The Thirteenth Chance

by Amy Matayo

  Dear God, why didn’t I stay in bed and suffer through the music?

  The people look well put together, and I’m wearing SpongeBob.

  Women wearing barely-there dresses dance way too close with men who are clearly interested in much more than music. Nearly everyone holds a wine glass or soda can—liquid sloshing all over a cream-colored woven wool rug that had to cost more than my last week’s salary. I notice a particularly large red circle. That stain is going to be tough to remove. I should know. I spilled apple juice all over the side of my left breast before I went to bed, and not even a Tide stain stick took it away, and those things are supposed to take away everything.

  Suddenly aware of how bad the spot must look, I shift positions to cover it, but no amount of arm crossing will help. So I do the only thing I can do in this unfortunate situation. When I see that noise-ordinance-offending neighbor of mine walking toward me in his designer jeans and formfitting white button-up, I stand tall and force my chin upward a bit. If I can’t look fashionable—or even clean—at least I can look tough.

  My resolve falters for a second. My neighbor is incredibly good looking, and he sure does have nice arms.

  “What do you want?” he asks, surprising me with his directness. All thoughts of his physique vanish—for the most part—and I glare up at him. The least he could do is smile. I’m not that tough, and something tells me he might have a nice smile . . .

  Why on earth am I thinking about his smile or his arms? I. Am. Pathetic. I deepen my glare and harden my lips a bit. Toughness back. I’m finished being derailed.

  “I want you to turn off the music,” I say. “Normal, rule-abiding people are trying to sleep. Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  I squirm when his gaze rakes me up and down, catches on my chest—darn stain!—and rises to my hair. It hangs loose around my shoulders, my blonde waves completely wild and out of control. I feel naked and exposed and horribly unkempt. Why didn’t I think to pull my hair back before stomping over here?

  “It’s one o’clock in the morning, and this party is just getting started,” he says, pulling me out of my internal scolding. My eyes lock on a lazy grin barely this side of legal, and much to my chagrin, I feel myself blush. My face grows hotter when he keeps talking. “If you wanted an invitation, all you had to do was ask. No need to act offended. Now, want something to drink? A beer? A Coke?”

  This man. He sounds like a southerner, but he is so clearly not from around here. I heard the way he softened his r. Northerners are rude people. Plus, no one from this area wears his hair long like that, all hanging in his eyes and shaggy like John Mayer in his Continuum days.

  I love John Mayer and that album.

  Focus, Olivia.

  And then there’s the fact that I don’t even know his name, which makes insulting him a very hard thing to do. But I try, because I’m not a quitter. First, there’s the matter of his question.

  “No, I don’t want a beer or a Coke. Both are bad for you, especially soda. Did you know one can of Coke can clean a rusty car engine?” He just stares at me. Why is he just staring at me? I keep talking. It’s the only thing I know to do. “And for your information, I’m not acting. And furthermore, I have a date and we’re trying to watch a movie. We can’t even hear it over all the racket you’re making.”

  Judging from the way his expression changes from amused to unbelieving, it’s the wrong thing to say.

  “First of all, it’s a carburetor. And yes, I’ve heard.” He pauses. “More importantly, you’re on a date. Right now. Wearing that.” Three statements that might normally be delivered as questions, except he doesn’t say them that way. He just insulted me three different times with ten well-placed words.

  “Yes, I’m on a date. And I don’t appreciate your unbelieving tone.” I am suddenly jittery, and my hands become bendy and poppy—specifically my knuckles. It’s the general way I react to telling outright lies.

  His gaze pauses entirely too long on my midsection before swinging back up to my eyes. “Well, by all means, invite the lucky guy over here too. This party might actually benefit from a little scruff. But just so you know, you have a bit of dirt on your nose, some weird spot on your chest, your hair’s a bit tangled, and you might want to consider changing clothes. I personally don’t mind the pajamas, but a few people here might be bothered by the idea that you haven’t showered today.”

  “I did too shower today.” It’s a ridiculously defensive thing to say. Do I look that bad? My hand finds my nose and furiously begins to rub back and forth. I’d go for the breast, but he might get the wrong idea. When I catch sight of his grin, I drop my hand to my side and decide not to care about either. Dirt or no dirt, stain or no stain, I can’t let him get the best of me.

  “For your information, neither myself nor my date is one for parties. We’re more of the . . .” I search for the right words to polish off this lie.

  “Netflix and chill type?” Another insult, this time delivered in four words. What kind of person does he think I am? He picks up a bag of trash and hoists it to his waist, then makes a move to walk around me and out the door.

  I take a single step to the side to let him pass, hating the way my Hello Kitty slippers sink against the pavement. Further proof of my awkwardness. Hello Kitty? Seriously, Olivia?

  “Yes, we’re the Netflix type,” I rush to say. “But not the chill.”

  He smirks at me; it slides way under my skin. “That’s a shock.”

  That man. “Where are you going?” I hate to sound like I care, because I don’t. But he can’t just leave me standing here like a fool.

  “I’m carrying this to the dumpster in the parking lot. Feel free to walk with me, unless you’d like to head inside and help yourself to some food. Might want to get your date first though.”

  I don’t like the way he says “date,” stringing it into more than one syllable, light on the long a and heavy on the sarcasm. I also don’t like the way he walks away, leaving me standing there with a screwdriver in one hand and what is left of my very fragile dignity in the other. An internal tug-of-war lasts until he rounds the corner and disappears from view. That’s when I do the only thing a lying girl wearing pajamas and childish slippers at a high-class party can do.

  I follow him.

  Will

  She’s uptight, and I’m a jerk. I know I’m a jerk, but come on. I’d rather be a jerk than be that uptight. This chick is about as likely to have a date waiting for her at home as I am to have a bride waiting for me at the altar tomorrow morning. I shudder just thinking about that horrific possibility and smile to myself when I hear her padded footsteps coming up behind me. Hello Kitty. I about choked on my laughter when I saw those. As if SpongeBob wasn’t enough, even though I remember really liking that show. It’s funny. A little more on the adult humor side than the kid side. This chick must think so too.

  I switch the bag to my left hand and keep walking. The invitation to follow me was sincere, even though it was delivered as casually as I could manage. What can I say? The lady’s hot, despite her obvious lack of taste in bedtime attire. Flannel pants? Has she ever heard of Victoria’s Secret? The least she could do is buy those same pants in leopard-print satin. Anything would be an improvement on the way she’s currently dressed.

  But attire aside . . . her hair. It almost did me in. I’ve only ever seen her with it pulled back into a tight ponytail. The waves threw me. The desire to run my fingers through the strands nearly flattened me. Of course I’ve had that same reaction to plenty of women before, but never to one wearing an outfit that might belong on the cover of the Sears Christmas catalog I remember thumbing through when I was a kid.

  I smell lavender or something behind me. Holy crap, this woman.

  Remember, Will, she’s nuts. She walks her cat on a leash.

  I keep walking, trying to remind myself of her craziness and arming myself with the same who cares attitude that has worked well for me in life so far.

&
nbsp; “You’re welcome to walk beside me, unless you’re enjoying the view too much from back there.”

  I smile to myself when a flash of blue flannel comes into my line of vision.

  “Oh please, enough with the ego. You’re walking too fast, and I’m wearing slippers.”

  “Could have waited for me at the apartment.”

  “Looking the way I do? That wasn’t much of an option.”

  “You look great.” The words are out before I can stop them. Wow . . . wow . . . wow. Settle down, Will. I gather up what’s left of my resolve to remain cool and stuff it in my pocket. There. Now I just need to remember to use it. “For a girl wearing those ridiculous slippers.”

  “For your information, my grandmother gave me these slippers and I wear them in her memory. And also . . . there was a dumpster much closer to your apartment that you could have used. Would have saved you some time.”

  Two things about this. One, now I feel like an even bigger jerk. A dead grandmother, and I just made fun of her gift. It occurs to me that she could be lying in the same way she was lying about having a date waiting at home, but I doubt it. There’s a special place in hell for people who lie about dead grandparents, and I can’t see this girl living comfortably in it. Too uptight for warm conditions, and she’d probably be concerned about frizz. And two, I know about the other dumpster just like I knew she would follow me, and I wanted it to take a while.

  “I haven’t lived here long, so I didn’t know about the closer one. I’ll make sure to use it next time.” I lift the lid, toss the garbage inside, rub my hands together, and face her. “A woman like you shouldn’t be out this late at night. I have half a mind to grab your date by the throat and remind him of that fact.”

  “A woman like me?”

  I swallow and try to come up with something to say. Anything besides the fact that she’s attractive. “Alone. It isn’t safe, and those shoes aren’t made for running.”

  Even in the moonlight, I can see her frown. “He didn’t know I would be gone this long,” she says with a tiny shake in her voice.

  I wonder if she hears it. I wonder if she knows how bad she is at lying. I don’t point it out, because frankly, it’s cute.

  “Then I’ll walk you back. That alright?”

  She looks to the left and then to the right as if trying to decide if I’m safe or an ax murderer poised to kill her somewhere between the dumpster and the parking lot.

  “You walked with me this far all by yourself, remember? I promise not to harm you on the way back.”

  She relents with a soft smile.

  “Okay, thank you. I don’t really like being out this late at night.”

  I don’t tell her I could have guessed as much. I also don’t tell her she has a nice voice when it isn’t raised to yell at me. Soft like butter, warm like honey. Both things lickable, and I should not be thinking about licking anything where this girl is involved. I shove my hands in my pockets and take a deep breath of the night air. Maybe if I suck hard enough, I’ll be able to get a big mouthful of my sanity and swallow it back down where it belongs.

  “I’ve seen you outside. You have a dog, right?”

  No idea why I feel the need to lie, but I do. Sue me and call me a sinner.

  “A cat. A Persian named Perry. I’ve had him since I was sixteen.”

  I glance over at her. “Which makes him . . . ?”

  “Thirteen. Which is old for a cat, but the vet thinks he’ll live for several more years.”

  “Nine lives and all.” I hate small talk; such a waste of time, especially with women. On a normal night, I usually give it five minutes to figure out if we’re on the same page. What she wants, what I want. But tonight is anything but normal.

  “Exactly. Plus, I’m very careful where he’s concerned. I never let him out by himself, and he rides in a car seat next to me.”

  I trip over a crack in the blacktop and look at her out of the corner of my eye. Thank God I stop the laugh that nearly breaks free. She’s not kidding. But it’s a cat, not a baby.

  “Sounds very responsible,” I say, making a point of keeping my eyes off her. If I look at her, I’ll lose it. Thankfully we reach her door, and I keep my composure.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I caught your name?” she says. She’s very timid when she isn’t angry. I have a thing for strong women, so I’m not sure which I prefer. But then one more glance at her hair makes neither one matter, because the hair trumps everything.

  For a second I forget what we’re talking about.

  “Oh. It’s Will. Will Vandergriff.” I wait for the flash of recognition. It never comes. I think about doing a fake windup and pitch to see if that jogs a memory for her but decide that would look stupid. When she just looks at me, a crease deepening between her eyebrows, I’m certain of it.

  “Well, neighbor Will, thanks for walking me safely to my door. I’m sure my date will be happy to hear you’re such a gentleman.”

  “Glad to know. Maybe I could step in and meet him? Tell him I found some flannel-pj-wearing chick wielding a screwdriver on my doorstep.”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t do that. He’s probably sound asleep on the sofa by now. Plus, he was pretty mad about your music. If he is awake, I wouldn’t want him to beat you up or anything.” Her chin comes up, but she bites her bottom lip. I stare at the way she rolls it around in her teeth for a second longer than I should. Women should not bite their lips unless they want a man to join in the fun. To every guy I know, this is a turn-on. I’m no exception.

  I force my eyes away. “Since we’re neighbors, you should tell me your name too. It’s only fair, so I don’t have to call you the cat chick.”

  “It’s Olivia,” she says.

  I was expecting something else. Jane, maybe. Definitely not Olivia. It’s perfect. A beautiful name for a beautiful—

  “Goodnight, Will.”

  She takes a step back, and the door closes behind her. I stand outside it for a second. Maybe thirty. Maybe a hundred. Long enough to mostly convince myself once again that the lady next door is crazy. Remember the leash, Will? She’s nuts.

  It isn’t hard for the mantra to stick. I’ve thought she was weird for a while, after all.

  The harder part will be trying to forget that smile.

  And good lord.

  That hair.

  Chapter 5

  Olivia

  The day after I met Will what’s-his-name-that-I’m-trying-to-forget, the birds sang a little louder over the roof of my apartment. I love waking up to their sound—especially during that pleasant time of year when the school calendar is turning its last page, when I’m down to just a few remaining check marks in my day planner until I can pack up my classroom and close the door for the summer. I have so many plans for June and July: research and embark on my newfound passion of organic herb gardening, finally paint my kitchen a lovely shade of blue I’ve already selected from a color wheel at Lowe’s Home Improvement, go for walks, play with Perry, enroll us both in a Mommy and Me cat day camp that we used to enjoy but have found ourselves missing the last two summers due to a particularly violent bout with the flu on my part and an insufferably bad mood on his.

  Cat depression is a serious thing and can last quite a long time. It was news to me . . . and to our veterinarian. But we’re past it now. Perry’s back to his delightful, lazy self, thank goodness.

  As I was saying, the day after I met Will, I woke up to a world colored a brighter red. A warmer orange. A sunnier yellow. A regular rainbow lighting up the sky.

  Until I had the bright idea to google him. It’s something I’m not proud of, something I regret. He plays baseball for the Rangers—a perfectly fine profession, a job that many women would be overjoyed to align themselves with. Women concerned about status, women who love to rub shoulders with wealth and high society. Fortunately or unfortunately, I’m not one of them. For me his job comes with all kinds of drawbacks, the main one being that I don’t like baseball
players. I have my reasons, every single one of them valid. But his profession isn’t even the real problem.

  The problem is his number.

  It’s thirteen.

  Of course it’s thirteen.

  All my life, I’ve had nothing but bad luck with the number thirteen. I know it’s a cliché, and I hate being part of a cliché. But the problems. So many have piled up around me that I now avoid the number at all possible costs.

  At a hotel, I will not stay on the thirteenth floor.

  At a grocery store, I will not shop on aisle thirteen.

  At a movie theater, I steer clear of that row.

  On a staircase, I count up to twelve and hurdle the thirteenth step.

  I won’t even read books with the number thirteen in the title. I’ve probably missed out on a few good ones, but I figure that’s the author’s fault.

  The only thing I haven’t managed to avoid is the thirteenth day of the month. So I get my revenge the only way I know how: dress in black, keep my head down, and pretend I’m in mourning all day.

  Not hard to do, since the thirteenth day of the month is also the day that—

  “Ms. Pratt?”

  I look up from the stack of papers I’m grading and meet the cautious gaze of little Avery Hardy. The black cloud surrounding my Monday morning mood lifts a little at the sight of his sweet face. For some reason, my repulsion for all things unclean stops with him. Avery wears ill-fitting, mostly unwashed clothes to school every day, and he wears a baseball cap backward because I never have the heart to tell him to remove it. As for showers . . . there’s no way he takes one more than once or twice a week. His family is poor, but I’ve seen his brothers. They seem generally well-kempt and energetic, which tells me Avery bears the brunt of their family’s lack of resources.

  He is late to school again, a somewhat common occurrence; right now I’m in the middle of my planning period, and recess isn’t over for another twenty minutes. He looks troubled. I’ve seen him this way before, but today is different.

  I set my pen down. “What is it, Avery?”