Lucky Neighbor: A Second Chance Secret Baby Romance

by Gage Grayson

  “It was,” Ryan comments dryly before taking a sip of his beer. That’s about as caustic as Ryan gets.

  The Brooks Brothers day trader guy takes a big step back from the board. Josie hands him a dart, and he chucks it at the wall. It hits the very outer edge of the board, and he just walks away.

  “I bet he would’ve kept playing if he got a bullseye.” Ryan’s full of commentary tonight.

  “Wait, are you telling me she brought her own darts?”

  “It looks that way,” Ryan says. “Maybe she got them at the new Target or something.”

  I watch for a moment as Josie continues her darts game on her own. Her next throw is a little better than the day trader’s, but not by much.

  “For some reason, I don’t think she shops at Target.”

  “Come on, Ethan.” Ryan’s smiling at his own joke—and at the fact that he finally got one over on me.

  “What can I say, Ry. I’m not exactly the quickest motherfucker on the planet these days.”

  We watch as Josie seems to consider the now dart-laden board. Her arms are crossed like she’s studying a Matisse at the Met.

  “You didn’t come here with her, did you?” I ask.

  “Dude, we talked on the phone for a while, but that’s it. She likes to talk, but I don’t really know what her deal is.”

  We turn back to the bar to leave Josie to do whatever Josie does.

  “Have you met anyone else? Gotten any other numbers?”

  Ryan shrugs. “It’s only been a couple days.”

  That’s true—it’s only been a couple day since that epic Saturday night here. I haven’t been keeping the best track of time.

  Barely sleeping doesn’t help much with that.

  And even if I’d been sleeping ten fucking hours a night, the fact of the matter is my mind is elsewhere.

  And it’s also fucking everywhere.

  It’s on this bar, it’s on Basel...

  It’s on a whole fucking lot of different things.

  I’m trying to keep it on a lot of different things, anyway.

  But you know how minds can be sometimes. Sometimes, they like to keep straying to the same few things.

  But, as I’ve said, I’m making it a point not to dwell on any of that shit.

  “When you’re right, Ryan, you’re right. I’m not even sure what I’m fucking asking anymore. Sorry.”

  Ryan throws his head back and laughs loudly enough for the entire bar—or maybe the entire neighborhood—to hear.

  “The Great Ethan Barrett apologizes! I’m getting scared. This might be one of the signs of the fucking apocalypse or something.”

  “I apologize all the time.” I’m trying to sound emphatic, but Ryan’s still laughing too fucking loudly. And I really have no clue how fucking much I apologize or don’t apologize.

  “Not to me!” Ryan’s still grinning with great amusement.

  “Well, sorry, Ryan, really. I didn’t realize I was at the point where an apology would be enough to cause you to die with fucking laughter.” I take a sip of the stout that Stacia or Charles must’ve left me while I wasn’t looking. “Hey, you know what? I just apologized to the bouncer, so...”

  Ryan cracks the fuck up again, and I join him.

  I probably haven’t laughed at all in the last three days, at least. When I start this time, it takes the fuck over, and I crack the fuck up. I laugh so hard it’s almost fucking scary—but it helps that Ryan’s laughing just as fucking hard.

  I’m laughing with exhaustion.

  I’m laughing at the pure fucking absurdity of everything.

  I’m laughing...did I say with exhaustion yet?

  I really need to get some sleep.

  “Carina!”

  Hearing Ryan shout my sisters name cracks me the fuck up again—although, this time, Ryan just stares at me.

  Fucking seriously, since when is Ryan so excited to see my sister?

  Usually, he seems irritated if I invite my sister somewhere without fucking running it by him or something.

  But fuck it, I don’t really care. Ryan has yet to ask about the investigation...or anything related to it. I’m just going to stay grateful for that.

  If we’re able to stay away from that subject, I might just be able to get a couple hours of sleep tonight.

  You’ve gotta dream big, right? At this point, even dreaming small would be pretty fucking nice.

  The next sip of my stout seems tasteless, which scares me a little, because I’m having trouble parsing the side effects of sleep deprivation from the effects of just plain being fucking distracted from whatever else my stressed out fucking brain wants to throw at me.

  But, hey, I can’t complain.

  I fucking shouldn’t, anyway.

  The first evidence I get of Carina’s presence—apart from Ryan’s yelling, that is—is her oversized white leather purse plunked on the bar next to my pint glass.

  “This place is fucking growing on me, Ethan. What have you done?”

  What have I done? That’s a question for another fucking time, I think.

  But hearing it is probably enough to inspire another fucking sleepless night. I’m becoming an old pro at those by now.

  “I need to stop fucking complaining,” I mutter aloud.

  “Huh?” Carina’s justifiably confused as she plops herself down onto the barstool next to mine.

  “It’s an ongoing problem I have, that’s all.”

  “You won’t hear me say this about too many things, but I know people who are a lot worse that you about that.”

  “Ah, that’s sweet.” I let my sarcasm come out undiluted for that comment.

  “I can’t believe that place on the Bowery,” Carina begins. “Their studio apartments start at, like, four grand a month.”

  “Not every place is like that, Carina.”

  “It’s getting there, Ethan.”

  “She’s right,” Ryan says. “It’s getting ridiculous. It kind of already is.”

  Out of nowhere, my eyes will just not stay open. It only lasts for about a second, but it’s like I’m struck by a tiny flash of deep sleep before my body jerks back awake.

  “Holy shit. I think I need to go home.”

  I don’t complain too much that neither my sister nor by best friend seem too disappointed about me leaving early. They go right off into their own conversation a I lurch out onto the avenue to find a taxi.

  As powerful as that urge to sleep was at the bar, by the time I’m home in bed, I can’t do anything but stare at the darkened ceiling.

  These are the moments, when I’m by myself with nothing to distract me, that the deep regrets of the past few days come swimming to the surface—and they have absolutely no interest in letting me sleep or leaving me alone.

  Ethan

  “Happy…Wednesday?”

  This particular day-of-week greeting doesn’t come from one of my colleagues up on the twenty-eighth floor.

  First of all, I barely have any colleagues left on the twenty-eighth floor—but that’s beside the point. No, this confusing greeting comes from one of the security guys in the lobby, as Barrister, ten feet in front of me, reluctantly shows his ID.

  Some people just don’t like to show ID, I guess. Some—like Barrister apparently—hate it so fucking much that they put in effort into making a show of just how much they hate it—every fucking day for a decade or more.

  I’m just assuming this about Barrister, of course. I don’t usually see him in the lobby.

  Today, I actively avoid him. After I watch Barrister grumble through security and board the elevator, I start making my own way through.

  It’s Wednesday, just like the nervous security guard said. My brain is functioning like it’s been a very long Saturday, because it’s around then that I got my last good night’s sleep.

  But it’s fucking Wednesday already. The Switzerland deadline is in two days, and I’m assuming the only thing I’ll need to have prepared is a yes or a no as my answ
er.

  I’m also assuming the competition is happening right now, with Rosen, Barrister, and maybe Phil judging Kallie and me based on whatever fucking metrics they think are important.

  If they value years of experience with hedge fund management, a verifiable history of exceptional performance, and an insane fucking work ethic that borders on the pathological, then I probably have this one in the bag.

  If they don’t value any of that, then there’s a good chance Kallie has the edge.

  There is very little doubt that Kallie has a very significant edge, but I’m not fucking giving up yet.

  If they didn’t value me at all, I would’ve been gone by now like almost everyone else.

  Although maybe they’re saving the best for last.

  I’ve been showing up every day and hanging around in my office for eight hours or so, but—in a routine that’s quite fucking unnatural for me—I haven’t been doing a lick of work.

  I haven’t heard from any investors recently, and I don’t remember the last time I spoke to anyone outside the firm about business.

  I’m not doing shit with communication or analysis or anything besides showing up and trying in vain to sleep on my loveseat for a bit.

  That hasn’t been going great either. That’s part of the reason I’m avoiding Barrister: in my sleep-deprived state, I suspect my communications skills are not in top form. Like I’m bound to start spewing crazy fucking nonsense at any fucking time.

  Although that might not be much of a liability at this fucking company.

  Riding up the next elevator a few minutes after Barrister, I realize that I’d be fine talking to him or to anyone.

  There’s just something about this week. Maybe it’s my fatigue, or maybe it’s the strangeness of suddenly having a nearly empty office, but I’m just not into being verbal at work this week.

  I’m showing up for business hours every day, but that’s about it.

  That’s how I’m competing in the Switzerland competition. They know I can work, and I can bring in capital and generally kick fucking ass. What the fuck else do I have to prove in the next two fucking days?

  The office is a fucking ghost town when I get there, and it’s genuinely fucking eerie.

  There’s no furniture in the hallway. They even took out the fucking reception desks.

  I wander to my office in a daze. My laptop and tablet are on my desk, and I leave them there. I lie back on the loveseat and close my eyes.

  “Barrett!”

  I actually fell asleep—it’s a springtime miracle. I’m so relieved that I don’t even care that both Barrister and Rosen are towering over me on the loveseat with their best executive glowers directed at me.

  “Barrett!”

  “Baaaaarrrrrrrrett!”

  “Baaaaaaarrrrrrrrett!”

  They’re taking turns fucking yelling at me, and I’m happy to lie here calmly as they do.

  “What can I do for you, fellas?”

  They do not like my calm response. In fact, they hate it so fucking much that they both stop yelling, and their faces are overcome with shades of furious burgundy.

  “Are you enjoying the luxury hotel suite we’ve provided for you?” Rosen growls.

  “I believe I’ve been missing out on that. That’s very generous of you, though. Now, where is that located?”

  “Enough with the comedy routines, Barrett. We need your answer on the Basel contract.”

  “Huh, I thought today was Wednesday. I could’ve sworn it was when I was in the lobby...how long have I been asleep? What year is it?”

  “It’s the year of we’ve got no time for your smart mouth.” Rosen’s spitting his words through his teeth. I don’t think I’ve seen him quite this angry about anything.

  “They can’t all be winners.”

  “You still have until Friday, Barrett,” states Barrister, not showing quite the same degree of anger, but not seeming exactly thrilled with me, either. “And it’s still a competition.”

  “So, I’m still in the running?” I stretch out and put my hands behind my head with a bit of cheekiness—despite the fact that that was a serious question.

  “Don’t get the wrong idea, Barrett. You’re still very much in the running.” I can’t say Rosen’s tone has softened too much, but he no longer sounds quite as ready to bite my head off.

  “In all seriousness, I’m a bit surprised to hear that.” Yeah, that’s probably not the smartest thing to say. But I’m honestly pretty fucking surprised.

  “The competition hasn’t started yet, Barrett.”

  “Hmm...so, I’d like to be honest here, gentlemen: I don’t even want to begin to speculate what that means, so if you could please enlighten me...”

  “Presentation,” says Rosen.

  “Presentation?”

  “Presentation,” repeats Barrister.

  “I’ll ask again. Presentation?”

  “Each of you will present a presentation on why you’re the best candidate for this lucrative contract,” explains Barrister. “Nine a.m. on Friday.”

  “Who goes first?”

  “We’ll flip a coin.” Rosen’s back to spitting through his teeth, but he’s had enough after that and stomps back into the corridor, with Barrister in tow.

  “Present a presentation,” I repeat softly to myself.

  On one hand, it should be easy to make the case for candidacy. On the other hand, the one place where Kallie has both more experience and more success than I do is with presentations.

  I don’t remember the last time I had to give a presentation, if ever.

  “Present a presentation.”

  I fall back asleep for a few more minutes, only for the ring on my business phone to wake me back up.

  So much for not fucking working today. The next two hours are packed with calls from investors and representatives of investors, asking me if the news is true.

  I don’t even ask what news they’re talking about. I just say yes, because every-fucking-thing in the world seems to be happening right now.

  From these calls, I find out what’s happening my fund—the fund that I’m supposed to be fucking managing.

  The fund’s winding down. It’s going to be ending gradually over the next few weeks. I deduce this from what the investors tell me, but I had nothing to do with it.

  As the manager, I should be beyond fucking furious that this is happening behind my back, and I had to hear about it from sources outside the company.

  Surrounded by the ghost town of what this office once was, I’m not surprised. And frankly? I don’t give a shit, either.

  Ethan

  “Fucking Friday fucking finally!”

  My guess is that the cashier at the office supply store doesn’t realize there’s a customer waiting at the pickup counter, so he feels free to let loose with his joy about the coming weekend.

  I can’t say I blame him. Some days just call for jubilation.

  I can’t say that this is one of them for me, but that doesn’t mean he should hold back.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  I guess he did see me here.

  Fuck it, why should he care about swearing in front of customers? What the fuck do we know, anyway?

  “Yes, I’m here to pick up a print order. It’s a poster.”

  That should be specific enough, right?

  Fuck. If you hadn’t guessed, I’m still not sleeping that great.

  “Name?”

  “Ethan. Ethan fucking Barrett.”

  Hey, it’s what some people like to call me, right? Plus, this seems to be one of those office supply stores that encourages f-bombs.

  “Yes, Mister Barrett, we have your order ready. And it looks like you paid online?”

  “Fuck yeah, I did.”

  “Okay, terrific. So, here’s your fucking poster. Have a great weekend.”

  It’s about half an hour until it’s time to give my presentation.

  Yes, I will be competing against established
presentation guru Kallie Fern, but I decided to not let that throw me.

  No, I kept my creative process pure. So pure, that I waited until I left for work this morning to even think of something.

  The design consisted of some text typed into an email to the office supply store. It took ninety seconds.

  A pure, unaffected creative process.

  I unroll the poster to check the printing before leaving the store. It came out perfectly: a dollar sign, followed by a very large number.

  That’s my entire presentation: a dollar amount.

  My dollar amount.

  No, no my net worth or some shit.

  This is what the firm should think of as my dollar amount: The amount of capital I’ve raised as a hedge fund manager throughout my time here.

  It’s a fucking lot of money.

  My plan is to unroll the poster, hold it, stand there without saying a word, and…

  Kallie Fern, presentation guru, is browsing the aisles of the same office supply store that my procrastinating ass is about to leave.

  She doesn’t notice me. She’s much too focused on the shelves full of colored markers in front of her.

  Maybe they’re better fresh or something.

  Maybe her mad presentation skills are reliant on improvisation—and this is part of her process.

  Maybe this is all just a fucking farce.

  Or maybe, I just don’t fucking care anymore.

  “Mister B! How long has it been?”

  According to the wall clock at the deli, it’s now four minutes to nine. I check my wristwatch, and it tells me the same.

  That might be enough time for a cup of coffee. And an egg sandwich.

  “Too long, Rodrigo, I need to start coming here more often.”

  “You need to, Mister B. We’ve got plenty of tourists stopping by, but not enough loyal customers.”

  “That’s this neighborhood—for better or for worse.”

  “Right you are, Ethan.”

  Rodrigo doesn’t use my first name very often. This might be his first time doing that, in fact.

  It takes me more than four minutes to enjoy my large coffee and my egg sandwich. Glancing at my wristwatch on my way out, I’m on track to be twenty minutes late for the presentation.