“Wait, what? How do you ‘kind of’ accuse someone of adultery? Is he even married?”
No, but I assumed he was. I saw a woman and a little boy named Tony going into his apartment.” I added for clarification, “Sex neighbor’s name is Antony.”
Dawn made a thoughtful, concerned noise. “So, you barged into this stranger’s personal business and accused him of cheating on a wife that I assume does not exist?”
“She does not,” I admitted.
“This is why we didn’t want you to move out, by the way. You need almost constant supervision.” She sighed. “Remember when we told you not to bake him a cake to tell him to be quiet having sex? Now might be the time for a cake. A genuine apology cake.”
“I thought it might be.” I eyed the clock. “I’ll make it tonight and take it over there in the morning.”
“That’s good thinking. Hey, did you hear from Sarah today? I tried to call her like seven times, and she never answered,” Dawn asked, shifting conversational gears.
I brightened up. “Yes! Her phone is probably off because you wouldn’t stop calling. She had a one-night stand that overlapped into today. If her phone is still off…”
“Go, Sarah!” Dawn exclaimed. “Phone high-five!”
“At least one of us is living that New York, Sex In The City dream.” I went to the kitchen and started pulling down ingredients. “Meanwhile, I have an apology cake to make.”
I’ve always thought that the best way to express emotions is through food. And, remorse is an emotion that makes food taste extra good. The only thing I had the ingredients for was a nice yellow cake with buttercream frosting. Not the fanciest baked good in history, but it would have to do.
At times of emotional turmoil, baking centered me. It had always seemed part chemistry, part witchcraft. Maybe if I’d gotten an apprenticeship instead of a college orientation packet, things would be different. I mean, obviously, I wouldn’t have been able to afford this apartment, and I wouldn’t have met Sarah and Dawn. If I rationalized that we meet people for reasons, I would have eventually become friends with them. And, it wouldn’t matter where I lived; I doubted that baking would prey on my worst fears like everything else did, now.
“Just go to school, and you can decide then,” my mom had told me. Then, two years later, Dad had said, “You’ve already got half your credits. It seems silly to drop out, now.” I’d stayed, all the way through. Then, it was, “Sweetie, this is a job some people would kill for, and you want to spend time with flour on your hands?” and “You know I hate to agree with your mom, but Leslie is right. You can’t waste the degree we paid for. Take the job. There’s no money in baking, anyway.”
I pushed down the pain in my chest. My parents had never been particularly warm or supportive. I’m sure they loved me, I just wasn’t sure that their idea of love and my idea of love were the same. There was a difference between wanting the best for your child and wanting them to be happy. I think the reason Mom and Dad hadn’t seen that was because their parents had done the same to them. They both had gotten “the best”, but I’d never seen either of them happy.
It was easy to lose myself in beating egg whites and measuring out flour. It toned down the loud, worried thoughts in my head. It didn’t help me tune out the sudden, rhythmic thumping in the other apartment.
Let it go. You’ve been really rude tonight, you can just ignore it, I told myself. But it wasn’t a Tuesday or a Thursday.
Then, it got louder.
Son of a— I grabbed my phone and put in my earbuds, blasting Imogen Heap at maximum volume. Maybe I wouldn’t give him this fucking cake, after all. Maybe I would just keep the damn cake and eat it myself.
* * * *
Even after therapeutic baking and the cessation of the oddly non-vocal sex next door, I could barely sleep. I kept going over the “why” of everything in my head. Why was I so bothered by my neighbor’s nocturnal activities? He’d stopped being loud—aside from that brief retaliation—and it was none of my business who he fucked, even if he was married. I was still nervous about making a good impression and being friendly. I’d made a cake.
Lots of people didn’t get along with their neighbors. It wasn’t unheard of to just live next door to someone and never interact with them. It had happened all the time when I’d lived with Sarah and Dawn. Someone would move in, then six months later they would be gone, and only then would we realize that we never really knew who the person was.
There was only one reason I was so concerned about making peace with this guy, and I really didn’t want to admit it. I was attracted to him. Somehow, in the mild conflict and short conversations that we’d had, I’d gotten a little crush on him. And, while it wasn’t a mentally-pick-out-my-wedding-dress kind of crush, it was big enough that it had altered my behavior.
It had to be the sex thing. I would totally have gone the one-night stand route, but I didn’t feel like getting murdered. I’d used some studies to calculate the risk, and it was just a bit too high for my liking. But I needed that connection, no matter how brief it might be. If it came from a boyfriend, awesome. If it came from the neighbor, it would do.
Yeah, you burned that sex bridge when you accused him of cheating on his non-existent wife. I flipped my pillow over to the cool side and pressed my burning face against it. The only reason I had any interest in Antony was because of my embarrassing loneliness. The cake would make me look as desperate as I was. There was no way I was delivering my humiliation directly.
Sunday morning greeted me with a sense of peace and finality on the issue. I’d shut the door on the entire thing. It was incredibly freeing. I showered, dressed, ate a piece of the cake I was not going to be giving to hot Antony, and got busy cleaning up. I went out for lunch with Dawn and Sarah, and I shot down any conversation about the sex neighbor dilemma in favor of hearing about Sarah’s all night and all day sex romp with her very promising new dude.
I usually dreaded Sunday night—unless The Walking Dead was on—but I didn’t feel my usual sense of despair at the end of the weekend when nine p.m. rolled around. Monday morning would be my fresh start, and I was really proud of myself for handling the conflict. In fact, I was entitled to a bubble bath.
My bathtub was pretty small, but I could usually get a relaxing time out of it. It helped that the bathroom was small as well; it steamed up so bad, I was considering wedging a tropical plant in there. I considered some candles, but that seemed like more of a Saturday afternoon thing. All I needed was to relax before bed. But a glass of wine would be nice.
I started the hot water, tossed in a bath bomb, and headed to the kitchen for the wine. I poured it into one of my huge glasses and brought it to the bathroom with my phone, which I put carefully on the back of the toilet tank. It was safer there than on the edge of the tub when I wanted music. I put up my hair and dipped a toe into the water. It was perfect.
When I sank into the bubbles, I sighed aloud. A hot bath, some good red wine, and Bastille on Spotify. The weekend wasn’t a total loss, after all.
The bathroom light flickered once, dimmed, flickered again, and cut out. The crack under the door went dark, too. Aside from the music playing on my phone, everything was totally quiet. Then, the car horns started outside.
I should have quit while I was ahead.
I’d never experienced a New York blackout, before. I’d gone home to Connecticut before Sandy and hadn’t returned until the power was back on. But that had been a different situation, and if it were just a few blocks, I would probably still have to work in the morning. I couldn’t run away to Mom’s house tonight.
You can do this, I pep talked myself as I felt for the edge of the tub and slid my glass aside. All you need to do is get dried off, then grab your phone and use it as a flashlight to get safely into bed.
Cursing myself for not using those candles, I put one hand out to feel for the toilet lid. My arm missed. I flailed. A thing bumped another thing in the darkness, and the delicate
tinkle of breaking glass sounded on one side of me as a hollow sploosh happened on the other. My phone screen briefly, cruelly illuminated as it sank below the water in the toilet bowl then flickered out and left me in total darkness again.
Okay. Plan b. You just put one foot out, and you feel around really carefully for the glass—
“Ow! Motherfu—” I didn’t censor myself so much as I had to press my lips together against the pain that sliced through my heel. The shard of glass embedded in my foot had to be the length of a pencil, at least. I tried to stay on my tippy toes to avoid pushing it in any deeper. My still dripping body slicked the floor beneath me as I hobbled, and I tripped, falling headfirst through the bathroom door with a loud cry of shock and pain.
“Ellie?”
Oh no. No. This was humiliating enough already—or would be when I explained it to the emergency room doctor who had to stitch up my foot—I did not need to be further humiliated by him. But sure enough, I heard his door close, and his steps in the hallway. “Ellie?”
“No, I’m fine.” I sounded like my mom talking on the phone to someone she was pretending to like. “I just fell down. I’m fine, now.”
“That didn’t sound fine.”
“Well, I am. Thank you for your concern, but like I said, I’m—ah, dammit!” I cursed as a shock of pain went up my side. Something was bruised. It felt like something important.
“Can you get to the door to unlock it?” Antony asked.
“Yeah, I can run a fucking marathon!” I snapped, grinding my teeth against the pain and probably the blood loss.
“Look, you better give me a straight answer, or I’m calling the fire department right now, and they can come knock down your door and help you,” he warned.
“I—” Ugh. No point in being dishonest, now. “I am naked and wet and covered in glass shards, and I’m probably losing a lot of blood.”
“Shit, I’m calling the ambulance, stay right there.”
“No!” I shouted. “No, I can get to the door. Just… Can you go get a sheet or something before I do?”
“You sure you’re gonna be okay if we wait that long?” he demanded. Someone down the hall yelled something that was muffled by the door, and he shouted back, “She’s having a medical emergency, why don’t you just go back inside, and mind your own business?”
My face flamed. Now the whole building would know. And, they would probably call the police, and a bunch of firefighters really would break in and rescue naked, bleeding me.
Normally, that thought of that would have set off slot machine jackpot noises in my head. I must have really been losing blood fast.
“Fine,” he acquiesced through the steel door. “I’ll be back by the time you count to ten. Have the door unlocked, or I’m gonna assume you’re passed out and dead.”
I didn’t bother counting to ten. I crawled to the door and reached up for the deadbolt, unlocking it just as he said, “You got it?”
“Yeah, but I can’t get the chain. There’s glass in my foot, and I can’t—”
He reached through the small gap and flicked the chain loose. “Those things aren’t worth a damn.”
My mouth fell open. Not because of the chain thing; I knew about that already. But because he’d slipped a flashlight into the front pocket of his jeans, and the upward beam threw every ridge of muscle into contrast, like he was a living, breathing art deco representation of Atlas.
So, all the sex must really bulk a body up.
He held the promised sheet at arms’ length in front of him, his eyes closed. “Just tell me when I’m getting close, and I’ll throw it over you like you’re a piece of furniture.”
“Oh, thank you. That’s very helpful,” I snapped, but inwardly, I had to admit it was a little funny. “Just toss it down, and I’ll get it all arranged.”
“Where’s the broken glass at?” he asked, turning away and pulling the flashlight from his pocket to sweep the beam around the floor.
“It’s in the bathroom.” I tied the sheet around my chest. “Okay, I’m decent.”
He turned and shone the light on me. I couldn’t see his face beyond the blinding brightness, but I could hear the smug expression on it when he whistled low and said, “Wow, you really did a number on yourself.”
“Is it that bad?” I peered down at the watery red line slicking down my ankle. “Oh my god.”
“Are you going to pass out?” He stooped beside me to examine the cut closer. “Wow, that’s really in there.”
“Do you think I should go to the hospital?” I squeaked, turning my face away.
“Are you afraid to see your own blood?” He laughed in disbelief. “I will never understand that.”
“That people get squeamish when their vital fluids are splashing all over the place?” I hissed at the slight pressure he put on the glass as he examined it.
“No. I will never understand girls who can get their period every month, no problem, but they get one little cut and they lose their breakfast.” He stood and brushed off his jeans. “You don’t need stitches. But you do need to get that glass out. Come on.”
That was it. Just, “come on”, and he leaned down to scoop me into his huge arms.
“Are you a lawyer or a lumberjack?” I tried to mutter it so I wouldn’t sound as breathless as I was, but I failed.
“Hey, we’re in New York, not Portland. Longshoreman, please,” he scolded as he carried me to my bed. His voice didn’t betray any sign of physical exertion.
Granted, it wasn’t a very long walk.
Lowering me to the bed, he murmured a surprisingly gentle, “Easy, easy.”
“What are you giggling about?” he asked.
A full body flush of mortification swept through me. Had I giggled? There was no way I would play it off now, and I wasn’t good at being cool. “Nothing. Maybe it’s the blood loss.”
“You’re not that bad off. Here.” He handed me the flashlight and dropped to his knees beside the bed, thoughtfully arranging the sheets around my legs. “Hold the light…right there, that’s good.”
It was good. I could see every whorl of hair on his chest—made all the more interesting by the fact that I’d been held against that chest and had confirmation of how rock-hard it was—but even better, I could see the concern and concentration in his expression. To have all of that focused on me was…
“Can you keep the light where I need it, or are you too weak from your injury?” he snarked, reaching up to grab my wrist and adjust it like the arm of a desk lamp. “Okay. Hold still. It’s big enough that I can get it out without tweezers.”
“That’s what she said.” I couldn’t pass up the opportunity, even if it didn’t make total sense.
He rolled his eyes. “How are you in a better mood while you’re naked and bleeding?”
“What are you talking about?” He didn’t know me well enough to say something like that. “You’ve never seen me in a bad mood.”
“Not last night, when you accused me of adultery? Or when you wrote your ‘I can hear you having sex, you jerk,’ note?”
Okay, he had me there. “You forgot the exclamation point.”
His mouth twitched.
“Look, I’m sorry. I was way out of line—” My voice rose in pitch and volume as the shard slid from my heel.
He balled up the end of the sheet and pressed it to the bottom of my foot to stop the bleeding. He squinted up at me. “You can stop blinding me now and save the batteries.”
I clicked the button, plunging us into darkness.
“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, his voice softer than I’d ever heard before. “I was pretty out of line, too.”
“You didn’t call me an adulterer,” I pointed out.
“No, but I did get a little personal with the masturbation comment.”
I was glad we were in the dark. My face was so hot it probably emitted a glow around me. “Well, I’m sorry you can hear me masturbating. I lived with roommates for years, and t
hey never mentioned any noise.”
“Oh, that’s new place syndrome,” Antony said, like it all suddenly made sense. “You start living alone, and you let yourself run wild. That’s probably why you overheard me.”
I frowned. “How long have you been living here? You said you were here before I was.”
“About three years. It’s my first place, too. I lived at home through college, had roommates during law school. Then, I moved home again… That’s a whole other story.” He sounded sad, but I had no right to pry.
Silence fell between us. It felt final, like our visit was finished. The weird thing was, I didn’t want it to be.
He eased up the pressure on my foot, and the flashlight clicked back on. “It looks like this has stopped bleeding. Do you have any Band-Aids?”
I shook my head, then remembered we were in the dark. “No. I should probably get a first aid kit, huh?”
“You’re lucky you have an overly cautious neighbor.” He stood. “I’ll be right back.”
The moment he left the apartment, it felt so empty. Usually, I liked being alone. Maybe the novelty of the freedom was wearing off.
When he returned, flashlight held between his teeth, I noticed that besides the blue plastic first aid kit, he carried a six-pack of brown glass bottles. “This might be presumptuous, but I have beer that’s just going to get warm in the fridge. Maybe we could keep each other company?”
“Um, yeah.” I looked down at the sheet wrapped around me. “I’d like to get dressed, though.”
“How about we take care of this grievous wound, first.” He knelt in front of me, again. When he took my foot in his hand, sharp sparks raced over my skin, traveling dangerously upward. Those sexy tingles were immediately doused under the cold swipe of an alcohol swab and the resulting sting.
“Motherfuck—mmm.” I self-censored, pressing my lips together from the pain.
He chuckled. The sound was so…knowing.
“What?” I demanded. “I swear. Everybody swears.”
“I know, but I got that impression that you were…”
“I was what?”
Bad Boy Good Man Page 3