Second First Impressions

by Sally Thorne

  “Sorry to bother you,” Teddy says when I open my door.

  I’m still holding the button in a half in/half out purgatory and it’s pretty obvious I was about to undress. For a moment, my heart is in my throat. I don’t know him, and in this low light he’s positively vampiric, with sharp-looking teeth and an interested gleam in his eye.

  He reads me and steps back, facing away. “I can come back.”

  “No, it’s fine. What’s up?” I redo the button. And the one above it for good measure. I’m tortoising.

  “Where’s the hot-water unit?”

  “We share one. Sorry, I didn’t think.” I walk a few yards inside and he isn’t following me. It occurs to me that vampires need to be invited in. “Uh, enter.”

  He comes in and looks around slowly. “I love your wallpaper. It’s a repro Morris pattern, right?”

  He really is into design. “Yes, it’s called Blackthorn. I hung it myself.” I bought one roll per paycheck for an entire year. Sylvia cackled at my folly, decorating something that isn’t even mine. I’ve enclosed myself in this dark, flowered forest and I’m glad I did. Especially right now.

  Teddy takes out his phone and begins to pick out details and sections to photograph. “It reminds me of the endpapers of a fairy-tale book.” Now he strokes down the wall, and I swear, I feel his palm down my back. “You did a perfect job, Ruthie. The pattern’s lined up so well.”

  His fingers marked GIVE find the line between the sheets and slide up. Forgotten parts of my body tighten in response.

  Wallpaper gets more action than me. “Thanks. Do you like flowers?”

  “The guys at the studio give me shit, but I’ve got a real thing for flowers. I love doing them on clients.” He exhales, dramatic and shivery. “Can I put your walls all over me?”

  I wonder what it’s like to just say whatever outrageous thing is in your head. My voice is tight with frustration at myself when all I manage to parry back is, “Go right ahead.”

  He mistakes my tone for censure. “Sorry. I always seem to say the stupidest stuff to you.” Now the moment is over and he’s in my linen closet. “I knew you’d have a label maker. So what am I looking for here? I can’t see it.”

  “The hot-water unit.”

  “Where?”

  It is an ancient metal drum, it takes up half the space, and is taller than me. I’m looking up to check if he’s a very unobservant person when I see his eyes are sparkling with fun. He says, “Oh, there it is. Ruthie, why didn’t you label it?”

  A joke where I’m the punch line. My favorite kind. “There’s a big lever on the back of it. I’ll get it—”

  I haven’t finished my sentence when he’s knelt down, reached back, and said, “There.”

  “Oh. Wasn’t it hard?”

  “Nah,” he says, back on his feet, wiping his palm on his knee. Having biceps and strong hands must be nice.

  “Now you can have a hot bath.”

  “A bath,” he repeats, eyes sideways to my bathroom, where the tap is pouring gallons of our now-shared water. What a dumb suggestion. Do men even have baths? But then he says, “I never thought of that. Maybe I will.”

  I walk in and turn off the faucet. “I’ll try to not use all the water.”

  To my back he says, “Don’t change your routine on my account.” Funny, that was just what I was telling myself, right before he appeared and interrupted it. He leans on the bathroom doorframe, rubbing his face. “I would kill to have a routine.”

  “I take it your life has been a little unstructured lately.”

  “That’s an elegant way to describe it. Unstructured.” He hesitates, then apparently decides to confide in me. “When you were a kid, did you have a bedtime? Strict parents?” I nod. “I want a label maker, but I think it’s too late for me.”

  “It’s not too late.” I want his smile to come back. “I can give you a bedtime if that’s helpful.”

  He’s looking at me, then away, cataloging the room.

  Now back to me.

  Is seeing me out of an office context weird for him? The candles glow in his eyes, his dark hair is cloaking him, and I think of old-fashioned illustrations of the devil. What would my parents say if they knew I was in the same room as this man? They would say a prayer.

  I should feel unsafe and scared. I don’t. “So you got the job for the Parlonis.”

  “I did.”

  “What shirt did you buy?”

  “I went to the thrift store on Martin Street and found a vintage blouse. I think it was a kid’s shirt. Seemed about her size. It was a cream color, so I wasn’t sure if it counted. I wanted to call you and cheat.” He grins and I swear, the candles all flare. In a voice like velvet he adds, “Can I have your number?”

  It’s a rookie error to give your number to a Parloni assistant. “That’s actually my favorite store. Who was working? A young guy?”

  Eyebrows down. “Yeah. Does he have your number?”

  “No, that’s Kurt. He puts aside things in my size he thinks I’ll like, but he’s usually so off base. He picks out some really short skirts.” My current hemline is more on the ankle end of the scale.

  “I’ll bet he does.” Teddy’s eyes blaze brighter. He resumes his catalog of the bathroom until he’s run out of things to look at. Now I’m getting a long perusal. “Your hair is really pretty.”

  I put my hand up to it automatically. “I’m about to do a keratin treatment. Let’s just say I’m feeling inspired.”

  He doesn’t notice my hidden compliment. Fondly, he says, “Women. How do you handle all the upkeep? You know you don’t actually have to do all that stuff.” He drags a hand through his own hair.

  I gesture to his tattoos. “I would bet my hair treatments took less time than those.”

  He takes the point with a one-shoulder shrug. “What were some of the other outcomes of the White Shirt Challenge?”

  The room’s getting too warm. Every inhale is full of steam and fragrance. I’m fogging up like a mirror. “Some wasted time going somewhere like Chanel or Gucci.”

  I squeeze past him in the doorway. He smells like a sweet tea bag; how obnoxiously nice. He tags along beside me, extending our claustrophobic squeeze. “Going to Gucci is a waste of time?”

  “It’s like a trick question. You’ll never find a shirt there for only $300. That’s a mistake that has pushed some young men to the brink.” I walk through the living room and click on a few lamps. “Some go to Target. Some take the $300 and never come back. You did good,” I admit grudgingly. “Vintage is what I would go for, too.”

  “No, she absolutely hated the shirt. My first task in the morning is to bury it in the garden, I quote, ‘a minimum of three feet deep.’ I think she’s serious.”

  “I guarantee she is.”

  “Despite the fashion fail, she appreciated the lateral thinking, and the $298 change.” Now he’s standing in the doorway to my bedroom. He puts his hands on his hips. “Don’t mind me, I’m a very nosy person. Ruthie Midona’s bedroom.”

  (This is said with completely unearned awe.)

  If he slides a toe over that threshold, I am grabbing him by the scruff and throwing him out. “You shouldn’t just look without being invited to. What if there’s . . . mess?”

  He makes a soft noise, like tsk. “I’ve already established that you’re a very tidy person. I love looking in women’s rooms. I learn a lot.”

  “I’m sure,” I reply so dourly that he laughs. “Go on then, roast me. Tell me how boring I am.” Taking control of oncoming teasing is an advanced technique.

  “You’re very, very interesting.” He’s utterly sincere. I need to remember that’s his countertechnique. “You always seem so concerned. Relax. You’ll get a wrinkle. It’s all good.”

  I know he’s got a reason for hanging around here, and it isn’t anything to do with how interesting I am. If this was high school, I’d suspect he’s got a forgotten essay due tomorrow. Please get the heart stab over with. “Look
at those baskets on top of the wardrobe. They’re all labeled. With my label maker.”

  He shivers like a goose has walked over his grave. “Hot.”

  “Oh, very.” I always thought of my bedroom as cute and cozy, but I think it looks very childish to him. My eyes drop to my bed and I feel heat rising up my neck.

  “Hey man,” he says to the ancient teddy bear on my bed. “What’s up. I’m Teddy. And you are?” He looks at me sideways. I seem to feel his smile low down in my body. Really low. He says, “Please, please tell me it’s called what I think it’s called.”

  I barely survive the voice and the eyes. “His name is Rupert,” I lie with dignity.

  He doesn’t buy it. “Sure. So who sees this room?” What odd phrasing.

  “What do you mean? No one sees it except me. And now you.” This makes him smile again and dislodge his shoulder from the doorframe. “Scoot, Teddy. I’ve got a bath to take.” I almost get him out.

  “I have a bit of a problem.” His hand wraps around the door, and I see those knuckles. TAKE. A timely reminder. The lingering is about to be explained.

  “Tell me about it in the morning.” I begin to peel each finger loose. T, A, K . . .

  “I have no sheets. Or towels. Or . . . anything that isn’t clothes. Not even a bar of soap, let alone a scented candle. I think I need help.”

  Maybe I should be hospitable to the boss’s son.

  “I’m sure there’s some emergency supplies in there. Let me take a look.” I follow him into his new home and wince. Cold, dank, and barely furnished. Okay, I do feel bad for him. “This is the thermostat. I’m not sure it works.”

  “It has all the charm of a Soviet missile testing facility. Can you please be my interior decorator?” Teddy bumps my shoulder with his in a friendly way. “I’m on a budget, but I know you can work miracles.”

  “Sorry, I’m not taking on new clients.”

  “I’d much rather be in there”—he nods at our shared wall—“with you.”

  My heart unstitches itself from my rib cage and bounces across the floor. Just as I’m about to start scrambling for it, he adds, “Kidding, kidding. I only want you for your TV.”

  Translation: Don’t get the wrong idea, dork. I open the linen cupboard. “I could have sworn there was a set of sheets around here.” There’s not even a roll of toilet paper. Very hard times.

  “Ruthie,” Teddy says all husky and persuasive behind me. That wallpaper-stroke sensation slides down my back again, but he didn’t lay a finger on me. “Could I have your Wi-Fi password?”

  “You are dreaming, Theodore.” I have to be a bit cruel to this tomcat, or he’ll be mewing at my door all night. “Well, the supermarket is still open. Off you go.”

  He’s glowing at me now. He’s got a special smile with perfect teeth, somehow increasing the intensity the longer I stare up at him. “What is it you think you’re doing right now?”

  He blinks and the force field dims. “What?”

  “You’re attempting to charm me.” I’m gratified to see he’s now quite embarrassed and he now can’t meet my gaze. “Your magical powers probably work on girls a lot, but they won’t on me.” I hope I’m right. I go back into my cottage and he slides in behind me before the door shuts.

  “It’s so warm in here.” He rubs his hands together like he’s come in from a blizzard. His pink cheeks add to the effect. “I’ll just sit awhile.” Now he’s on my couch, unfolding a health magazine. “Let’s see. Yeast infections. What the hell does that mean? What’s yeast?” There’s an excruciating pause as his eyes move side to side. Sorrowful, he says, “How do women endure it all?”

  I find words. “I’m not having a bath while you sit out here.”

  “Why not?” He looks back at the oven, still preheating. He’s thinking about how to score an invitation for dinner. He pats the TV remote. He snuggles into a cushion and sighs. “I think I’m in heaven.”

  There’s no lock on the bathroom door. “I don’t know you.”

  “I feel like I’ve known you forever,” Teddy replies, with an earnestness that takes a bone-crushing amount of effort to resist. But to borrow Renata’s words: I’ve been training for this.

  When he leaves for good, I’ll be left remembering how lovely this moment felt. Effortless, instant friendships don’t come along every day. Everyone who’s needed my help has eventually vanished without a backward glance. The fold-out sofa in my parents’ basement is remade with fresh sheets. The residents change their address to heaven. The Parloni boys leave in a fury. Melanie’s contract will end. Sylvia hasn’t sent me a postcard.

  Sadness has a good grip on my throat. “Out.”

  Teddy heaves a big sigh. “Well, hurry up and have your bath so I can come back in and you can know me.” Like that’s a perfectly reasonable thing to tell your new neighbor/virtual stranger, he walks out—with my magazine—and closes the front door behind him.

  Being naked feels wrong now, but I persevere. I sink down in the bath and wait for the heat to sink into my muscles and slowly unpin me. The angry return email I’ll get from Sylvia about today’s developments feels further away. She can’t get me here. I melt into a pink marshmallow, every single stress I’ve had throughout the day just gone—

  “Ruthie.”

  I jolt upright, sloshing water over the edge. A candle goes out. I cover myself with my arms, top and bottom, and I have to recheck that he hasn’t wandered in. “What is it?”

  His voice is crystal clear through the wall. “I’m lonely.”

  I’m glad he can’t know I smiled at that. It would only encourage him. “Go away, Teddy, I am in the bath.”

  “Fuck, these walls are thin. We need to make a toilet roster. I have this medical condition where I cannot take a shit if a pretty girl might be listening.” I hear a tub-squeak on his side of the wall.

  My mouth opens and I cackle at the ceiling. “Oh my God.” I blaspheme loud enough that God’s going to call my father personally. Reverend Midona, it’s about your daughter. Wait. Did Teddy say pretty girl?

  I can hear the grin in his voice as he continues. “I’m just sitting here now in my empty bathtub, fully clothed, so keep your mind out of the gutter. None of the luxuries you’re enjoying right now. Definitely no kerosene hair treatments.”

  “Try keeping your inner monologue inner.” I’m grinning too. “I bet you’ve used handwash as shampoo.”

  “I have, is it that obvious? I don’t deserve this amazing hair.” A big pause is left, perhaps for a compliment. “I need to buy a toothbrush.” Another pause is left dangling for a small eternity. “Come help me choose one. You’re tidy, I’m a mess. Label my life for me.”

  This isn’t the first time a new Parloni hire asked me to help with something. My smile fades and I remember how Jerry Prescott tried to task me to clean Teddy’s new quarters. “Was I put on this earth to be an assistant?”

  “I don’t even know how to work out what size sheets to buy. I texted a picture of the mattress to my sister Daisy, but I had nothing to use for scale.”

  The word scale makes me think of bananas and ChapSticks. “And?” I have to sluice water over my face.

  He has a fond laugh in his voice. “She said to ask a grown-up.”

  “Does the cute helpless thing work on everyone?”

  Cheerful: “Most people. Ever been on a motorbike?” He’s actually serious.

  “I’m sorry to say that I am done for the day.” Tonight’s routine will continue. Oven timer ding, today’s Heaven Sent episodes, and a bit of lurking around in the forum. I’ll do some stretches, write in my journal, and then I’ll be tucked up in bed with my sweet old Ted . . . I mean, Rupert. My childhood bear, Rupert.

  He says, “Pretty early to be done for the day. It’s six thirty.”

  “In Providence time, that’s midevening.”

  In a way that makes me think he is trying to be careful, he says, “You know there’s a world outside Providence, don’t you?”

&nbs
p; He’s too close to a nerve there and I feel the twinge. “I don’t have to explain my routine to you, Complete Stranger.” I inhale deep and slide all the way under the water, exhaling bubble after bubble.

  When I resurface I hear, “We’re neighbors. We share everything.”

  I pick up a bar of soap from the ledge and regard it dolefully. Everything? “I really don’t remember that being part of the deal.”

  “The deal?”

  I’m confused. “Huh?”

  “Did my dad say something like: If you can get my baby bear interested in the family business, I’ll give you a ten grand bonus?” Teddy does a good impression of his dad. I also think he’s worried about my answer.

  “I wish he did say that.” I splash water on my knees to watch the suds slide. When he doesn’t react, I add, “I’m kidding. No bribes were taken.”

  He agrees: “My sparkling company is more than enough compensation.”

  “You know what would be nice compensation? The twenty dollars you owe me.”

  “Oh. That. Yes.” There’s the sound of empty-tub-squeaking; he’s either getting comfier or extracting himself. “I will absolutely pay you back as soon as I find my wallet. My next scheduled Good Samaritan is taking their time on that.”

  Must be nice to put your full faith in the universe. “Did you cancel your cards?”

  “Ruthie, they canceled themselves long ago.” He groans something that sounds like urggg-I’m-a-mess. In his husky voice now, he adds, “Ever maxed a card out, Tidy Girl?”

  What a ludicrous question. “I take all forms of payment. Bank transfer, PayPal, Venmo, Western Union. Gold bullion. Pennies.” When he doesn’t reply or laugh, I ask, “Your dad owns this place, but you don’t have twenty bucks?”

  “Please stop bringing up what my dad has. He and I are two different people. He has his things. I have mine.”

  (It really sounds like Teddy has no things.)

  How weird that it’s the son of a rich guy who is making me appreciate all the luxuries I have. Soap and towels. “Why aren’t you working at your tattoo studio now? What happened?”