by Kate Davis
Who is this guy and why is he being nice to me after I accused him of kidnapping my dog? Obviously, I had panicked a little and emotions had been running high. A few hours later, after calming down, I realized the ludicrousness of my insinuation. I admit my fears were unfounded given that he lives next door and had to return to his abode at some point or another. And then, why would he have kidnapped my dog in the first place? Yes, Sammy is cute as pie and all, but what would he have done with her? It’s not like I’m swimming in money and he could have held her for ransom.
I can’t believe I was so unreasonable.
Anyway, I would have liked to apologize, but the opportunity never presented itself, probably because I’ve been trying to avoid him since that unfortunate incident, and I believe he’s been doing the same.
Even if I mustered up the courage to apologize, I wouldn’t know what to say without admitting that I have very strong maternal feelings when it comes to my dog, which might appear a little irrational to the outside observer.
“I didn’t mean it in a condescending way. Just—I like it.” He clears his throat and peers at his cell phone. “Well, I need to get going. Don’t want to be late. See you around.”
He walks past me, toward the taxi that’s just pulled up. This is NYC. Cabs don’t just pull up, unless you called for one, which is how I know he’s trying to steal my ride.
“Oh, heck, no. You’re not.” I dash past him, almost elbowing him in the ribs as I squeeze myself through the open door and plop down in the back seat.
“What are you doing?” Shane tries to follow me inside, but I put up my legs, taking all the space. “Did you just manhandle me?”
I blink. “No.”
Actually, yes, but we’re in NYC. When fighting for a taxi, manhandling isn’t just almost acceptable to some. It’s to be expected.
“You did,” Shane says.
“This is my taxi.” I scowl at him. “You’re not stealing my ride.”
“Stealing your ride? You can’t be serious, woman. I called for it.”
“You did not!” I narrow my eyes. He is lying. I can tell when people are. I have this amazing radar, this innate ability to read facial expressions. The glint in his eyes and the smirk on his lips tell me that he’s trying to charm his way into getting what he wants.
Which is this cab.
I might be a sucker for dimples, but not even dimples can make me want to turn up late for one of my mother’s soirees and risk incurring one of her speeches about how there’s a time for everything, including not being late.
According to her, that’s in the bible too.
“Drive,” I yell at the driver.
“But—” The poor guy, a man in his late fifties with full cheeks and a receding hairline, peers from me to Shane and then back to me, confused. “It’s game night, and you’re going—”
“Just drive.” I lean forward and try to slam the door, but Shane’s tight grip on it is blocking me. “Go away.”
“No.” He yanks hard. I lose my balance for a split second and almost drop my dog. “Let’s share. We can drop you off wherever you’re going, after which I can head my way.”
I hesitate for a moment.
“I’m paying,” Shane throws in with a grin, like that’s going to sweeten the deal.
I peer at him, considering his offer. “Might be expensive.”
“I can afford it.”
Well, in that case…
I’m inclined to accept. I mean, Dad’s left me money to pay for the fare, which I could save for other stuff, like that deluxe food Sammy likes so much but I can’t afford.
Shane leans into the car and his palm touches my ankle with a little pressure, as though to signal me to move my legs aside. My breath catches in my throat at the unexpected touch, and my mouth goes dry. That’s when I realize there’s no way I could possibly share a ride with this guy.
Not in such a confined space.
It would feel too close. Too personal. And don’t even get me started on being forced to have a conversation when I’m having these strange physical reactions around him.
“Not in a million years,” I mutter and swat at his hand.
“Wait.”
I hesitate. What now?
“About the other day,” Shane starts.
Flashbacks of computer screens and script run through my mind. He obviously likes chat rooms. Big deal. Given that we all have our vices, I don’t care, but it does seem to bother him.
Maybe he’s addicted to online chatting. Maybe he’s ashamed of it.
I turn to regard him with a smile. “No need to explain. I understand, and I don’t judge.”
His brows furrow. “You don’t judge what?”
“Your need for interaction.”
“What?”
My smile broadens. I am a very understanding person, and I think I’m doing a great job conveying that. “Don’t ever be ashamed. As long as it’s not hurting anyone, I’m sure everyone’s allowed to have that little dark secret. I for one like a glass of red wine every now and then. I like it chilled while I’m soaking in the bathtub. It helps me unwind and switch off the world around me.”
“Samantha, what are you—”
“My taxi’s waiting.” I shoot him another encouraging look. NYC can be such a lonely place. He’s British; he’s probably not used to huge cities and millions of people. I bet he feels lost like in that Sting song, a legal alien in New York. “If you ever need to talk, don’t hide behind a computer screen. Just knock on my door and we’ll get a cup of coffee. Real-life interactions can be so much more fulfilling.”
Taking him by surprise I reach for the door handle and pull hard. He has no choice but to move aside as I slam the door in his face.
As I sit back and peer out the window I find Shane glued to the spot, staring at me. The driver pulls into the traffic and I smile, pleased with myself.
Ha! I feel like yelling some victorious war cry. I wish I could express the sudden outburst of joy at finally having gotten rid of him. Only, it doesn’t quite feel like a victory. More like a loss.
Chapter Nine
Mom: You are late. Everyone’s waiting already. Are you stuck on the toilet again?
I stare at Mom’s message, trying to make sense of it, as I realize she’s just started a group conversation with what looks like her entire contact list, asking them about their toilet needs. Thank goodness she hasn’t addressed me in particular so no one will know who she’s talking to. The same moment another message pings.
* * *
Mom: I meant tollway, sweetheart. There’s something wrong with this upholstery. I’ve taken it to the spill and it’s still not waking.
* * *
I’m sure the upholstery is just fine. And her phone doesn’t need to be taken to the shop. Her texting skills, on the other hand…let’s just say, I have serious doubts about those. Maybe it’s an app she’s accidentally installed—some kind of April’s fool prank that automatically changes her conversations into funny autocorrects. I’ll have to ask her about that.
I type a quick reply that I’m late because I had to stop to get the groceries she wanted, and then pay the driver. If my neighbor hadn’t blocked my way, the driver wouldn’t have had to wait and the fare wouldn’t have reached sky-high proportions. I wouldn’t have been late and Mom wouldn’t have started a group discussion with probably everyone she knows, which I’ll have to explain to everyone on her behalf. I’m just glad I don’t know any of the people she’s texted, so they probably won’t know me either.
I can see the party has been in full swing for a while. I can tell by the raided buffet and the high-pitched laughter. (Mom really likes her sherry and so it finds its way into every food. She says it gives it spice.)
“Darling, you could make it!” she exclaims as soon as she spies me making my way through her tiny but chic living room.
Like I had a choice!
“I’m glad I did, Mom.” I give her the usual peck on the c
heek and hand her the grocery bag in my hand. “Look what I brought!” I can barely contain a smirk as I watch her take out the white cotton panties. She peers at me with a frown, and then I think the penny drops because she tosses her head back and laughs.
I stare at her in disbelief. Who is this person and what did she do to my mother? My brain immediately conjures images of movies like Body Snatchers.
As a child, I was scared brainless; as an adult, I didn’t believe…now I can’t help but wonder…is there some truth to it?
“Are you—” Okay, I want to ask but don’t get to because I follow her line of vision.
I turn my head and for a moment I’m struck speechless.
What the—
Shane’s here, and he’s staring right back at me. Only, his grin doesn’t quite match my frown. What is he doing here? He must have followed me is my first thought. Maybe he’s one of those wedding crasher types who’d do anything for a free drink. But this isn’t a wedding and the only alcohol is in Mom’s food, which I don’t think is quite the same. To my dismay, he isn’t just looking. He’s now also striding over, his grin widening to full dimples.
My stomach drops a little, which I attribute to the fact that I haven’t eaten anything since this morning.
“Shane, darling,” my mother exclaims, “I’m sure you know my daughter, Samantha.” She laughs again. “Well, of course you do, given that you two live next to each other. How convenient, don’t you think? You can save tons on public transport to see each other.”
Oh, for crying out loud!
Now I know why she’s being so strange. Never mind the Body Snatchers possibility. And he isn’t crashing her party either. The woman’s playing matchmaker. For years, she’s been trying to hook me up with any single man between nineteen and thirty-five living within a ten-mile radius, which didn't really bother me that much because I never paid much attention to it.
Actually, that’s not quite true. It was quite bothersome when she invited her new gynecologist over. I mean, he wasn’t so bad actually, but would you want to date a guy who’s been up close and personal with your mother’s private parts?
I guess this is one of those moments again. Just like back then, I want to find a big rock and crawl right beneath it. Unfortunately, there’s only a potted plant in sight and it’s too late to hide behind it now.
“Samantha,” Shane says with a glint in his eyes.
“I—” My mouth opens to say something else, then closes. Seriously, my mind is blank. It’s as though all reasoning has eluded me and I can’t think straight.
Why is he here?
How did he find me?
How does my mom know him?
I look at my mother in the hope she’ll realize I’m in a very uncomfortable situation and help me out. But she just smiles and touches Shane’s shoulder to get his attention while addressing me, “Samantha, I have no idea why you didn’t tell me your neighbor’s so nice. If it weren’t for him, your Dad and I would have been forced to wait in the rain outside your apartment building.” She makes an exaggerated gesture with her hand. “Well, it was more like a drizzle but you know how humidity always ruins my hair.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “You’ve met Shane before?” Even saying his name feels too personal. I glance at him and catch the amused twitch of his lips before I turn back to my mother, unsure whether to leave the party or just confront her on why she talked to my neighbor and didn’t tell me about it.
“Of course. We wanted to see you, but you weren’t home. He told us you probably went to Starbucks and offered that we wait in his apartment.” Mom’s voice is sweet and endearing.
I bite my cheek to keep back a snarky remark.
Trust the guy to spill the beans about my possible whereabouts. And then, of course, he would know about my arrival and departure times. The walls are so thin he’s probably been tuning in to all my private conversations like phone calls and chats with my dog.
The thought is mortifying.
My pulse pounds so hard I can barely keep up with Mom’s excited talk about her newfound interest, aka Shane.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it then,” Mom says eventually, like Shane and I have just discovered the formula to curing all the hunger in the world and now we only need to discuss details.
“No, Mom, I—”
But she's already shuffled away, and with a mischievous smile she's headed for the next unassuming victim of her meddling, I mean guest. The moment she’s out of hearing distance I turn to Shane. “Why are you here?”
I can’t help the accusing tone in my voice. I can’t help thinking he must have followed me.
“Trish invited me,” he says with a nonchalant shrug.
Oh. The possibility didn’t even occur to me.
I blink once, twice, as I take in the meaning of his words. She invited him. And it’s not even Mrs. Evans. It’s simply Trish, like they’ve known each other for a while, and are on good and personal terms.
When did that happen? When did he infiltrate my family and get close to my mother? First my dog, now my family. This has to stop!
“When did you two meet again?”
“A few days ago,” Shane says. “Like Trish said, your parents were visiting you. I opened the door for them because you weren’t home. We got talking. Your mom realized we’re both English, from the same part of the world so to speak, and since I barely know any people she insisted that I pop over to her little party, which, frankly, was really nice of her. I took them on a little walk around the neighborhood, and then you were back again.”
“Of course,” I mutter.
I think back to my parents’ recent visit. I must have been out to get my daily caffeine fix when they first rang the bell. After their return from their sightseeing tour around the block, they must have tried again. That’s the time I considered hiding from them and almost didn’t open the door. Let that be a lesson to me! You can’t lie and pretend and expect there won’t be consequences.
“You’re both British, huh?” I mumble.
He obviously pulled the “we Brits got to stick together” card with my mother. That’s like an epidemic over there. I’ve seen it before, and there’s no cure for it. How convenient!
“I didn’t know they were your parents until—” He stops and the glint in his eyes appears again, only this one is accompanied by a smirk.
“Until—” I prompt warily.
He turns away, avoiding my gaze. “It doesn't matter.”
I hate when people do that. Don’t they realize the avoidance of a subject makes one even more curious?
“Until?” I prompt again, barely able to mask the annoyance in my tone. “You can’t just start to say something and not finish.”
“You’re right.” He turns back to me and our eyes meet. The glint is back too, framed by countless little lines around his gray-blue eyes. He’s laughing, I realize. Why is he laughing? I narrow my eyes at him and cross my arms over my chest. “Until I read the text message. I’m pretty sure everyone did.” He gestures at the other guests who aren’t paying us any attention.
“The what? What text?” What is he talking about?
His brows shoot up meaningfully.
Is that supposed to trigger some sort of memory? Well, it’s not working.
“Your mother’s text.” His lips curl into a wide grin. “The one we all received.”
That’s when the penny drops.
That text. The one about diarrhea, asking me whether I was stuck on the toilet again—one of the several excuses I came up with to try to wiggle out of her little party. The one she sent to everyone she knows because she likes to make a public affair of everything, particularly if it involves my business.
The woman has no shame.
“Not that I need to, but just to clarify, I don’t suffer from any condition,” I mumble.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Shane says, smiling.
“But I’m not.” My cheeks are heating up, and
not in a good way. I probably look like a tomato.
“Your secret’s safe with me. And with a dozen other people.”
He’s winding me up. Under different circumstances, I’d laugh about it. I’d probably be the first to join in making fun of myself. But I can’t do that with Shane. I want him to think a certain way of me. Not the “Samantha, you’re cute” kind. I realize I want him to think of me as sophisticated and sexy and someone he’d ask out for dinner.
“Excuse me. I need to get something from the kitchen.” Not waiting for his reply, I dash past him, in the opposite direction of the kitchen, and straight toward my former bedroom, avoiding the other guests’ broken pieces of welcome aimed at me as I pass them.
Talk about sophisticated. I guess, from the moment I knocked on his door clad in my yoga pants to the time I let him in in the middle of the night to wrap my smelly carpet and dispose of it, I never really stood a chance.
I slump down on my bed and close my eyes for a moment, savoring the solitude and silence. For all of five seconds, I manage to pretend I’m floating in space, safely cocooned in a bubble of nothingness, and the world around me doesn’t exist. Particularly not the handsome British guy. That’s when the scratching begins.
Groaning, I sit up. I forgot to take my dog with me, and the insistent little bugger will not ease up until I’ve let her in. And if I let her in, then Sammy will demand all the attention.
All I need are a few minutes to feel sorry for myself. But if I don’t react, she’ll add barking to the scratching, and everyone’s attention will be on me again. You see, my parents’ house is one large bungalow with a hall that connects the open living room with all other rooms. They bought it before I was born, when Mom and Dad were in their twenties, but even then, she liked to plan for the “future” and think of “old age to come”. And so, unlike any reasonable person in their twenties who makes purchasing decisions according to taste, trend, and style, my parents bought to accommodate my Mom’s paranoia, as in “should anything happen” and “what if”. They also never moved, never even thought of selling, meaning I was brought up in a level access monstrosity where privacy was non-existent. Everyone knew your business and more.