Henry frowns at me. “Why are you all dressed up?”
“Because…” I hadn’t wanted to tell Henry I was going out on a date tonight. It’s traumatic enough that his father is with another woman, but I don’t know what it will do to him to see me with another man. I figured I’d wait and see if things work out with Jeremy before I subject Henry to him. Then again, I have a good feeling about Jeremy—I find it hard to believe this will be our only date. “I’m going out on a date.”
“A date?” His eyes turn into saucers. “You’re going on a date? With who?”
“With a man,” I say.
“Is it Mr. Andretti?”
Mr. Andretti is his gym teacher, who is fifteen years younger than I am. “No…”
“Is it with Luis?”
“No.”
His brow scrunches up. “Is it with… Joe the doorman?”
I smile patiently. “It’s not with anyone you know.”
That seems to confuse Henry further, as if he can’t conceive of there being anyone in my world who isn’t in his. After all, he knew Dina when Greg started banging her, so it makes sense.
Henry flops down on the couch. I can see his fingers are itching to play with his blue ball, but old Mr. Grinch still hasn’t made any attempt to return it. Hmm. Maybe it’s time for another letter taped to his door.
“So what’s his name?” Henry asks.
“Jeremy.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Um…” It occurs to me I never found out Jeremy’s last name. He always pays in cash at the diner, otherwise I would have gotten it off his credit card. “I’m not sure, actually.”
“You don’t know his last name?” Henry’s mouth falls open. “How do you know he isn’t, like, a serial killer if you don’t know his last name?”
A few days ago, while I was in the kitchen making dinner, Henry accidentally tuned in to a TV special about Ted Bundy. I turned it off immediately when I saw what he was watching, but it was too late. He’s slightly obsessed.
“He’s not a serial killer, Hen.”
“But you don’t know.”
True. I don’t know that Jeremy isn’t a serial killer, although I doubt his last name would be revealing… unless, of course, he’s a wanted serial killer. Still, my eight-year-old son has a valid point. How could I go out with a man without knowing his last name? I mean, I didn’t even vet him on the internet. How could I go out with a guy without even typing his name into a Google search engine?
But at the same time, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to discover some bitter blog post where Jeremy is ragging on his ex-wife. I don’t want to find misguided political ranting on Facebook. The guy I met at Moonlight Diner—the one with the great smile and intense eyes and sexy scar, who stood up for me when no one else did—that’s the guy I want to go out with tonight.
That said, as soon as I meet him tonight, I’m going to ask him his last name. I mean, if we’re dating, I really ought to know.
The doorbell rings, which means Greg is early. Most of the time, it irritates me when he shows up early to pick up Henry, but I’m grateful for it tonight. I need time to mentally prepare for this date without my son suggesting he might be a murderer.
“That’s your father,” I tell Henry. I purse my lips. “Do you think you could not tell your father I’ve got a date with a serial killer?”
“But then how can he rescue you?”
“I don’t need to be rescued,” I assure him. And also, if I did, Greg would be the last person up for the job.
Without even checking the peephole, I throw open the door. I’m glad Greg will see me dressed up tonight and apparently looking “pretty.” Let him have a taste of what he’s missing, even though Dina is admittedly really gorgeous.
Except, as it turns out, it isn’t Greg at the door.
Chapter 33: Jeremy
I’ve got two hours until my date with Noelle.
Two hours to shower, get dressed, and drive myself crazy worrying about everything that could go wrong.
I limp down the hallway to get to my door. I’m grateful I made it home in one piece, so after that, everything else is cake. I fumble around in my left pocket for my keys, and it takes me a few seconds to fish them out. Maybe I can’t write well with my left hand, but I’ve trained myself to do most other things with it pretty effectively.
Except when I try to put my key in the lock, it doesn’t fit. I try to push it in, but it just won’t go.
What the hell?
I examine the key. I’ve only got three keys on my ring—one for my main lock, one for the deadbolt, and one for the mailbox. They all look completely different. I’ve got the right key.
Don’t I?
Am I at the wrong door? Is that a possibility? Is my brain so screwed up that even after living here for years, I could still go to the wrong door? Is this a sign I’m having another stroke?
Oh fuck, I don’t want another stroke. Not when I’m only starting to piece everything together again. I don’t want to know what another stroke will steal from me.
But no—the door says 5B. J Grieder. I may not be sure of many things, but I know that’s my name.
I try the key again, and this time I feel something crack under my pressure. I’m not sure what it is, but it feels like someone jammed something in the lock.
Did someone mess with my lock?
I bend down, trying to see inside the keyhole. It’s hard to make out anything, but I’m sure at this point that someone stuffed something in there. And now I’ll have to call Luis to help me out.
This day is getting better and better. First that awful appointment with Dr. DaSilva, then running into Taylor with her baby, and now this, right when I need to be getting ready for my date with Noelle. Showering and dressing are not quick for me. I need this time.
Shit.
Fifteen minutes later, Luis is hunched over the lock on my door. I handed over my key for him to try, just so we could confirm that me being unable to open the door wasn’t just due to my own incompetence. It isn’t though. Luis can’t get the key in either.
So now he’s trying to look inside the lock with a flashlight. There better not be another rodent inside there.
“I see the problem,” Luis says.
“Yeah?”
He nods, straightening up. “Someone jammed a toothpick in your lock.”
“A… a toothpick?”
“Like as a prank or something maybe?” He shrugs. “Anyway, it’s in there, and every time you’ve been pushing your key in, you just made it worse. Now it’s really stuck in there.”
A prank or something.
Henry.
That little punk did this to me.
I try to control my anger. It won’t do me any good to fly off the handle right now. “So what do we do?”
“I gotta get a pair of tweezers,” he says. “I think maybe I can get it out.”
The time until my date with Noelle is dwindling. “How long will it take?”
Luis frowns. “I have no idea. If I can get it out, maybe… ten minutes? But if I can’t and need to replace the lock, well… it could be a while.”
I tighten my grip on my crutch. It could be a while. Of all the days for me to get locked out of my apartment, this is the worst. I’m not going to have time to shower. I’m going to have to rush to change my clothes, if I even get to change at all. Who the hell knows how long this is going to take?
I glare down the hallway, at apartment 5H. Well, I can’t glare directly at it because it’s around the corner, but I think my daggers are rounding the bend and shooting directly at their door. The ball was obnoxious, the mouse was awful, but this is a new level of vindictive. That little brat has gone too far.
Without saying a word to Luis, I start down the hallway. I’m not going to tape an angry note to their door again. I’m done playing games. I’m going to talk to Henry’s parents face-to-face. I’m going to make these people aware of what their little ange
l is doing to me.
And I’m not budging without an apology.
Chapter 34: Noelle
I was absolutely prepared to be nice to Greg tonight and even say a few kind words about his upcoming nuptials. Well, “kind” might be overstating it. I wasn’t going to be mean, at least. But what I’m not prepared for is who is standing in front of me when I open the door to my apartment.
“Jeremy,” I gasp.
He’s standing in the doorway, looking slightly disheveled in blue jeans and his black coat, with his hair mussed from his hat. But he’s still really sexy. I allow myself a tiny smile at the sight of him. Until it occurs to me…
I never told him where I live.
Oh my God, why is Jeremy at my door? This is beyond creepy. Maybe he really is a serial killer. The one time Henry turns out to be right about something…
Except Jeremy looks about as confused as I feel. He’s shifts his weight on his crutch, his brow furrowed. “Noelle?”
“I thought…” I force a smile, even though I’m feeling very uneasy all of a sudden. “Weren’t we meeting at Luigi’s?”
“Yeah, we were.” He frowns, looks behind him, then back at my door. “You live in 5H?”
“I hope so,” I say, and let out a strangled laugh. Strangled. Ugh, bad choice of words.
“But…” He shakes his head. “I’m looking for…”
“Mr. Grinch!” Henry shrieks from behind us. I turn around, and he’s pointing a finger at Jeremy. “He’s here to take Edgar! Don’t let him in!”
“Henry,” I hiss at him. “This isn’t Mr. Grinch. It’s Jeremy, the guy I…”
My voice trails off. Oh no. This is starting to make sense.
Oh God.
When I look back at Jeremy, his face has gone pale. I get the feeling he’s figured it out too. Turns out there was another good reason to find out his last name.
“You’re 5B,” I murmur. “You’re the guy who left that nasty note on my door.”
“Nasty note!” His blue-green eyes widen. “Your kid let a rodent loose in my apartment! You don’t think that warranted some kind of response?”
A muscle twitches in my jaw. The excitement I felt only moments earlier is draining out of me, replaced by seedlings of anger. “Henry is a child, and that was his pet mouse. It got loose. It’s not like he planned it.”
Jeremy glares at my son with an expression I really don’t appreciate. “I’m not so sure.”
I snort. “Please! At least he’s not a thirty-something-year-old man who stole a child’s ball!”
“I didn’t steal his ball!”
“Oh really?” I plant my hands on my hips. “Do you have his ball or not?”
A flush spreads up his neck. “Yeah, I have it. But he threw it at my head! It went into my apartment and broke a glass!” He adjusts his grip on his crutch. “He’s been deliberately torturing me with that ball.”
“It was an accident!” Henry bursts out. He’s standing next to me, glaring at Jeremy, his bottom lip trembling. “I didn’t mean for it to go into your apartment!”
“I know my son,” I say firmly. “If he says it was an accident, it was an accident.”
“Bullshit.”
I wince at the profanity. “I’d thank you not to swear in front of my eight-year-old child.”
“Yeah, well, your eight-year-old child flipped me off.”
I flinch like he hit me. How could he say something like that? Henry would never do that! He doesn’t even know what the middle finger means! This guy is completely out of his mind!
“The reason I’m here,” he goes on, even though I feel like slamming the door in his face, “is your little angel stuffed a toothpick in my lock, so I can’t get the door open. Luis is trying to fix it.” He heaves a sigh. “And I was in a rush tonight, because… well…”
We stare at each other, the fact that that we’ve got a date tonight weighing heavily between us. It’s clear at this point there will be no date. I can’t go out with a man who would lie about my child this way.
And the thought of it makes me so depressed, I could cry…
“I didn’t do it, Mommy,” Henry whimpers.
He’s hiding behind me like he used to do when he was very small and scared of something. My maternal instinct kicks into high gear. This man is out to get my son. And it’s not just Henry—he slammed the door in Shannon’s daughter’s face. He made Joe get rid of the Christmas tree. The only person who seems to have anything positive to say about him is Fanny, who is probably senile.
“Didn’t you tell me on the phone that you like children?” I say.
His brow furrows. “I do like children. I just…”
“You don’t like my child,” I finish for him.
He lowers his eyes, looking down at his sneakers. I assume he meant to change into his nice shirt and tie prior to our date. Whatever messed up his lock was frustrating for him, I’m sure, but he had no right to come over here and accuse us. No right at all.
“You don’t like him.” I raise my eyebrows at Jeremy. “Admit it.”
“Noelle…”
“Admit it.”
“Fine, I think he’s a little brat,” he snaps at me. “He has no regard for my peace and quiet. He’s inconsiderate, and I’m absolutely sure he’s the one who sabotaged my lock. Happy?”
No, not happy. But I needed to hear it.
“I think we’re done here,” I say to Jeremy. “Goodbye.”
I start to close the door, and Jeremy’s eyes widen in panic when he realizes I mean business. “Noelle, come on,” he pleads. “Let’s talk about this…”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
And then I shut the door in his face. Just like he did to poor Katie Williamson.
I hear him knocking at the door but I ignore it. All of a sudden, I feel ridiculous in my dress and makeup and high heels. I was so excited for tonight—I genuinely believed it was the start of something amazing. I knew there was a chance our date might not be as wonderful as I imagined, but I never in a million years would have guessed the date would get canceled altogether.
“Are you still going out with him?” Henry asks in a small voice.
“Absolutely not! How could you think I’d go out with him after what he said about you?”
Henry shrugs his skinny shoulders. “Well, Dina doesn’t like me.”
My heart sinks. “What? Why do you say that?”
“I heard her telling Dad,” he says in a brave little voice that makes my heart absolutely break. “She said I was always making trouble.”
“Oh, Hen…” I bend down and wrap my arms around his small body. He’s still so small. These days, he almost never lets me hug him for a long time, but now he does. It’s a wonderful hug that I never want to end. He rests his face on my shoulder, and when he pulls away, the fabric of my dress is damp and he’s wiping his eyes. He’s hiding his tears, like he always does. “I would never go on a date with a man who doesn’t think you’re wonderful. Got it?”
“But sometimes I do make trouble,” he says quietly.
I touch his chin, tipping it up to look at my face. “That’s okay. All little boys make trouble sometimes. It doesn’t mean you’re not wonderful.”
He nods, thinking this over for a moment. “Mom?”
“Yes, Henry?”
“Um…” He chews on his thumbnail. Oh my God, he’s doing what I do. Nothing tugs at the heartstrings like seeing your kid pick up your own nervous habits. “So… the thing is…”
The doorbell rings, interrupting whatever heartfelt statement my son was about to make. I straighten up, my hands tightening into fists. Does Jeremy honestly think he has a chance of going on a date with me after the things he said and did? I march over to the door and shout, “Go away!”
The response is pounding on the door, followed by a familiar voice yelling, “What the heck, Noelle? Open up!”
Oh. It’s Greg.
I unlock the door before Greg can throw a his
sy fit. His face is all pink when I get it open. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else,” I mumble.
He looks me over in my short dress. I know an appreciative look from Greg Moore when I see it. “Who were you expecting?”
“Nobody,” I mumble.
He raises his eyebrows at me, an amused smile playing on his lips. “Do you have a date, Noelle?”
“Not exactly.” The last person I want to discuss my horrible canceled date with is this man, although I’m worried the whole terrible story will come out once he gets Henry in the car. Eight-year-olds are not great at keeping secrets. “Henry, go get your things.”
Once Henry is out of the room, Greg and I are alone. I think of what Henry said, about Dina not liking him. Maybe I should say something. I hate the idea of him believing Dina doesn’t like him. And even worse is the idea that Dina really doesn’t like him. I never saw her as a maternal type. She seems like more of a husband-stealing type.
“Listen,” I murmur to Greg. “Henry said something a little upsetting to me today.”
“Oh yeah?” He looks in the direction of my bedroom. “What did he say?”
“He says he thinks Dina doesn’t like him.”
Greg’s hesitation says it all. Dina doesn’t like him.
It breaks my heart. How could you not like an eight-year-old boy?
“It’s been a little hard,” Greg admits. “Dina’s really trying, but Henry… well, you know how he can be when he doesn’t like someone.”
I stare at Greg. “What do you mean by that? He’s a child. She should be making the effort.”
“Noelle,” he sighs. “He gave her the finger last weekend.”
Jeremy’s words pop into my head: Yeah, well, your eight-year-old child flipped me off.
Oh my God, that really happened?
“That’s why I thought it would be nice for him to spend part of Christmas with us,” Greg says. “It’s one of those holidays where you can’t be angry. And Dina and I got him some great presents. I just thought…”
I’m still trying to absorb the fact that my third-grader is going around flipping people off. I never thought I’d raise a child who would do something like that. Where did he learn that? Does he even know what it means?
How the Grinch Stole My Heart Page 15
