Desperately Seeking Landlord

by Smeltzer, Micalea

  5

  Miranda

  Plopping on Lou’s couch, I cross my legs under me. I hold the paper plate with two slices of pizza close to my chest, terrified it might fall on the floor. But let’s be real, at some point I will get sauce and cheese on my boobs.

  From the small kitchen to my right, Abel and Lou are the picture of domestic bliss as he bends to kiss her. He’s just come home from work and brought the pizza with him. When I asked Lou why it couldn’t be delivered, she mentioned something about a delivery boy seeing her naked. It made no sense to me.

  They each grab a plate themselves and Lou sits beside me while Abel takes the chair. I wish I could get over this feeling of always crashing their good time. Lou is my best friend, and Abel is clearly the man she’s going to spend the rest of her life with, so he’s not going anywhere. It just feels so lopsided though. Them in love, and then there’s me.

  Reason number two why I’m single: I spend the evening eating pizza with my best friend and her boyfriend instead of going out.

  “I have something to tell you guys,” I announce around a stringy mouthful of pizza.

  “You’re becoming a stripper?” Lou questions at the same time Abel says, “Sounds serious.”

  “I ran into Jamie.” They both roll their eyes. “And he has a kid—a son.”

  Lou’s jaw drops and Abel looks confused.

  “Jamie doesn’t have a kid,” Abel blurts. “That’s impossible. Who would procreate with that prick?”

  “Well, apparently someone did.”

  “You’re lying,” Lou accuses. “I’ve known Jamie since I moved in here. I’ve never seen a kid and he’s never mentioned one.”

  “Did you know he’s divorced?”

  Abel sputters. “Who the hell in their right mind would marry him?”

  Abel particularly hates Jamie. I don’t blame him. In the past Jamie has made lewd comments and been downright rude to Lou. Abel has no tolerance when it comes to that. You’d think that would’ve been enough to keep me from getting involved with him, but I’m not always the brightest crayon in the box when I get a hankering for a good dicking.

  “Well, he’s divorced. Clearly she smartened up and left him. I still can’t believe you’ve slept with him,” she gripes, biting into her crust.

  I wince. “I think there’s more to it than that. He has custody of his son.” Last night he gave me more information than he ever has, but there was still so much left unsaid, but I could infer some things by reading between the lines. “I think a lot of the way he acts is to keep people at a distance. I don’t know how long it’s been since his divorce, but I got the impression his wife did a number on him.”

  Last night showed me there was more to Jamie than any of us have ever given him credit for. I mean, he gave me an unbelievable orgasm and didn’t wait around expecting one in return. But more important than that, he bought the paint I dropped before fleeing. I really needed it and there was no way I was returning to get it after that fiasco. But he bought it and brought it to me anyway. He didn’t have to do that but he did.

  “How did you even find all this out?” Lou asks, perking up as she becomes invested in this story.

  I exhale a sigh, the pizza I was eating now sitting heavy in my stomach.

  “I ran into him when I went to Michaels. His son was with him and I might’ve freaked out thinking he was married and cheated on his wife with me. Surprise, surprise, he actually showed up at my apartment later, after I ran away from him, to explain.”

  “I have such a hard time picturing Jamie married.” She says the word like it’s dirty, and I guess when it comes to him it is. Any guy who is as rude, crass, and arrogant as he is definitely isn’t the marrying type.

  “I hope he’s not raising the kid to be just like him.” Abel lets out a disgusted breath, setting his empty plate aside. He grabs a bottle of blue Gatorade and gulps some down. Lou eyes him, making sure he sets the bottle down on a coaster.

  “I’m sure he’s a better father than person.” I cringe, because Jamie’s not all bad. Only, mostly.

  Abel raises a dark brow and I frown back.

  Me defending Jamie is laughable, especially in such a poor way. I don’t even like the guy. Yeah, our sex is great—was—but it never went beyond that and when he ended things the way he did, it just reinforced what an asshole he is.

  But you sure didn’t have a problem letting him finger your pussy last night did you?

  I bat those thoughts away, like literally motion with my hand trying to get rid of them and Abel gives me a funny look.

  “What are you doing?”

  “There was a fly,” I lie easily.

  Lou shakes her head at me and they exchange a look. We all know there was no fly. I’m just crazy.

  I finish my pizza, toss the plate away, and grab my purse.

  “I better get going, guys. I have … to knit a sweater.”

  Lou rolls her eyes. “Likely story.”

  I shrug. “It was the best I could come up with on the fly … no pun intended.”

  She laughs and Abel hides a smile.

  “But really,” I continue, “I want to go home, take a shower, get in my pajamas, and watch this documentary I recorded on JFK Jr. With me gone y’all can have some hot freaky sex or whatever it is you do when I’m not around ruining the fun.”

  Lou tosses her head back laughing, her blonde tresses swinging around her shoulders. Abel merely covers his face with his hands.

  “I’ll see you guys … well, let’s just be realistic, tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Love you,” Lou calls after me with a wave.

  I blow a kiss and close the door behind me.

  On my way across town to my apartment I blast Lizzo’s new album, doing some awkward car dance moves every time I reach a stoplight. Her music makes me feel like a bad ass and I just have to move.

  Turning onto Airport Road I make an immediate right into my rundown apartment complex. The sun is beginning to go down and I grab my bag, heading inside.

  “Hi, Miranda.” I bristle at my name on the lips of Mr. Creepy Creeper Guy as I call him. His real name is Stan—short for Stanley, which he continuously reminds me of, not that I care. While Jamie might come across as a rude douchebag ninety-nine percent of the time, he doesn’t give me the impression he might murder me and cover his body in my skin. Stan does.

  “Stan Shunpike,” I mutter back, not making eye contact as I step pass him, heading for the stairs. Thank God he doesn’t live on the same floor as me—not that he can’t climb stairs if he feels like murdering me, but it does give me a sense of ease.

  “Still don’t know who that is.” I can tell from his voice he’s sporting his smarmy smile.

  I pause and look back at him. He’s probably in his late twenties, but he looks more like forty. He’s losing his hair, his skin has a grayish hue, his acne scars look like gigantic craters, and his teeth are a rotted gravestone color. It’s druggie city over here and Stan is their leader.

  “Still don’t care that you don’t know.”

  He chuckles, but it’s not a pleasant sound. It’s more like glass raining down on my body. “One of these days, Miranda. One of these days.” He wags a finger at me and I make a break for the stairs, hurrying up to my apartment.

  I don’t know what he has planned for one of these days but I don’t want to be finding out.

  Opening the door, I slip inside and make sure everything is locked before I set my purse on the floor. I start taking my clothes off as I move through the apartment, leaving them in a trail behind me.

  Hopping in the shower, I scrub and buff my body, taking extra care to shave. It’s totally dumb of me since what happened with Jamie last night will not be happening again. Ever.

  I get out, wrapping my body in a towel and another around my hair. Padding across the hall to my bedroom to change into my pajamas I realize how quiet it is. It didn’t used to bother me, being alone, and I hate that it does now.
It’s not that I’m not independent, but there is comfort in having another person around.

  Doing my best to dismiss those thoughts I turn the TV on and slip beneath the sheets. The documentary comes on and I let out a hefty sigh.

  Reason number three why I’m single: I watch documentaries about dead people.

  6

  Jamie

  “Tobias! You have five seconds to get downstairs!” I glare down at my watch, running two minutes late already to drop Tobias off at his summer day camp. Two minutes might not seem like a lot, but when you’re a parent two minutes turns into twenty in the blink of an eye. “Tobias!” I raise my voice in irritation.

  At seven years old he’s recently hit this stage where he suddenly cares about what clothes he wears and has to style his hair just so. I don’t get it. I expected that to come later, much later, in high school or something. But not with my son. He wants to be impeccably groomed every morning. I guess it shouldn’t be too shocking since I’m used to wearing dress pants and shirts, hair neat, shoes shined—but kids are supposed to play in the mud and get dirty. At least, that’s what I did.

  My mom shakes her head as she steps out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a checkered dishrag.

  “Give the child a break.”

  I exhale a sigh. “I can’t be late.”

  She walks forward a few feet and grasps my forearm. “I know.”

  My mom’s hair is a light gray color, pulled back in a bun. Her age is showing around her eyes and mouth, but I still think she’s beautiful, and the best mom I could ask for.

  “It’s going to be fine, Jamie. You worry too much.” She stands on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek and I force a smile for her benefit.

  “Tobias! We have to go!”

  “I’ve told you, Dad, it’s Toby.” He appears at the top of the stairs in a pair of church clothes. Black pressed pants, a blue button down shirt he’s carefully tucked into his pants, except for a bit sticking out the back that he missed, and a suit vest. It’s easily ninety-five degrees outside.

  This child.

  “I named you Tobias, that’s what I’ll call you. You’re going to get hot,” I warn him, eyeing his clothes. I don’t bother arguing with him to take them off, I learned months ago when this phase began, or whatever it is, to roll with it.

  “Come here, child,” my mother chides, tucking his shirt into the back of his pants.

  “I’ll be fine, Dad.” He sighs heavily, like I’m the pain in his ass. I have to try not to smile. Not only does Tobias look exactly like me, but he acts like it too. Thank God on both accounts. I don’t know what I’d do if he behaved like his mother. “What are you doing, Grandma Jo?”

  “Tucking your shirt in, you loon. You missed a spot.”

  Once he’s fixed, I place a gentle hand on his shoulder and direct him to the garage to get in the car. Tobias is easily distracted and if I don’t watch, we’ll be another five minutes late.

  Tobias hops in the backseat of my black BMW X6 and buckles himself into his booster seat. A snooty elderly lady at the Quick Mart the other evening haughtily stuck her nose in the air and asked why a kid his age and size was in a booster seat.

  “Safety, ma’am,” I replied with a glower. Thankfully, that got her to shut up.

  I might be a lot of things, but Tobias is my everything, and his safety is my upmost priority. I almost lost him once—twice, actually—and I won’t let some careless mistake on my part be the reason he’s taken from me.

  Climbing into my car I wave goodbye to my mother who stands in the doorway of the house, watching us go.

  The drive to the school is a short one and I walk him inside, making sure he’s accounted for before I leave. The two teachers running the program have assured me my vigilance isn’t necessary, but they don’t know what I’m dealing with.

  Leaving the school, I swing by the closest Starbucks for a black coffee. She shouldn’t cross my mind, not at all when I have more important things to worry about, but I scan the parking lot for a lime green Kia Soul. There’s not one there. My chest tightens. I want to lie and say it’s relief that makes me feel this way, but it’s not. I was selfishly hoping for one small peek at Miranda to make my day seem a little bit better than the shit fest I know is headed my way.

  Grabbing my coffee from the drive-thru window, I drive an hour into Sterling to my lawyer’s office. Don Bellamy is the best custody lawyer in the tri-state area. I made sure of it seven years ago when I had to fight for custody of my son from someone who didn’t even want him, but wanted to keep him once she found out how much she could get in child support.

  Parking in the lot I head inside, trying but failing to take meditative breaths.

  I can be a raging asshole most days, but my ex-wife truly brings out the best in me.

  “Jamie.”

  I look down a well-lit hall and Don strides toward me. A file is clasped in his hand and he holds out his other as he reaches me.

  “Is she here?” I hate that my voice sounds shaky. Shannon has the ability to unravel me when I need to stay sane and level-headed.

  “She is.” He nods. “Just remember, this meeting is a formality. You don’t owe her anything. She has no rights to Tobias, she signed them all over. But agreeing to meet with her makes you look good should she decide to start trouble.”

  I nod. It’s things I all know already, but my stomach still feels unsettled.

  I smooth my hands over my button down and gripe, “Let’s get this over with.”

  Following him down the hallway he opens the door to a conference room with a round wood table and six chairs.

  Shannon is seated at one, her blonde hair is cut short, almost in what I guess is a bob. She’s makeup free, which is a rare sight since she was always caked in makeup before and is probably done intentionally so she can seem demure. She looks older, a little warier, but I guess that’s to be expected since I haven’t seen her in nearly seven years.

  “Jamie.” She looks at me in surprise, which is laughable considering she’s the one who demanded this meeting.

  “Shannon.” I pull out the chair on the other side of the table from hers, careful to keep my tone neutral. “Where’s your lawyer?”

  “I didn’t think one was necessary. This is just a conversation, correct?” She arches a brow, drumming her white tipped nails on the counter. French, the word comes to my brain and I recall her once telling me they’re French tipped.

  “I don’t know.” I cross my fingers together and lay them flat on the table. “You tell me.”

  Don sits down beside me with a Styrofoam cup of coffee, the steam filtering in the air.

  She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, but it’s so short it immediately falls forward.

  “It’s been eight years since I got pregnant, Jamie. I’m a different person now. I’ve done a lot of growing and changing. Is it impossible to think I want to see my son?”

  I look her over carefully. She doesn’t look like a sad and grieving mother over the fact that she hasn’t seen her son since he was an infant.

  “Yes, yes it is.”

  Her face crinkles in irritation but she quickly schools it into a mask of sweetness. Out of the corner of my eye I see Don make a note on a pad I didn’t even know he’d procured. The file sits to his left, grazing his fingertips of that hand.

  Shannon’s eyes narrow in on his movement and she sits up a little straighter, pursing her lips.

  “You signed your rights away,” I remind her stiffly.

  She raises her chin. “It doesn’t change the fact that he shares my DNA.”

  I want to slam my hand down on the table, snarl at her, let loose everything I’ve ever wanted to say to her. But I can’t. I have to keep my head on straight. Tobias is my top priority and I can’t let Shannon fuck with my head.

  “And mine.” My voice is forcibly soft. “But I’m one-hundred percent his parent. You can’t say the same.” She opens her mouth to argue and I cut her off. “A parent is t
he person who is there twenty-four-seven. The one who wipes asses. Checks temperatures. Cleans up vomit. Attends every school function. You’ve done nothing for him. Nothing.” I jab my finger into the table and Don clears his throat. I release a pent up breath. “You wanted an abortion,” I remind her softly, tamping my emotions down because even to this day this fact grates at me. When I look at my amazing, brilliant son, I can’t imagine what possessed her to even consider the possibility.

  She rolls her eyes. “I was twenty-seven. We’d just gotten married.”

  Rage. My fists curl beneath the table. I don’t want to hit her. Just metaphorically knock some sense into her.

  “Twenty-seven isn’t too young to have a kid, sweetheart,” I mock and she flinches. “And as you pointed out, we were married. Established. We had the money to handle a child, a home, but you didn’t want him.”

  “You knew I didn’t want kids.”

  Booyah.

  I lean back, smiling like the fucking cat who ate the canary because I’ve snared her right where I want her. “Then why do you want him now?”

  Her mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water.

  I stand up and look down at Don. “I think that’ll be all. As always, great seeing you Shannon—next time, go easy on the botox.”

  Her face turns red and before she can retort my long legs are carrying me from the room and out of the building.

  7

  Miranda

  My legs are crossed under me, my tongue stuck slightly out between my lips. Using my thumb, I smudge the charcoal a bit on the sketchpad balanced on my knee. My playlist is on softly in the background as well as the TV. Working in silence is the bane of my existence.

  The whole right side of my hand and arm is covered in charcoal, and there’s probably some smeared across my face from the repetitiveness of which I shove my hair out of my eyes. My dark hair is long, thick, and curly. Most days I straighten it, I find it easier to control that way, but I didn’t feel like messing with it after my shower. I’m sure I resemble Medusa.