The Super: A Bad Boy Romance

by Connor, Anne

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  “Tea, then.”

  She goes over to the stove and turns on the burner under her tea kettle.

  It’s funny how a place can endure so many years and still not change. I still remember leaving the house at the beginning of every summer with bittersweet excitement - I would be leaving all my school friends behind, but I would have adventures in the city. When I was in high school, I would leave behind whatever girl I was dating at the time, and meet new ones in the city. It was like leaving for summer camp. And while mom had to rule the house during the school year and make sure we did our vocabulary flashcards and times tables, our dad let us do pretty much whatever we wanted during the summer while he was busy building up his empire.

  The house is the same as it was about ten years ago when I left for college. There’s still the tapestry showing New York State hanging on the wall over the old floppy couch. My mom still even has her old TV, a tube-style, and definitely not high definition. I think she got it back when I was in junior high.

  It feels like Clarissa re-decorates her apartment twice a year. Out with the old, in with the new.

  Mom sets down two cups and saucers for our tea.

  “So? How is the planning going? I know you must be pretty stressed out with all the wedding preparations.”

  “Clarissa did most of it. And anyway…”

  I don’t want to tell my mom about Clarissa breaking off the engagement, and I don’t want to tell her about the legal troubles Eric and I are having, either. But she has to know. I have to tell her eventually.

  It’s not like I can stage a fake wedding with Clarissa just so I never have to tell my parents that this so-called perfect woman of New York society dumped me.

  “What? Don’t tell me you haven’t helped her at all. Not even with the cake tasting?”

  “Mom, I have to tell you something.” I suck all the air I can manage to fit into my lungs and blow it out in one big, exasperated breath.

  “Clarissa called off the engagement.”

  Mom’s face drops with disappointment, and she puts her tea spoon gently into her cup.

  “I can’t believe it. I’m so sorry, Drew.”

  “It’s fine. It wasn’t meant to be, I guess.”

  Not with her ex in the picture. I’m getting angry again, and I don’t want to be.

  I’ve had enough anger in my life. I want to focus on the silver lining of the situation. Like the fact that I’ll be able to go out and slay as many young things as I want. Like the fact that I don’t want to be with someone who would cheat on me. Like the fact that I’m glad it ended when it did, instead of twenty years from now, like my mom and dad’s marriage had.

  Of course, I know mom wanted me to settle down and marry. Leave my old bad habits and trail of women behind.

  Mom puts her hand on mine.

  “Anything you need, I’m here for you. That’s what moms are here for. To take care of their kids.”

  “But I’m not a kid anymore. I should be able to take care of myself.”

  The tea kettle whistles and mom gets up.

  “Nonsense,” she says, pouring hot water into each of our cups. “Even when you’re grown up, you’re always someone’s son or daughter.”

  “I got the package you sent me.”

  “Ah, yes. I love it, but when I found it, I knew you had to have it. I wanted to remind you how small you started. Building that little box for me. I kept your Honor Society medal in it for so long. But you should have it.”

  “I really appreciate it. I brought it with me, actually. It was in my office, but I feel like I should carry it with me.”

  “I’m glad, Drew.”

  She still has a little bit of the accent she had when she was young. Even after traveling all over the world with my dad and having a life outside the small town she was from, she always went back to her roots.

  I get up and walk over to the front door. The condition of the house is bothering me.

  “When are you going to get this fixed? The creaking on the joints of this screen door sounds like a dying cat.”

  When my dad left, she really let the place go to shit. It was already starting to fall apart when he was still around. When he left the city, I think he gave up on everything around him. He turned inward. He was distant. And the house was the first thing he started to let go of. He had bigger things to give a shit about than Mom. And the house has deteriorated even further in the years since Eric and I left.

  “Oh, what’s the point?” she asks, taking a sip of her tea. “I’m selling the place, anyway.”

  “You could get more for the house if you fixed it up. Let me do it.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I don’t care about the money. I have more than enough in the bank to put a down payment on a new place and cover my mortgage and other expenses for years. Plus, I intend on continuing to work. Maybe do some part-time math tutoring.”

  “Everyone could use more money.”

  “I guess you learned that from your father,” she responds, rolling her eyes.

  “Come on, Mom. You know it’s true.”

  “Fine. If you want to fix some basic things, you can. You’re right. No one is going to want to buy a cottage with a busted door.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But just basics, okay? People up here don’t buy property to get a new jacuzzi tub or a sub-zero freezer. They want to live here so they can have a sense of community and send their kids to schools with small classes.”

  “Running for city Council? Or are you exploring a new career as a real estate broker? Trying to sell the house to me?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  I hear a light rap on the screen door behind me and my mom waves and starts toward the door. I turn around to see an older gentleman outside, holding a paint can and wearing a kind smile and an old work shirt.

  “Hey, Richard! Come on in!”

  Mom scurries past me and pushes the door open for her visitor.

  “Hey, Liz. How are ya? I just came by to see how you were doing. If you needed anything.”

  “I’m lovely. Here, this is my Drew.”

  “Drew, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

  He puts his hand out and shakes mine firmly but kindly, not like some shot caller in the city who’s trying to put on a front like he’s been your best friend for years when he just met you. For once, it seems like someone is actually happy to meet me. It doesn’t seem like he wants something, which is the case with nearly everyone I meet.

  The money doesn’t always attract the right kind of people.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

  I slip a hand through my hair. It’s a little odd to be greeted by someone who clearly knows my mom well, who thinks it’s okay to just pop by.

  Then I remember where I am. In the country, front doors are always open to allow in the calm breeze or an unexpected visitor.

  “We were just having a cup of tea. Would you like to join us?”

  “I would like that very much! So, Drew,” he says, placing the paint can down at the door and making his way into the kitchen with Mom and me, “I hear that you live in the big city. You have a real estate firm with your brother?”

  “That’s right. Yes. We mainly deal with commercial and multi-use properties. We actually just acquired something new, but there’s a little bit of an issue with it.”

  “Oh? You didn’t mention anything to me,” Mom says.

  “Nothing too serious, I hope?” Richard chimes in.

  “No, no. Just a little contract dispute. It’s nothing. But I won’t bore you with all the stupid details. Eric is more worried about it than I am.”

  “That’s Eric. He was always the slightly more neurotic of my sons. Drew here was always a cool customer.”

  She punches my shoulder playfully. It’s like I’m back in high school and my mom is trying to embarrass me in front of a girl.

  “Anyway, I just
stopped by to help mom with the attic a little bit. Get some of my old crap out of her way.”

  I start to get up from the table, but it seems like Richard wants me to stay. For him, chatting isn’t just a formality. Small talk isn’t just a means to an end, something to fill up a quota of time before business is discussed.

  He’s laid back, his tone ambling and conversational.

  “How’s the fiancee treating you? I heard all about her from your mom.”

  “Oh…” My mom shoots Richard a glance and shakes her head in quick, small bursts.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Trouble in paradise? It seems like you’re going through a little bit of a rough patch, son.”

  “Something like that. It’s actually good to be away from it all. I took my Mustang up here. Good to feel the breeze in my hair for once.”

  “Good for you. Hold onto that. When you’re my age, you’ll be lucky to have any hair.” Richard puts a hand on his head. He’s balding slightly, but he still looks great.

  “Oh, I’m not afraid of going bald,” I respond. “I think an older man with a bald head can look distinguished.”

  “Tell that to my ex-wife!”

  The three of us laugh, but all this feel-good talk and closeness is making me feel itchy.

  “You’re not older, Rich. And anyway, some things get better with age,” my mom says, looking at Richard with a sympathetic smile.

  “Like me,” he responds. “Or a nice cheese.”

  “Or wine,” I add, separating myself from the table. “I’m going to go check out the attic. You need me to do anything up there?”

  “No, no. Rich helped me clear some of the stuff out. Take anything else up there that you want. I probably would have ended up shipping it to you, anyway.”

  I make my way up the narrow stairs to the attic. It’s just as dusty as I remember. I don’t blame Mom for wanting to sell the place, and if it were up to me, I would do a full gut-renovation on it until the thing is fucking unrecognizable.

  All that remains, tucked in a corner of the attic, are a few boxes and the spare couch we kept up there for guests back when the space was usable as a spare bedroom. All the Christmas decorations and board games are gone.

  I recognize the boxes right away as the place where I had tucked away all the mementos I collected from high school. Yearbooks, football trophies, my science fair ribbons, my bowling ball and shoes - everything that would remind me of my life before moving to the city has been set into the boxes.

  These things aren’t just reminders of the past - they’re everything we’re supposed to keep as reminders of the past. That’s what they’re for. That’s why we have them.

  And here mine are, packed up into some shitty, dusty boxes in a house I don’t live in or even visit much anymore.

  I dig into the box and open up the back cover of my Senior yearbook. I don’t want to look at pictures of my old classmates - I’m friends with all of them on social media and can see pictures of them whenever I feel like it. I don’t want to see pictures of them from Senior year of high school. No one actually looks good in high school, and to make matters worse, it was the early 2000s.

  Instead, I go straight for all the messages my classmates wrote to me, and seek out the message from the girlfriend I had Senior year.

  I don’t have to look far. I know exactly where that loopy pink handwriting is - right in the top corner of the back cover.

  Drew, don’t ever change! You’re a truly special guy, and I hope you have fun in college. I hope we can still be friends!

  She didn’t even sign it. She didn’t have to.

  It’s strange, in a way. I had so many girlfriends in high school and college, and so many cheap, disposable one night stands before settling down with Clarissa. It’s like Amanda represented all of them, the way she kept her message anonymous. Or maybe she didn’t sign it because she thought I’d never forget her.

  The truth is that this simple message means both things to me, all at once.

  When I get back to the kitchen with my box of memories, Richard is still sitting at the table with mom.

  “I’m just going to put these things in the car. I’ll be back in a minute. I’m not particularly keen on rushing back to the city. If it’s okay with you, maybe I could stay here tonight.”

  “Of course you can, Drew. Maybe we can go into town for a movie.”

  “That’d be really nice. I wish I could disappear for longer than just a weekend, but I know it’s not possible.”

  “Listen, Drew,” Richard says as I turn to leave.

  “Yeah?”

  “What if you could get away from it all, just for a little while?”

  “I’d love it, but I don’t know how I can maneuver it. Eric doesn’t want me leaving the state. And maybe New Jersey.”

  I put my box down on the floor and sit down at the table.

  “Listen. I might have a little opportunity for you.”

  Richard looks at Mom and then back at me.

  “I own a small building in Brooklyn, and my superintendent is going to be on vacation for a couple of weeks. I was going to hire someone to look after things a few days a week, and make the trip down there myself the other days, but would you like to do it? Fill in for my super?”

  I look at the man blankly and rub my chin. Honestly, it’s not a crazy idea, and I know I’m more than capable. I’m familiar with simple plumbing and maintenance, and it would give me the opportunity to get away for a little while, but still be nearby in case I need to get into the office quick.

  “What are we talking? How many units?”

  “It’s a twelve unit building. Four floors. You’d have a unit in the basement. It’s actually nice. I stay there when I’m in the city. The building is very quiet, and the tenants are great. I would only be able to pay you about $100 a day, but I don’t think you’d have to actually do much. Just stay there in case anything happens.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t accept payment. You would be doing me a favor.”

  “So you’re saying you’ll do it?”

  I put out my hand and we shake on it.

  “You have a deal.”

  11. Molly

  Ever since meeting the famed Drew Anderson, it’s been impossible to get him out of my mind. His height, his scent, the way he carried himself and the way he acted so entitled to anything and everything was absolutely infuriating but absolutely captivating, all at once.

  The only thing I haven’t done yet is check to see whether he has Instagram. I shouldn’t do it. Only bad things happen when I discover a hot guy’s Instagram. I’ll get fired from my job on the first day. A quick check under my desk, just opening the app for what’s supposed to be a one-minute break, will certainly devolve into me looking at all his posts, and being paranoid all day that I accidentally clicked “like” on something from 73 weeks ago.

  But I can’t help thinking about him. And there’s no harm in just thinking about him, right? It’s just the invention of my own mind: imagining what he’s doing, wondering what kind of pen he uses to sign all those contracts he must have passing by his desk every day.

  Ugh. Really? No. I don’t care about any of that.

  Obsessing over this guy is the absolute last thing I need right now. I have my job starting this week, the new apartment to get settled into, research to do. And it’s not like me to obsess over a guy.

  But maybe it should be me. Even if only for a little while. Maybe Jess is right.

  But I know I can’t let my heart get involved where my head knows it shouldn’t.

  And anyway, it’s not like I’ll have a chance with Drew again. No matter how much Jess prods me about going back to that bar, there is no way I’m going to a place that charges $15 for a shot ever again.

  I have my shopping bag containing my new outfit and shoes in tow and I’m walking up the stairs to my place, and all I can think of is him. I recall his shoulders, the way he trotted over to me and Jess with a little spring in his step, like the Drew And
erson parade was making its way down Fifth Avenue with horns and whistles, even though he was just another suit guy among many in the bar that night.

  God, those shoulders. His arms. They make me think bad things.

  I get to the top landing of the stairs and hear the familiar sounds of masculine voices traveling up. There’s very little in the way of a buffer between them and me - it’s all steel and wood, and their voices bounce off the walls and the banisters.

  I peek my head over the railing to get a look at them. It’s three guys, like I thought. They’re not bad looking - probably in their late 20s, nice suits, nice ties. If I could see their watches and their shoes, I’m sure I’d be able to see that those accessories are nice, too. They look like guys who would be friends with Drew. Maybe they actually are his friends. His colleagues, even.

  It’s nice. Good location. And it actually doesn’t need much work. Just knock down a few walls and make the units bigger.

  My heart sinks into my Chuck Taylors. What the hell? Even though I just moved into the building, I know what they’re talking about.

  Years ago, when I was a kid and my family lived in the apartment I was born in, the building was sold to investors just like these guys, and we were forced to get up and move.

  I guess, technically, we weren’t forced to move. We had the option of buying the apartment after the new owner renovated and converted it to a condominium. But with the only options being purchasing it for an amount of money that was way beyond my parents’ reach and moving into another rental, it really wasn’t a choice at all.

  And now, I guess it’s happening with this building, too. This time, I’m one of the lucky ones. I haven’t made a lifetime of memories here, like some of the older tenants have.

  We just have to get the old guy to sell. Shouldn’t be too hard.

  And they talk like arrogant jerks, just like Drew does.

  As I’m leaning over the banister, my hair falls into my eyes. I move to brush it away and my keys jingle in my hand. The three men one flight down from me direct their gaze upward.