of his socks beneath my toes.
"I'm not going to stick around if all you're going to do is cry and make me feel like shit," he grumbled. The memories drift in and out--I remember opening my eyes and seeing Des there, looking at his phone. Then, opening my eyes again, I remember him lying on his side, looking at me.
I push my leg over the sheets now, checking to be sure he's gone. Of course he is, but he left at dawn. It's bright outside now and Des usually turns to ash any time past three in the morning. I don't know why he stayed so long. Even if Claudia's out of town, the help might report back that Desmond wasn't home, tucked in bed, after the bars closed. I'm surprised he'd chance staying the night, but then it occurs to me. I was right after all.
Des was waiting for Aidan to go out in the morning, so he could leave at the same time.
<<<<>>>>
My tennis-shoe-tongue slowly ebbs away to normal-enough by midday. I'm starving, but the only things in my fridge are a jar of pickle juice, a carton of expired milk that I must've bought on some health whim, and mustard. I struggle into my clothes, check myself with only one eye open to the mirror, and I give up immediately.
Standing in my mirror, I smash a black baseball hat on my head and put on my sunglasses. The knee-high boots are a necessity and I spend thirty-five, excruciating minutes adjusting the hat and smoothing out my trench. There's no way I can make myself acceptable enough, so I need to make myself invisible instead; just any other
shadow of a person moving down the sidewalk.
But, of course, it's not that easy. Aidan crashes into me as I walk out the lobby door.
"Hey, stranger." He once-overs my black ensemb and smirks. "Invisible is the new black, huh?"
I kind of hate that he sees right through it, but the sensual little tug of his lips, as they drift toward his right cheek, makes it forgivable.
"Shhh, you never saw me." I brush past him.
"It's hard to do that," he says, falling into step beside me. "Where are you off to?"
"Grocery store."
"That's amazing. It's exactly where I was headed."
"That is amazing, since you were walking into the lobby."
"I just got turned around. It happens when you're new to a place."
"Which store were you going to? There's two."
"Probably the same one you were. You know--that one with all the food."
"Oh yeah, that one," I say. I consider turning him back toward the lobby with a biting comment, but the size of him, walking beside me, does the opposite of what it usually would. Usually, the fact that I'm not dressed properly would make my skin crawl until I was alone again, but he doesn't have that effect on me. It could be the breadth of his shoulders, spreading out like a wide canopy just a little higher than my eye level, or--damn--his body, his face, his work boots, the scent of his cologne all over his jacket...who knows. Aidan's combinations pick my lock. I let him walk along with me.
"Thanksgiving is next week," he says. I laugh.
"There's a conversation opener," I say. "Is that what inspired you to come along with me?"
"Maybe. I've got to grab a turkey."
"Aren't you going home for the holidays?" I say it the way a gooey, holiday commercial would.
"No," he says. "Too far. What about you? Where's home?"
"You've seen it. 2B."
"Kind of tight for your whole family."
"Har har. You really are nosey," I tell him, but there's no bite to it. "They're in Oregon."
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