Look the Part

by Jewel E. Ann

  “It’s not.” He doesn’t blink.

  The man makes minor adjustments to his wardrobe every ten seconds. He knows his tie is straight. His hair is perfect. And his attitude is infuriating. I may be a little turned on at the moment.

  “It’s crazy. I never thought about law school, but right now I’d love to duke it out with you in a courtroom. Shove you into the ropes a few times just to watch you spring back, fists jabbing, teeth clenched. But…” I push off his desk and pull back my shoulders as I whistle do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, do ending with a smile “…I need to get upstairs and teach a few chords. Maybe Harry’s mom will appreciate his interest in music more than his father.”

  Turning on my heel, I wink at Amanda. Her ghosted complexion gives me a second of pause. I took her for a feisty one too. Why the look of horror?

  “Harrison’s mother is dead. So that leaves me with the final word on his musical endeavor, and the word is no,” Flint says with a finality that shatters my confidence.

  Amanda cringes. I die on the spot.

  Death trumps everything else in life. He’s left me without an argument.

  “I’m sorry.” I can’t look at him. I don’t want to know what death looks like on the face of Flint Hopkins. We should remember people in their most beautiful moments, but we don’t. It’s the etching of ugly and pain that leaves a lasting impression.

  “So you’ll be out in two weeks?”

  Amanda’s gaze flits between us like we really are in a boxing ring.

  “I’m kind, Mr. Hopkins. Not weak.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Flint

  TWO WEEKS SLIDE by and Ms. Rodgers still plays her crap all day. There’s a loophole. I could evict her. There’s always a loophole. Right now Harrison is guarding the loophole. His obsession with the guitar—his obsession with her—has me twiddling my thumbs when I should be booting her out.

  I’ve learned the hard way that I can’t take away his fixations. This is all he talks about right now. On the days when he doesn’t have his robotics class, he drops his bag off at my office and goes upstairs to wait for Ellen to finish so they can play the guitar together. And she’s even worse. She acts like I didn’t give her two weeks to get out. I will need to have her physically removed from the premises when the time comes.

  “Are you helping them move?” Amanda is the master of random questions. She doesn’t face me. For all I know she could be on the phone, but I know she’s not. This is her thing: hours of silence and then a question I can’t answer.

  “Who?”

  “Cage. I know you’re holding all the emotions inside, but your best friend is leaving you and you haven’t said more than two words about it. You haven’t requested I mark time off for you to help them move or anything like that.”

  “He’s moving, not ‘leaving’ me. He’s hired a moving company. His life. Not mine. It is what it is. Did you pull the Peterson files for me?”

  “On your desk, three inches from your hand. If you move, the file will bite you because you’re preoccupied with your best friend moving away and your fantastic new tenant who has stolen Harrison’s music-loving heart.”

  Fantastic. She’s got that right. Ellen Rodgers is not real. Women that strange only exist in fantasy. Her perfect tits are the only real part of her, an anomaly of their own because perfect tits are usually a fantasy.

  I need to stop thinking about her tits.

  “Go tell Harrison that I’m leaving in five minutes.”

  Amanda stands and slips on her jacket.

  I sigh. “Please.”

  “Sorry. I’m off the clock. You’ll have to go up there and tell him yourself. Say hi to Elle for me.”

  “L?”

  “Short for Ellen.”

  “You’re too lazy to add the N?”

  “Stop being so …” She purses her lips to the side. “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Elle is short for Ellen. Just like Flint is short for Flinton.”

  I return my attention to my computer. She knows damn well my name is not Flinton. I’m tired of acknowledging her lunacy. “You’re fired.”

  “Yay me! I was worried you were about to let me squeak by today without firing me. See you Monday.”

  “Monday.” I give her a parting glance and a slight grin in spite of how much she tortures me with her antics.

  I’ve managed to avoid the second floor of the building since the day I failed at evicting Ms. Rodgers. As the elevator makes its short ascent, my clothes feel too warm, my tie too tight, and my skin too sweaty. I think my neck itches too. It’s an Ellen allergy. Surely Harrison will understand why I have to get rid of her if I can show proof of an actual allergy to her. On second thought, he won’t. His level of empathy has improved a little, but he’s far from putting himself in anyone else’s shoes.

  “Do you still dance?” she asks Harrison as I stay behind the door, just out of sight.

  “No.”

  “Do you do any other activities?”

  “Football.”

  “Really?”

  “No. That’s what my dad told me to say. Ha! He’ll be happy when I tell him I remembered to say it on cue.”

  I close my eyes and shake my head. That’s not how it went down. This kid of mine thinks he can condense a fifteen minute discussion into eight words that are not on cue at all.

  Ellen laughs. It’s grating. Her happiness is grating. And itchy. I tug at my tie, tip up my chin, and scratch my neck.

  “Your dad has a lot of footballs in his office. I can see why he might want you to play it.”

  “He played.”

  “Oh yeah? In college?”

  “I think so.”

  Unbelievable. He remembers random shit he reads once, but he can’t remember the details of my football years—something I’ve told him hundreds of times.

  “Where?” Of course that’s her follow-up question.

  Here we go …

  “I don’t remember.”

  Bingo.

  “He’s always watching it on TV with his friend.”

  “Your dad has a friend?”

  I clear my throat and walk around the corner. “Don’t sound so surprised, Ms. Rodgers. I might have more than one friend.”

  “No.” Harrison shakes his head. “Just the one.”

  I’m ready to shake him. Ellen bites back her grin but her lips get stuck on her teeth, so she wets them. And I stare at her wetting her lips because she’s distracting—and itchy.

  “Get your things and wait in the car for me.” I hand him the key fob.

  Lively blue eyes follow him. They remind me of Heidi’s, only lighter, almost translucent. “Bye, Harry.”

  “Bye, Elle.”

  “He lets you call him Harry?”

  She hums and smiles. I tug at my tie. It’s strangling me.

  “Apparently.” Her shoulders lift into a slight shrug.

  “And Elle?”

  She steps closer. Why the hell is she stepping closer?

  “My friends call me Elle. I could be your second friend and you could call me Elle too. But …” She whistles the tune from Jeopardy, flips her red mane behind her shoulders, and grabs my tie, giving it a yank in one direction and then the other until it’s where it was before I started fidgeting with it on my way up here. “You’re going to have to stop all this eviction nonsense. Friends don’t kick friends out of the building.”

  I sniff. “You smell like pineapple.”

  She smirks. “Piña colada lip balm.”

  I hate piña colada.

  “Are you going to let go of my tie?” My gaze shifts from her piña colada lips to her hands grasping my tie like it’s tethering her.

  “Do you want me to let go of you?” She rubs her smelly lips together.

  My dick hardens, such betrayal. Stupid thing didn’t get the memo that we don’t get aroused over tropical drinks.

  “I’m kidding.” Releasing my tie, she takes a step back. “I’m a feather ru
ffler. And I’ve come to enjoy ruffling yours.”

  “And why is that?” I tug at the cuffs to my shirt and adjust the buttons of my jacket. There’s no reason for me to ask follow-up questions to her ridiculous statements, but I can’t stop staring at her. She’s … I don’t know … irritatingly beautiful.

  “It’s the suit. My father was a tailor. His father was a tailor. And his father …” She grins. “You get where I’m going with this. A long line of tailors in my family. My mother used to smile and grab the lapels to my father’s suit jacket and say, ‘Jonathan Samuel Anderson, you sure do look the part.’

  “Then she’d pull him in for a kiss. I’d wrinkle my nose in disgust, but I never turned away. Then he’d say, ‘What part is that, my dear?’

  “She replied, ‘My man, of course.’”

  “I remind you of your father?”

  “Just the perfectly-tailored suit.” She laughs while putting her guitar in its case. “My father is an unassuming man. Kind. Generous to a fault. He never looked at anyone the way you look at me.”

  I slip my hands in my pockets and sigh. Why am I still standing here? “How do I look at you?”

  Bent over the case on the floor, she cocks her head toward me, squinting one eye. “Like I’m the bane of your existence.”

  Fair assessment.

  “I’ve given you a grace period because I’m not ready to deal with Harrison’s reaction to you leaving. But you will have to leave this building. Not because you’re the bane of my existence. This is just business. Nothing personal.”

  She straightens her back, blowing out a slow breath before that bright, she-fucking-looks-like-a-teenager smile graces her face. “I find that people who say something is business, not personal, usually lack personality. We are people, not machines. Everything we do is personal to someone.”

  She needs thicker skin. I give her a tight smile. “Good evening, Ms. Rodgers.” I turn toward the door.

  “Good evening, Flint.”

  “You can call me Mr. Hopkins.” I push the button to the elevator.

  “Mmm, my landlord likes to role play. Me too.”

  I stiffen—everywhere—turning my gaze back over my shoulder. Ellen peeks her head around the corner and winks.

  I resist the urge to tug at my tie and scratch my neck. She’s flirting with me. Messing with me. Fucking with my head.

  *

  HARRISON POPS IN his earbuds the moment I get in the car and ignores me the whole way home. We walk in the back door, and I flip one of the earbuds out of his ear.

  “What?” He frowns, pausing whatever is playing from his phone.

  I set my briefcase on the counter and grab an iced coffee from the fridge. “Why do you let her call you Harry?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ve called you Harry over the years and you’ve had a conniption fit. Teachers and kids in school call you Harry and you lose it over a name that is in fact your nickname. But some stranger loans you a guitar and plays a few tunes with you and you submit to a name you’ve disliked for years? Help me understand this.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re too smart to let ‘I don’t know’ be your default for everything you’re asked.”

  He shrugs, shaking his head to brush the hair from his eyes. “When she says it, it sounds cool. Not like when everyone else says it.”

  “Harry.”

  “Nice try. You don’t say it right.”

  I chuckle. “It’s not how she says it. She’s an attractive woman and that’s why you’re okay with her calling you Harry.”

  “You’re such an idiot.” He rolls his eyes. “Don’t say attractive.”

  I twist the cap back onto the glass bottle of coffee. “And what do young, totally cool kids like yourself say?”

  Another eye roll. My son is a bobble-head with googly eyes.

  “Hot. She’s hot, Dad. Not that you would notice.” He slips his earbuds back into his ears.

  I yank them back out, and he grumbles.

  “Why wouldn’t I notice a hot woman?”

  “Because you don’t have sex with them.”

  Just when I think he can’t say anything that can surprise me … he surprises me. “You think the only way to acknowledge a ‘hot’ woman is to have sex with her? I fear you haven’t listened to the conversations we’ve had about sex.”

  “Simon’s dad has women over for sex. It’s the only time he lets Simon watch TV for more than two hours at a time.”

  “More than two hours, huh?” Simon’s dad is a lucky fucker.

  “Gina is Simon’s favorite. After he hears her upstairs thanking baby Jesus over and over, she comes down to the kitchen and bakes several dozen chocolate chip cookies. Last time I was there, she promised to make them dairy and gluten-free in the future so I can have some too.”

  Twelve is the new twenty. I didn’t have these conversations with my parents when I was twelve. We discussed football and whose turn it was to mow the lawn. I think there may have been a few conversations about drugs and getting in cars with strangers, but that was it.

  “I think you should take a break from hanging out at Simon’s house.”

  “Whatever,” says the kid who doesn’t have any true close friends.

  Then again, according to him, I only have one friend, and he’s moving halfway across the country.

  “Get me your lunch bag to clean out then go do your homework while I make dinner.”

  He mumbles something under his breath. I’m sure it has to do with how we never go out to eat. As I unzip his lunch bag, a rodent runs across the counter.

  “What the hell?” I grab a pan from the hanging rack above the island and cock my arm back to kill it.

  “Stop!” Harrison dives for the rat.

  There’s a rat in my house. How the hell did it get in here? “Don’t touch—” Before I can stop him, Harrison picks it up. I cringe, still fisting the handle to the pan.

  “Drop it before it bites you!” I warn.

  He hugs it to his chest, stroking its head. “What the heck? You almost killed Mozart.”

  “Mozart?” I toss the pan on the counter with a clang. “Explain. Now!”

  Harrison scowls at me for the loud noise.

  “Where the hell did you get that thing?”

  “Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is a Dumbo rat not a thing. See his ears are bigger and round? Like Dumbo. I really like his gray head and white body. Elle says he’s very kind and has a great personality.”

  I’ve had saintly patience with him. I love him. I listen to all of his in-depth descriptions of his latest obsessions. Thanks to him, I’m an expert in areas I never wanted to gain any sort of expertise. But this is not happening. I said no to a fish. There’s no fucking way I’m letting him have a rat.

  I rescind my earlier statement to Ellen; she is the bane of my existence.

  “You can have a meltdown right here and now, but the answer is no. You are not keeping it.”

  “Him.” There’s the eye roll. “And I never said I was keeping him. Elle had him with her today and said maybe sometime I could bring him home for a night.”

  “Maybe? Sometime?” With my hands on my hips, I lean forward until we’re at eye level. “Did she say you could bring him home tonight?”

  He shrugs, petting the squirmy little critter.

  “It’s a simple question.”

  “I don’t know. She said maybe sometime I could bring him home for the night, and I said I’d like that, so I put him in my guitar case and then you showed up. I played with him in the car while waiting on you, then I put him in my backpack when you came outside.”

  “Does she know you have him?”

  Another shrug.

  I yank my tie several times to loosen it. My fingers jerk open the top button of my shirt. I’m not in the mood for this shit tonight. “Put it in a bag. I’ll return it to Ms. Rodgers while you do your homework.”

  “It will die in a plastic bag.”

&
nbsp; I retrieve a paper grocery sack from the pantry and hold it open. Harrison stares at it a few seconds before meeting my impatient expression. He eases it into the sack, and I roll the top down.

  “What if there’s not enough air? I kept the zipper to my backpack cracked a bit.”

  With a fork from his lunch bag, I stab the top of the sack several times.

  “Jeez! You could kill it.”

  “I’m not having that kind of luck today, Harrison. Now … don’t answer the door. Stay in your room, and get your homework done. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  After we have our customary stare off, he pivots and drags his feet to his room.

  I contemplate shaking the sack until the spastic scratching at the bottom ceases, but I’m not a total monster—at least not anymore.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ellen

  STAY CALM. HE’S here somewhere. It doesn’t matter that I’ve spent the past hour searching the building for Mozart. It doesn’t matter that there are a gazillion places he could have squeezed his tiny body into. Don’t think about mouse traps or poison. He will show up.

  Stay calm.

  “Mozart?” I call again in the lobby after the last person leaves the building while giving me a final cringe of disgust and a less-than-sincere “good luck.” People are so weird about pet rats—such misunderstood creatures.

  Stay calm. Don’t cry.

  My phone rings.

  “This is Ellen.” I feign happiness despite the tears burning my eyes.

  “Ms. Rodgers.”

  I hold out my phone and stare at the unknown number before returning it to my ear. “Yes.”

  “Where are you?”

  Now it’s just creepy. The voice is familiar—but creepy. “Who is this?”

  “Mr. Hopkins.”

  I sigh in spite of the chill I get from his voice, in spite of the way it makes me smile when he refers to himself as Mr. Hopkins, and in spite of the fact that I’m seconds from having a complete breakdown because my baby has disappeared.

  “Flint, can I call you back? I’m … in the middle of something important.”

  “By all means, Ms. Rodgers, you finish up with your important stuff and I’ll just drive around babysitting your rat since I have nothing of importance of my own to do.”