by Sarina Bowen
I’m more determined than ever to ensnare Maguire’s cheating girlfriend in her own trap. These past two days, I’ve seen two different dudes make their way to Maguire’s apartment when he’s not home. Don’t ask me how I know. Let’s just call it research for the moment I eventually play someone creepy on a Lifetime movie.
And let’s just say these men aren’t watching TV with Maguire’s girlfriend. Those visits have a soundtrack of their own.
It seems odd to me that Maguire doesn’t know his cherry is banging a bunch of sundaes. He’s a cop, right? He should pick up on these things. Maybe he’s just too in love with her to be able to accept reality.
So I’ve decided that reality will accept him instead.
At Meijer, I take my time picking out a few items that will serve as clues. Surely, as a cop, he’ll be able to read the story I’m telling. Just to be safe, I choose a pair of boxers with HOT TAMALE printed on the crotch. This is no time for subtleties. He must understand that something is up. And it’s not him.
I also grab a few other key props, including a slingshot. Don’t judge me. I have a plan. I’ve spent many hours devising my strategy, and it’s brilliant.
Also, I really need some direction in my life.
The next morning, it hurts to wake up. But I’ve set my alarm for the ungodly hour of seven, when I can be sure to catch Hot Cop at home.
And sure enough, I can hear the low rumble of Maguire’s voice through the wall. It’s my favorite sound these days, so I manage to peel myself off the bed and make myself vertical.
Since I’ve laid out my tools ahead of time, it takes mere seconds to silently open the door to the deck and assume the attack position. But first, some recon. I can hear Maguire’s voice clearly now. It’s a warm morning, and his deck door is open, too.
He’s on the phone, I think. “This perp has a system. He steals keys from the valet stand. Uh-huh. When the garage guy steps away. Yeah. Pull the camera footage. Bet you anything it’s the same guy.”
Oh, swoon! My favorite cop is going to nail a bad guy. If he won’t nail me, I guess this is the next best thing. I feel some flutters down below already. I can picture him right now, his shirt sleeves rolled up on muscular forearms. His cup of coffee in hand. He drinks it black, of course. He’s pacing around his apartment, pecs rippling…
My fantasy life might be running away with me. It’s time for action. I pick up the slingshot and load it with the hot tamale boxers. Then I listen carefully to that sexy voice. The moment it dampens—meaning he’s turned his back to me—I stand up, lift the slingshot over the fence and fire.
Then I move to the one spot in the fence where a knothole leaves a peeping space in the fence, to see how I’ve done.
Success! The boxers have flown about eight feet through the air, and fluttered to a landing on the deck boards. Meanwhile, Maguire’s voice does not break rhythm. I’ve launched my attack undetected.
I’m just congratulating myself when I hear the enemy approaching. She announces herself with the tap tap tap of high heels crossing the floor.
Crap!
I hold my breath and continue to peer through the knothole. It’s a terrible view, but it’s enough to see a pair of pumps cross the deck. I hear a gasp. And then a hand plucks the boxers from where they landed.
There’s a flurry of movement. And that bitch chucks the boxers right off the railing. Then she leaves the deck.
A moment later, when I look over the railing, I see them on the ground, four flights down.
My first attack has failed. But this is far from over.
“See you at the shift meeting,” Maguire’s voice says. “Yeah, I’m on until four. Later.”
This isn’t over.
It’s time for coffee, and then I’ll plan the second wave of my attack.
“The boxers were too big. Too obvious,” I tell Cassidy. “But it’s fine, because he gets off work at four. And I have more props.”
“What now? Briefs? Tube socks? A used condom would really get the point across.”
“Ew! Cassidy. I’m running a classier operation here. The cufflinks are up next.”
“Wait, cufflinks? Really? So, in this scenario, she’s banging a seventy-year-old Frenchman. Or the best man at someone’s wedding.”
“Honey, you need to get out more. Plenty of men still wear cufflinks.” Don’t they? The romantic in me sure hopes they do. “Cufflinks are classy. And this is subtle. I have a good feeling about the cufflinks.”
“Go easy on the slingshot,” Cassidy advises. “If you’re not careful you could launch that sucker into next week.”
“I have a plan for that.”
“Of course you do. I’m going to need a full report.”
“You’ll get one.” Of course she will. This is more fun than I’ve had in ages.
My plan has to wait a couple of hours, though. There’s a guy mowing the lawn behind our building. He’s wearing earphones and chewing gum like maybe it’s his first day off cigarettes. He doesn’t glance up at me once.
But still, I have to be careful. Bystanders would consider my actions suspicious.
Because—fine—it’s not exactly normal behavior to push a stepladder up against the fence and study your neighbor’s deck table. And when the landscaper leaves, I do exactly this. With one of the cufflinks in my hand, I brace myself on the ladder, gripping the fence tightly. I take a deep breath. Then I extend my arm and use a low, underhand toss to send the cufflink toward the table.
Plink. It gives one heart-stopping bounce on the surface of the table before landing a few inches from the edge.
“Yes!” I squeal, admiring my work. It’s glinting in the sun. In a few hours, my guy will come home, get a beer out of his fridge, and come outside to enjoy it.
Then he’ll know.
My fantasy spools onward, and it goes like this: Hot Cop will confront his girlfriend tonight. She will tearfully confess. “I don’t deserve you,” she’ll weep.
“No, you don’t!” I’ll say to myself in the living room. Because surely I’ll be able to hear everything.
Maguire will do the chivalrous thing and pass her his handkerchief. Sure, handkerchiefs are even less common than cufflinks. But this is my fantasy, dammit. She’ll wipe her tears and promise to remember him always. And then she’ll take her things and leave.
He’ll walk her out to her car. He’ll kiss her on the cheek. But that will be it for them.
Pause here for a time lapse. The man needs a few weeks to heal, right? If this were a movie, there would be a montage of Maguire running a few extra miles, sweating out the sadness. And getting drunk with his buddies.
The montage cuts to scenes of me lonely on my sofa, waiting for him.
Then, one day soon, we’ll bump into each other in the laundry room. I could speed this up by doing a lot of laundry over the next month. Maybe I’ll even volunteer to do Cassidy’s. Maguire will show up to launder his cop uniforms.
I’ll smile and lend him some fabric softener, while I amuse him with my rapier wit. He’ll invite me in for a drink. But before we even leave the laundry room, we’ll give in to the chemistry that crackles between us. He’ll kiss me up against the dryer stack.
Then he’ll do me on the washer during the spin cycle.
It’s all taking shape in my mind as I stand there on the stepladder congratulating myself. So at first I don’t even notice the crow. He comes in for a landing on the railing of Maguire’s deck. Better his than mine, right? Bird poop is no joke.
But then it all goes wrong in the flash of an eye. The crow flaps right onto the table, picks up the shiny cufflink in his mouth and takes off again.
For a second I’m too stunned to react. My jaw hinges open, and I can only stare at the spot where the cufflink was a moment ago. But then I let fly a little shriek of outrage. “You asshole!” I scream at the sky. “You ruined everything!”
And now I’m that crazy lady, standing on a ladder, peeping into her neighbor’s deck, and
yelling like a banshee.
Hastily I climb back down onto my own side and haul the ladder into my apartment. But I’m steaming. So close to victory! Ruined by a bird whose brain is smaller than a walnut.
On the kitchen counter, I find the other cufflink. I could do the same thing again. But what if the toss goes wrong? Or the bird comes back? Or the bird has friends?
That’s it. No more Ms. Nice Guy. I’m going to get this done for good. My heart rate is elevated, and my ovaries are ready to claim the man who is rightfully mine.
I want justice. And I want to kiss Hot Cop in the laundry room. So I’m going straight to the nuclear option before common sense steps in to stop me.
In my living room, I toe out of my shoes and socks. Then I unlock my door and open it slightly, leaving it ajar. I park my sneaker behind the door, to keep it from swinging wide open. Less than two minutes from now I’m going to need to come back through here.
Tucking the cufflink into the pocket of my shorts, I walk barefoot back through my apartment, grabbing the stepladder on my way. On the deck, I do a quick scan of the property. No landscapers. No neighbors.
It’s now or never, then.
I prop the stepladder against the fence and quickly climb it. Bracing my hands on the top, I pop my body over and jump down onto my neighbor’s side, landing with cat-like ease.
Or at least that’s how I envision myself landing. That’s how I’d land if this were a movie. The truth looks more like hanging on for dear life at the top, questioning every choice I’ve ever made, and then sliding down the other side while trying to avoid splinters in my belly.
I land in a heap on his side of the deck. Ouch.
But never mind. Even if my heart is pounding, I have survived the trip over the fence. If this acting thing doesn’t work out, maybe I should consider stunt work?
I cross the deck in a couple of quick strides. As I reach for the screen door handle, I have one moment of terror. Would he lock it? Have I just trapped myself on his side of the deck? Without food or water or shade or—
The door latch opens easily. Phew! I’ve successfully broken into Hot Cop’s apartment. And, wow, it’s very clean. I knew he was a keeper. There’s no clutter at all. Marie Kondo would be impressed.
I take a moment to just stand here and take it all in. Maguire’s apartment is very white, like mine used to be. But it looks good on him. There are white bookshelves filled with hardcover classics. The Sun Also Rises. The Old Man and the Sea.
My neighbor reads Hemingway! This is shocking and completely obvious at the same time. Hemingway writes gruff, manly stories. He and Maguire could be soulmates. Or at least drinking buddies.
Maguire also has a wall-mounted TV and a video game controller. (Of course he does.) But there’s no hulking macho sofa. There’s modular, contemporary seating in midnight blue, with dove gray pillows.
If I’m honest, the throw pillows are a revelation. My sister and I have a thing for pillows. It’s one of the few proofs that we’re related. And here’s a man with accent pillows! I feel tingles. I can’t wait to tell Sadie.
But, no. I won’t be telling Sadie any of this. I’ve broken into my neighbor’s apartment to place evidence of infidelity where he’ll find it. Normal, well-adjusted adults probably don’t do this sort of thing. So I guess I’d better do my business and get out.
Now where to put the cufflink? The kitchen counter would work. His counter is so freaking clean that it would stand out like a beacon. Unless the cheater comes home first and removes it. Maybe his bedside table is a surer bet? It would reduce the chances of her finding it.
So I’m off in search of Maguire’s bed. But this causes me a moment of confusion, because I expected this apartment to mirror mine. It doesn’t, though. Maguire has two bedrooms. Fancy! The first one is standing open. And I can see a cop’s hat on the bureau, so I know it’s the right room. I tiptoe inside to choose a bedside table and—
I die. This is not a complete exaggeration. My heart definitely develops a brief arrhythmia because Maguire is lying on the bed. He’s here! I’ve just broken into the home of a napping cop.
Omigod, I’m in so much trouble. This is the kind of mistake I might not be able to bounce back from. Is breaking and entering a felony? Will I serve jail time?
At least I look good in orange.
I’m lightheaded suddenly. It’s the fear and also the not breathing. I’m literally afraid to breathe. I take a slow step backward. I can just ease out the way I came. No—not the way I came. I need to leave by the front door.
The escape route is just taking shape in my mind when The Doors start blaring “Light My Fire” from a nearby location. That organ riff shoots right through my consciousness at high volume.
And I scream.
Maguire knifes upward in bed with a warlike shout.
“LIGHT MY FIRE” scream The Doors.
I scream again. It’s a real ear-piercer, like the young Drew Barrymore in E.T. I drop the cufflink, too.
Maguire is off the bed and in front of me. “What the hell, hot neighbor? Is there a fire?”
“No!” I shriek. “Why?” Should I still run for it? I lean down and grab the cufflink. I can’t leave behind any evidence of my insanity.
But he catches my hand in his, the thick fingers making a vice-like grip around my wrist. “What the hell is this?”
“What?” I yell over the music. Playing dumb is my best strategy here. I’ll say that I walked into the wrong apartment by mistake. It’s ridiculous, since I don’t even have a key on me. But if he’s sleepy from his nap, I might be able to talk my way out of this.
Maguire lets go of my wrist and steps over to the bureau. The one with the hat on it. I should have known! If he was at work, he’d have his hat with him.
Good lord, this will not end well. I wonder how high my bail will be set? I can already picture the disappointment on my parents’ faces when I call them in Oregon for the cash to bail me out.
The blaring music stops suddenly.
There are a number of things I could do in this moment. I could make like a deer and freeze, in the hopes he won’t see me. The fact that I’m even considering this is evidence of my instability.
And I was already caught. Literally. He had me by the wrist. Which was strangely nice. I’ve dreamed of his touch. Although I didn’t picture it quite like this.
I basically have two choices: run for it, or flirt my way out of this. Yeah, that second thing. I’m going with that. “Maguire. You called me hot.”
And it almost works. He blinks at me, clearly flustered. Or I just scared the shit out of him by waking him up from a dead sleep. It just takes him a second to clear his head. “I did call you hot. That’s a truth. But what the fuck are you doing here?”
“Trick or treat?” I ask feebly and then hold out my hand to see if he’ll take it again. He doesn’t.
Instead, he glares at my hand. I can see something start to burn behind his eyes. And I bet it’s indignation. So I decide to come clean. “Look, Copper. Your girlfriend is boinking other men when you’re not here. Different men. One of them has a dog, and they let it bark while they boink. And you seem really nice, and you’re pretty hot yourself, and it just doesn’t seem fair that a nice, hot cop should be treated so poorly.”
He blinks. “A dog?”
“Yes!” I shriek. “But, seriously, that’s what you take away from all this?”
“I’m allergic.”
I throw up my hands in frustration. “Omigod, I’m trying to tell you something important.”
“But why break in?” he demands. “You could have knocked on my door like a sane person.”
“I. Like. You.” I grind out in a crazy voice. “I didn’t want to be the one who ruined your day!”
“Aw!” He actually cracks a smile. “So you decided to commit a crime to tell me this? That’s so special.”
“Ha! No!” I laugh. As if anyone would ever understand my convoluted brain. “I decided to pl
ant evidence so that you would find it and figure out that she’s cheating on you. You weren’t supposed to know I was involved at all.”
His forehead wrinkles. “How’d your plan work out for you?”
I think about it. “Not well. The low point is getting caught. And when I threw the hot tamale boxers over and your princess grabbed them and hid them. Oh. Yeah. And when the crow stole the cufflink…”
“Who wears cufflinks anymore?” he asks.
“Plenty of people! Plenty!”
He grins, but goes silent. I realize he’s studying me. No. Wait. He’s doing more than studying me. He’s performing some kind of cop Jedi magic. I know this because I recently auditioned for a pilot called Pierson of Interest, starring Katie Pierson, a cop who gets framed for a murder and… Never mind. It’s not important. But I learned that cops like to wait you out, making you so uncomfortable that you confess everything.
Except I already did. “Can I go now?” I ask feebly.
He holds up a finger. It’s a nice finger. Sorta strong and sexy. I could do a lot with that finger. “Just a second,” he says. “I’m processing.”
This time I wait him out. I feel like I should start humming the Jeopardy theme song.
“First of all, what’s your name?” he asks. His voice is all serious-like. Very coppy. The hairs on my arms stand up. If I had a penis, it would be standing up too.
“Meg,” I say. I try to say it challenging-like, like a 1930s Film Noir Dame, but it’s hard to pack all of that into one syllable. I give it my best shot.
“You realize you are not very good at jumping to conclusions. Or into people’s apartments.”
My questioning look says it all.
Then he continues. “Think about it. The first time we met, you thought I was a stripper.”
“Hey! That does not mean I jump to poor conclusions. You should be a stripper. You’ve got the bod for it.”
His eyes flare, and there’s another awkward pause. He’s processing that too. “No,” he finally decides. “Not in a million years. I have no sense of rhythm.”
I’d like to dispute that, because I’ve been listening to him have sex over the past month and he’s got plenty of rhythm. He’s got Fred Astaire rhythm. I hear Fred Astaire had really big hands.
