by Staci Hart
“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”
I smirked. “You have no idea.”
“Except that you’re tone deaf. I would have guessed that.”
I sighed. “I wish I wasn’t. My mom could sing like an angel.”
Her face softened at the mention of my mother. “I can’t imagine losing my mama. I know it’ll happen — they’re already in their seventies. I’m trying to convince them to retire, but it’s no easy task. They never planned for much of anything.”
I didn’t question her openness, assuming it was her concussion. “You’re close?”
She nodded, eyes closed. “They’re my safe place. I don’t have to be anyone but me when I’m around them.”
I didn’t press her, sensing that if I pushed, she’d lock it down again. I squeezed her hand. “Stay awake, or I’m switching to Music Man.”
That elicited a soft laugh as the car came to a stop. I glanced out the window and saw we’d reached the hospital.
“Thanks,” she said to the driver as I opened the door and helped her out, slipping an arm around her waist.
I tucked her into my side, and it felt good, taking care of someone. It had been a long time. A very long time. Liz and I were rarely tender, more intent on destroying each other than taking care of one another. I wondered if this was what everyone else felt in their relationships. Not like they were a dead end, a brick wall, but an open road. If it was possible to really be in it together.
I saw my brother and Ramona together and knew it was. Or Patrick and his girlfriend, Rose.
Maybe I just thought it wasn’t for me. That it couldn’t be me. That I wasn’t made for it. But if I were being honest with myself, I’d admit that the idea of repeating what I went through with Liz scared the hell out of me.
But for the first time in more than a decade, I felt the desire to try. Whether it was with the girl pressed into my side, I didn’t know. But I was starting to hope it would be.
Two hours later, we pulled up to her brownstone in Park Slope, a ritzy neighborhood in Brooklyn. I couldn’t help but gape at the beautiful old building, wondering how she could afford such a place, then wondering exactly how much television producers made. She was able to walk on her own at that point, and was sure to tell me so as she climbed out.
“Seriously,” she insisted. “I’m fine. My driver can take you back to Tonic.”
I slid across the bench to get out, but she barred my way. “Is anyone home to take care of you?”
“My cousin and her daughter will be home in a few hours.”
“A few? What time?”
“Six.”
I gave her a look. “That’s five hours from now. The doctor said someone has to wake you up every few hours if you go to sleep.”
“I’ll set an alarm.” The words were firm.
“I’m staying.”
Her jaw clenched, and she let out a breath. “I really appreciate all your help today, honestly, but I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can,” I said as I slid back to my door and climbed out, smiling at her over the roof of the car, in part because she looked so pissed.
“What the hell are you going to do in my apartment for five hours?”
“Make sure you don’t have a subdural hematoma. Maybe read. Probably go through your medicine cabinet.”
“Joel,” she warned.
I walked around the car to the sidewalk where she stood. “Listen, if something were to happen to you when I could have stayed, I’d never forgive myself. That’s the honest truth. So, for my own lousy peace of mind, can I please sit on your couch while you sleep until your cousin gets home?”
She was quiet while she thought it over, her eyes cool and hard. “All right.”
“Thank you.” I relaxed considerably.
She sighed and turned for the stairs to her building, fishing in her bag for her keys.
“Nice place,” I said, following.
“Thanks. My uncle owns a bunch of properties and lets us stay here for free.”
“Must be nice.”
She smirked over her shoulder at me. “It is.”
When she opened the door, I was even more surprised. The house was gorgeous — dark hardwood, crisp, white walls, what looked like it might have been original crown molding. The property had to be worth a couple million at least, a mind-blowing amount of money in my world. After living for seventeen years in the same apartment — and in a different apartment my entire life before that — living in this sort of luxury felt mythical.
I closed the door and locked it behind me as Annika set her bag on the hall table and kicked off her shoes. She looked exhausted.
“I’m exhausted,” she said, and I smiled.
“Get some rest. I’ll wake you up in two hours.”
She nodded and headed for the stairs.
“Which room is yours?” I asked.
“Top of the stairs, next to the bathroom. Help yourself to anything in the fridge, and most of my paperbacks are on the bookshelf in the living room. Or you can watch TV, whatever.”
“Thanks.”
She paused with her hand on the rail, her face soft. “No, thank you. I really do appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Even if I didn’t actually want your help,” she added with a smile.
“That’s me. Helping out even when it’s unsolicited. What can I say? I’m a hero like that.”
She snorted and rolled her eyes, the sound crass and very unrefined. I loved it.
“Sleep tight, Annika.”
She smiled. “Thanks, Joel.” And then she turned and walked up the stairs.
Not even going to deny that I watched until she was out of sight.
I sighed and turned for the living room, taking stock. All the furniture was a mixture of modern and vintage, an eclectic collection. I’d figured her place would be sterile, clean and white, no color, but this place was soft and colorful without being loud. It looked lived in, comfortable. I remembered her saying that her cousin and her daughter lived with her. I wondered how old the little girl was until I saw a stuffed bunny on the couch. I couldn’t help but pick it up, the soft, wide corduroy a creamy grey, its button eyes stitched on and pink velvet ears worn with love.
I set it back down and looked around for the bookshelf, making my way over to kneel in front of the rows and rows of books. They were full of classics, a lot of hardbacks, from Ayn Rand to Dickens. But on their own shelf held standing by agate bookends, the swirl of the stone geometric and organic, stood her collection of hardback Jane Austen novels. I trailed my fingers over the spines, which were stamped in gold or silver with the titles. Pride and Prejudice was the one I knew everyone went for, but I decided on Persuasion, curious about a book that touched her, that shaped her.
I glanced at my watch and noted the time, settling into the couch to read, trying not to think about her sleeping just upstairs.
A very fat, very old calico appeared silently next to my legs, peering up at me with yellow eyes. Patches of orange and black were surrounded by white fur, and it had a black stripe on its face through its eye, which made it look like the Scarface of cats.
“Hey, there.”
It gave me a single meow and blinked, watching me.
I reached down and scratched its jaw, rubbing my thumb against its ear, and it leaned in. “Wonder what your name is.”
Meow, it said in response. I smiled and leaned back, and the cat hopped up, stretched out next to me, and went to sleep, purring.
I chuckled, comforted by the warm presence, and cracked open the book.
Hours went by, and I reveled in the absolute quiet, the city seeming far away from where I sat in Annika’s living room, insulated in the brownstone. I’d woken her once a few hours before — she was nestled in her bed with the curtains drawn, her face slack and soft. She looked like a girl like that, the hardness gone, her hair out of its tight bun and spread across he
r pillow like spun gold.
I’d almost touched her face, realizing at the last second just how intimate the gesture was, but I barely stopped myself, as if her skin begged to be touched. Instead I touched her arm, and she opened her eyes sleepily, said she felt fine, other than being tired still, and asked to sleep some more. So I obliged.
I checked my watch — it was time to wake her again, and this time I thought it might be best if she stay awake for a stretch, especially if she wanted to sleep that night. So I headed into the kitchen, looking around for the coffee pot, or a tea pot. They were right next to each other, along with a small box of tea, so I took it as a sign that it was a regular thing and filled up the electric teapot.
It was old and loud, the water hissing and bubbling as I searched for a coffee cup.
“Stop right there,” a hard, cautious, female voice said from behind me.
I put my hands up, though a mug with an illustrated monkey hung on my pointer finger. When I turned, I found a woman who looked like she could be Annika’s sister, leaning toward me with an outstretched hand wielding mace. A little girl peeked out from behind her with golden hair just like her mother, and blue eyes like ping pong balls, widened in fear.
“Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing in my kitchen?”
My hands were still up. “I’m Joel. Annika didn’t text you?”
Her brow dropped, but her hand didn’t. “No. Why?”
“She got a concussion at work.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, my God. Is she okay?”
“She’s fine, upstairs sleeping. Could you maybe lower the mace? I dunno if you’ve ever been maced, but it’s what I imagine hell feels like.”
“Oh, sorry.” She lowered the spray and extending her hand for a shake. “This is Kira, and I’m Roxy, Annika’s cousin.”
I took her hand. “Nice to meet you. Sorry for the confusion.”
She waved a hand and wrapped it around the little girl’s shoulders. “No, it’s okay. I’m glad you were here. I wonder why she didn’t call me?”
“Said she didn’t want to be a bother.”
Roxy rolled her eyes. “Of course she did. I’m surprised she even let you stay here with her.”
I smirked. “Me too, but I’m persistent.”
“You have to be, with her.”
The teapot dinged, and I turned to pour out a cup. “She drinks tea, yeah?”
“Yeah, she does. How long have you been here?”
I shrugged. “Since one or so, when we got back from the hospital.”
“And you’ve just been sitting here?”
“Reading, but yeah. Met your cat.”
One blond eyebrow rose. “Kaz?”
“That’s his name? I was wondering. He kept me company all day. Sweet cat.”
“Kazimir? Destroyer of peace? That cat is pure evil and hates everyone.”
I frowned. “Seriously? Because he just laid on me and purred for hours.”
She shook her head. “You must have some weird voodoo on you because the only people that old cat loves are Annika and Kira.”
The little girl nodded. “He wears dolly dresses for tea parties.”
Roxy made a face. “Yeah, and he pees in my closet. Oh, once? I came home and he’d shredded my feather pillow. He was sitting on my bed like a goddamn prince surrounded in goose down. Ublyudok.”
I recognized the word. “Bastard?”
She smirked. “She told you?”
“Lucky guess.” I picked up Annika’s tea. “Mind if I take this up to her?”
“Be my guest.”
“Thanks,” I said as I passed, though when I rounded the corner, I found a sleepy Annika shuffling down the stairs, hand pressed to her temple, wearing long sleeved button down white satin pajamas. She blinked at me and yawned.
“Nice jammies. Not a princess, huh?”
She made a face at me.
I approached her, meeting her at the foot of the stairs. “Made you some tea. Was just coming up to check on you.”
She smiled, but it was small, more closed than it had been before she’d gone up. “Thanks,” she said as she took the mug.
“So, Roxy came home just now and tried to mace me.”
Her eyes flew wide. “Oh, my God. I forgot to call her and tell her. I’m so sorry.”
“No worries, no harm done.”
“Good,” she said. We stood in silence for a moment.
“So, I should probably be going,” I said just as she said, “Well, thanks a lot for your help today.”
We both chuckled.
“I’m heading out. Let me know if you need anything, okay? You have my number.”
“Thanks, Joel.”
I smiled. “Sure thing. Glad you’re feeling better.” I turned to go, but stopped. “Oh, mind if I borrow Persuasion? I started reading it and thought, if it was okay, that I could hang on to it for a couple of days.”
She didn’t mask her surprise. “Yeah, of course,” she said, disbelieving.
“Thanks.” I made my way into the living room, grabbed the book from the couch, and walked back by. “See you tomorrow,” I said as I passed her, reaching for the door.
“Bye.” The word was unsure, and I couldn’t help but smile to myself as I pulled open the door and stepped into the New York dusk. Because I had a feeling that single word meant I actually had a chance.
Annika
Joel disappeared with the click of the front door, and when I stepped around the banister, I was met with Roxy’s smirk, which was practically accusing.
I wrapped my free hand around the warm mug and narrowed my eyes as I headed for the couch. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” she feigned innocence.
“Don’t start.”
“So I shouldn’t ask any questions about Tattoo Tommy and the Bearded Gun Show that just happened?”
I sat down and propped my feet on the coffee table. “I had a concussion, and he wouldn’t leave until you were home.”
“Chivalrous,” she said as she sat down next to me. “Who is he?”
“One of the shop owners. Hairy.”
Her face lit up. “Wait, that was Hairy? I pictured some balding guy with a ponytail and beer gut.”
“Nope, and that somehow makes it that much harder to hate him.”
“So is he the older brother or younger?”
“Older.”
“Is his brother as hot as he is?”
“If you think hairy, bearded, pushy scoundrels are hot, then yeah.”
She snorted. “Scoundrel. You’ve got to read something that takes place past the 19th century. Does he have a girlfriend?”
I glared at her, wondering why the thought made me want to pull her hair. “Who, Joel?”
Roxy laughed. “No, the brother. Joel’s clearly already spoken for.”
I frowned. “Shep has a girlfriend, yeah. And what do you mean spoken for?”
“God, for a smart person, you’re really dense. Why didn’t you tell me you had a thing for him?”
I huffed like a teapot. “I don’t have a ‘thing’ for him, Roxy.”
“Right, and having kids doesn’t ruin your boobs.” She gestured to her rack to illustrate.
“You’re one hundred percent wrong, Rox. I’m sure he’s a nice enough guy, but he’s not my type.”
“Exactly, which is what you need. Your type is boring. Safe.”
“What’s wrong with making safe choices? I don’t have a single thing in common with Joel Anderson.”
“Since when does that matter? I saw you looking at him, and I saw him looking at you — you practically set the curtains on fire. So don’t tell me you’re not into him because it’s a goddamn lie.”
I felt heat crawl up my neck and across my cheeks. “Would I bang him? Yes, I would. But I’m not going to because A: I’m his producer,” I ticked off on my fingers, “B: I’m not interested in a relationship with him, C: I’m not interested in ruining my career, and D …” I
trailed off, still mad but unable to think of a fourth point.
She waggled her brows. “The D is the single reason why you will bang him.”
I fumed. “I’m not having sex with him, Roxy! Why are we even talking about this?”
“Because you’re in denial, Cleopatra. I’ve been there, where you are. You can’t ignore that kind of physical attraction, even if that’s all it is. I tried, which resulted in me getting knocked up.”
I opened my mouth to ask her who Kira’s father was, a secret guarded with her life apparently, in part because it kept me up nights wondering, but mostly to do whatever I could to take the heat off me.
She waved me off before I could speak. “Don’t even ask. We’re talking about you. You like him. Why won’t you admit it?”
“I just fucking did!” I almost yelled it, and Roxy made a face before looking over at Kira, who sat coloring at the table with her stuffed bunny sitting in her lap like he was watching.
“I just don’t get it. He’s obviously into you if he sat here all day with only Kaz to keep him company while he read a romance novel.”
“For the last time. I’m not interested in hooking up with him or dating him or even thinking about him outside of work. I didn’t ask him to stay. I didn’t want him here. I don’t want him to be into me, and I’m not into him. Okay?” I found that I was trying to convince myself just as much as I wanted to convince Roxy.
She was almost pouting, but in an angry way.
“End of story.” And I felt that was the absolute truth. I felt the desire for separation seep from my head down into my heart like roots of a tree. I was resolute, and when I made a decision like this, when I dug in my heels, I wouldn’t change my mind.
Roxy knew this, and said, frustrated, “If you say so.”
“I say so.”
“Then that’s that.”
“Yes, it is.”
“By the way,” she started before punching me in the arm.
“Ow—” I cried, but she was already talking.