by Mary Potter
“I can see by the look on your face you do not like the place,” Amanda says right away.
We barely enter the apartment. I don’t have time to look around, and before I get a meter into the place, I’m already losing interest.
“You know, it feels like this place doesn’t like me,” I say. It’s better than outright criticism. “I bet you live in a nice place.”
Amanda makes a sound caught between a hiccup and a laugh. “I live in my parent’s basement.”
“Well, basement apartments can be nice. I lived in one when I went to college.”
“I’ve lived in my parent’s basement since I declared rebellious emancipation as a sixteen-year-old girl who didn’t want them controlling every aspect of my life.” There’s a look on Amanda’s face where she’s reliving a past moment. “I love my parents. But Dad said I could move into the basement.”
“That’s good of him.”
“I had fought and lost a lot of battles with spiders. It doesn’t help. It’s a work in progress to finish the basement.”
“Is it working?”
“Well, it will increase the value of the home when it’s done. My dad follows all the guidelines. But it’s slow going.”
“When do you think he’ll finish it?”
“When I finally have kids, raise them to be carpenters, and send them to help their grandfather. It’s been going on for seventeen years now.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, well. It’s reduced rent and I do what I can. But it’s not exactly the kind of place you can bring home a date.”
“Are you dating?”
Amanda gives me a look like I slapped her face. She immediately softens. I think I overstepped the line. She hits me back with an awkward grin and rosy cheeks from the flush.
“I am not dating at the moment. However, they cautioned me not to get involved with potential clients.”
I shake my finger at her and point out, “You said potential.”
“I did.” She runs her hand over the side of her face, rolling the burgundy hair around her delicate ear. It’s one of those moves that women do and don’t realize the power of the gesture. Captivating best describes it. “You haven’t agreed to anything yet. Until I rent you a place, we’re just looking.”
“Well, the day’s young. Lead the way,” I say.
AMANDA
T here is something incredibly adorable about Tyler. It’s like he’s a late teenager, trapped in a man’s body. The thing about Tyler’s body, it’s not bad for a trap. He’s fit, and I see the neck muscles and his arms. I see his hands and think what kind of grip he’d have touching me. I like Tyler’s not afraid t give away what he’s thinking about the few places I’ve shown him.
We’re back in the car, and I see his knee pressed against the center column. When I grab the shift stick, my fingers graze the fabric of his pants. He moves his leg without a second thought, but I see him watching my hand. We’re on the road again, heading to the next location. I get the impression Tyler’s not in the mood for apartment hunting.
“You have any ideas about places you saw online that aren’t on our list?” I ask.
“I can think of two places, actually,” he says. “The first one is the place you pick for me to buy lunch.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say. I think I’m blushing again.
“I know I don’t.” He stares out the window. “If you keep bugging me about it, I won’t take you to lunch.”
I know he’s a kidder. It’s something about a specific type of personality where some girls don’t get the humor. I get it. I appreciate it. It’s a straight shot into the funny bone, a little dark, a little edgy.
“Anywhere you want to go?” I ask.
“You pick, I buy, deal?”
“How can I say ‘no’ to that?”
“It’s easy, watch…no-o-o.” I see his mouth form around the word like it’s a pivotal slow-motion scene in a movie.
“You have a twisted sense of humor, don’t you?”
“If you keep bothering me about a place to eat, I’ll pick one.”
I laugh. “You are incorrigible.”
“You are a lot of fun.” I see it’s not a joke. I can tell because Tyler’s face emotes better than words. He’s easy to read. I can see how he looks at me. He’s attracted and doesn’t know the boundaries. I think establishing the critical fact of ‘potential’ means Tyler doesn’t want to close on something because he’ll lose me.
It’s flattering, and I can’t help but think: here’s a guy who has it together. He’s not an obnoxious bully—the kind of stereotype I see on cop shows or in public. I want to get to know him, but I know the line, and how do I cross it without intentionally breaching the client’s privileges? Of course, unintentionally, that’s a different story.
“Did you always want to be a cop?” I ask. It’s a good subject. I know where we’re going for lunch. It’s on a budget because I don’t believe in letting guys pay for a meal that I couldn’t afford myself.
“No, I went to college to be an attorney. But I didn’t have the patience to defend bad guys. I thought I’d better serve the public if I was making arrests instead of defending them.”
We arrive at a mobile food truck. It’s got excellent chicken kabob pitas. Tyler has me order first, and he gets the same. We find a place to sit together in the sun. We enjoy each other’s company and a small meal. It’s a little messy, but I got good at keeping everything inside the bread pocket instead of all over my skirt and blouse.
“What was the other place you want to go see?” I ask.
Tyler scans his phone. He hands it over to me without delay. There’s something intimate about touching someone else’s smartphone. It’s privacy exemplified. Most people live today through their phones. That includes all their thoughts, their porn history, and access to account information. Yet Tyler hands off the phone unabashedly. Which either means he has nothing to hide or he cleared his search browser. Or maybe, and I don’t know him well enough to get it for sure, but perhaps he wants me to get a glimpse into his private thoughts. I cannot deny my interests.
“This place is about five miles from here.”
“I know, it’s not too far from the precinct, either.”
“It’s not a rental.”
“I know that too,” he says and smiles.
“I didn’t think you were buying.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, not at all,” I say and hand the phone back to him. He pockets it without a second thought. “Let me make a call. We can see if it’s available today.”
Tyler shrugs. “We can take a look. I’m game for anything.”
Chapter 4
TYLER
I t’s a modest house with three bedrooms that sits on a hillside overlooking sections of the city that inspire people. It’s a little out of my price range. Amanda gets the combination for the house key holder, and before I go inside, I want to see the neighborhood and the exterior. I walk the parameter of the property. It has a white picket fence in front and a privacy fence in the back. The house sits on a half-acre lot, and the original owners took care of the place and the property.
“I’m surprised it’s still on the market,” Amanda says. She sees the look on my face. “What? Was it a murder house?”
“Not exactly,” I say. “The lady who owned the place died here. She was a former actress. She moved from France or Italy and lived here for the rest of her life.”
“Would I know her work?” Amanda asks.
“I don’t know; what kind of movies do you watch?”
“Well, I like comedies and—oh, she made porn?” she sees the look on my face.
I laugh and shake my head. “It was the late 1970s, early 1980s erotica, maybe soft pornography. They were foreign films. But she was gorgeous.”
“So, you want to live in her house because you’re a fan?”
“I didn’t know who she was,” I say. “I didn’t respond to the
call when a mail carrier reported she didn’t pick up her mail for a long time. She lived alone in the house. She died in her favorite chair. People are funny about that like the place has a stigma or something.”
“Tell me about it. Since you mentioned the crime at the other apartment building, I feel obliged to tell people about it.”
“Well, don’t do anything out of the ordinary. Look, people die; it’s the one thing that happens to all of us. She has a legacy. She left behind an indelible impression. It’s a lot more than most people. If people see her films today, they might think about her again. What’s wrong with that?”
“You put it that way,” Amanda says. “It’s a little romantic.”
Amanda looks like she wants to say more but holds back. I see her watching the house. There’s a collection of ideas that go through her head, and I can see a few cross her beautiful face.
“Want to go inside?”
“After you,” Amanda says. “I unlocked the door.”
It has a covered wraparound porch. The door opens to a modest foyer.
“The house was built back in ’74,” Amanda says. She’s reading from the description. I watch her cross the threshold, entering the house.
If she expects something sinister, something spooky, the look on her face crosses between disappointment and awe. Instead of a dark, ominous presence, where the house absorbed evil, the house gets a lot of sun. And from noon onward until nightfall, it is in full sunlight.
The foyer opens to a receiving room. It has two entrances to the kitchen at the back of the house. The hallways are wide, and the ceilings are high. The living room at the front of the house has a fireplace.
“It’s natural gas,” Amanda says. “It’s very nice.” She runs her fingers along the mantle. There’s a fine layer of dust. “This is a charming house.”
“It has a large patio in the back. A flagstone deck with room for a nice barbecue pit,” I say. I’m making plans.
The dining room off the kitchen is as ample as it is long. There’s a breakfast nook in the rear corner off the kitchen where a large bay window as a direct view of the west side of the city. You can’t see the ocean through the cityscape, but you can’t forget it’s there.
“It needs new appliances,” Amanda says.
We make a slow circle through the house. It’s open without furnishings. There’s a hint of cedar and pine cleaning solution. It’s immaculate.
The stairwell sits off the right wall of the house from the entrance. There’s a basement. I can’t imagine it’s much of anything with the cinder block foundation. The door to the cellar follows the framework under the stairwell leading to the second floor.
“Are you going down there?” Amanda asks.
“I’m curious if there’s any water damage, any leakage.”
She seems satisfied with the answer. The bare bulb in the stairwell is old and dingy. It lights. There are more lights in the basement you can see from the top of the stairs.
Descending the stairs, I begin to get a sense of what living in the ‘70s was for people in the house. I see the new plumbing. They replaced the copper water pipes for PVC pipes. There’s new wiring. Since it doesn’t have a ceiling in the basement, getting to the installation and plumbing comes easy.
When I reach the cement floor, I see the collection of large picture frames stacked in the corner. Since the first picture faces the others, all I see is the back and the wire for hanging the thick frames.
“What are they,” Amanda whispers.
I look at her. She’s beaming with curiosity. I see the stale bare bulb near her head highlights her hair. She’s beautiful, and I forget about being in a stranger’s basement. I feel as if Amanda and I lived in the house since the beginning. It’s a home filled with light and love, and we’re together.
I try not to get too caught up in my fantasy and turn back to the frames. As soon as I pull away the first one, I see what it hides.
“I don’t think she has family,” I say. I lift and turn the picture frame so Amanda can see.
The actress had her movie posters framed. There are eight films. Each a montage of ‘70s soft edges that highlight the movie through some still captures. All feature the woman in her glorious prime.
“She’s beautiful,” Amanda says. “It’s a shame no one took them.”
“Maybe they’re a gift for a fan.” I look at her. We’re standing in a stranger’s basement on the top of the hill. “You’re not scared, are you?”
Amanda frowns at me as if considering the question. She shakes her head slowly.
“Remember, I live in my parent’s basement. I share it with the spiders and the washer and dryer. The hot water tanks click sometimes, and the furnace crackles. So, this isn’t scary to me at all.” She looks around, and her eyes go back to the framed movie posters.
“It feels like home,” she says.
“I know, right.” I look at her beaming. I know I’m excited because I can feel the hairs on my arms standing up. “Since I walked into this place, I feel like it’s something special.”
“Maybe there’s a lot of love leftover in here,” Amanda says. She gives me a small encouraging smile.
I clap my hands together to shake off the dust and wipe the rest on my pants. Amanda turns and goes upstairs. I follow her quickly because I love the way she smells.
AMANDA
I don’t have a lot of experience in old houses. I feel the place has a charm and charisma that’s unshakable. Nothing is threatening or creepy about the site. It feels warm and loved.
Upstairs, Tyler closes the door. We wait a moment in the kitchen. He’s looking at the expansive cupboard space and the long counters that have a corner and a double sink.
“There’s no dishwasher,” I say.
It’s a negative statement. I brought up needing new appliances as well. These are traits a Realtor needs to address in a way that makes it selling points instead of contrary proclamation. You don’t want to make the buyer feel like they have to spend more money once they purchase the place. Yet, Tyler wasn’t interested in buying; he wants to rent. We’re here because he’s curious and had it on his mind. We’re sightseers. He’s still a potential client, but I feel like there’s a side of him that’s loosened since I’ve been with him a few hours.
“Let’s see the bedrooms,” he says.
We go through the archway to the vast hall and receiving room that leads back to the front of the house and the stairwell that faces the front door. The stairs are finished cherry; the railing is newer than the stairs.
Tyler walks ahead of me, and I follow close, caught in his scent. It is clean and spicy, and I love the way he smells. Upstairs, the floor plan has the bedrooms over-top of the living room, receiving room, and the bathroom uses the same wet wall as the kitchen and puts it in the back of the house.
There’s ceramic tile, a large cast-iron bathtub with clawed feet.
“It’s big enough for two,” Tyler says.
There’s a look on his face like he’s thinking about sharing a hot bath with someone. I drop myself into that fantasy. I think about what he’d feel like leaning against me in the big bathtub. We’re covered in bubbles, sipping wine, a few candles, and a little soft music. I wonder if the actress had scenes in any of her movies where she’s following that pattern. When it comes to love and affection, it doesn’t feel cliché.
“It has one bathroom,” I say. I can’t stop myself from bringing up the unhelpful selling points. “That’s probably why it’s still on the market.”
“Maybe, but I don’t care if it has one bathroom. It’s got the tub and look at the corner shower.” Tyler steps into the shower and pulls the heavy glass door closed. It has a rainfall showerhead, and pewter faucet handles. “It’s big enough for two.”
Seeing him standing inside the framed shower with the smoke temper glass gives me a tingling between my legs. He’s carefree and open. Tyler’s interested in an off-beat collection of small things that make him ha
ppy. I see him beaming like this is a funhouse, and it’s all his to play.
When he opens the shower door, he lingers inside longer. He’s looking at me with those calm green eyes, and I think about what it’d feel like standing with him naked under the rainfall. I can feel the droplets course over my naked body, cascading down my head.
Kissing in the shower, letting the water trickle between our lips, I can feel his strong hands holding my hips as we kiss. I can feel his tongue probing the inside of his mouth as his cock presses against the inside of my thighs. It’s an enchanting image that leaves me a little breathless.
“Are you okay?” he asks. It’s making my face glow. I know it.
I nod because words are impossible to get over the lump in my throat. Tyler steps from the shower, and I follow him down the hallway to the master bedroom. He stands at the tall bedroom windows watching the street, the city, and the horizon as the sun tips over noon and starts its long slow descent into the faraway ocean.
I stand beside him. The view is lovely. For a small house, it has all the fine points outside. Inside, it’s a place for one or two people with no kids. I don’t know how to close on a situation like this, and my mind is still caught on him renting, not buying.
“What are you thinking about,” I ask. It’s an open question, and we’re still caught inside a lover’s embrace in my head.
“I’m thinking about kissing you.”
Chapter 5
TYLER
D ating hasn’t been something that I’m good at, and I don’t do it often. I’m happy to flirt, and when something comes of it, I’m willing to go along to see how far we take it. Standing with Amanda in a stranger’s quiet house, I can’t get over how attractive she is and how much I want to press my lips against her mouth. When she asks the question, it’s not something I expect, and I give her an honest answer.
“I can’t stop thinking about it. I think you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve known. You have wry humor like mine—which is rare. You’re not afraid of a basement. You pass yourself off as a damsel in distress. I notice you point out the flaws in the place instead of coming up with some selling point.”
