Imperfect Strangers copy edit

by Mary

  Shoving thoughts of prim heiresses aside, I focus on my current task. It’s Saturday. No work but lots to do, including laundry in the creepy basement of my building.

  It’s almost three when I get the call.

  “Hey, Mom,” I answer.

  “Hey there, baby girl.”

  She’s drunk. I can tell in only five syllables. It’s the word choice and the cadence, the slight slur she’s trying to hide. I can still hear it even though anyone else would miss it. It’s noon back at home.

  Drinking already? I want to ask, but I bite my tongue. She’ll get defensive and we’ll fight about it and tomorrow morning she won’t even know she talked to me, but I’ll remember it forever.

  “I can’t pay the power this month,” she says.

  “I already paid your bills.” Thank God the mortgage is paid off.

  I’ve had to pay the utilities and taxes for the last two months. She drank her whole bank account by the second week of the month.

  I moved out so I wouldn’t have to deal with this crap, and for the first few weeks, it was better. Or maybe she just improved at hiding it. At least when I lived there she would maintain for a few months at a time. Having me around made it a little harder for her to go totally crazy. Now she has free rein.

  But it’s going to get better. She’s going to get better. That’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past decade, anyway.

  “Oh. Well I need money for food,” she says.

  “I’m not sending you money.” We’ve played this game before. She’ll use anything I send her for more booze and definitely not food. I learned the hard way I can’t give her money directly. If I’m going to help, I have to send the funds straight to the vendor. “What do you want? I can call the store and have some food delivered. Tell me what you need.”

  She’s silent for a few long moments, and I can feel her thinking through the connection of three thousand miles, trying to figure out a way around me. “I’ll call you back.”

  She hangs up and I stare down at the phone.

  I can’t let her problems ruin my day. I’ve had enough. It’s the number one reason I took a job on the opposite side of the country. Along with having nothing else to do, really. All my friends are married and busy being happy and I was sick of being the pathetic friend. The one with the pity invite. The one who can’t make it past a first date.

  I’ve been waiting for my own Prince Charming, and since he wasn’t showing up in Reno, I went to New York City.

  And then there’s Mom. I have to let her go. The realization slammed into me a month before Marc offered me the job here.

  I had come home early one morning and she was awake and drunk. She called me a dirty whore, a no-good piece of shit, and other things that I’ve tried to repress.

  She’s not normally a mean drunk, but once in a while, she hits the point of no return and twists into a monster.

  But she never remembers it once she’s slept it off.

  That was my final straw. The moment I realized that I can’t change her. Nothing I say or do will make a difference. She has to want to change. Her addiction was dragging me down, and I couldn’t let it anymore.

  So I set hard limits.

  Setting her and her problems aside, I finish my laundry and cleaning and eat my little frozen dinner chock full of sodium and regret.

  I’m in bed by nine. You’d think a new girl in the city would be out partying on a Saturday night, but I need sleep more than I need air at this point.

  Mr. Sandman is barely brushing soothing fingers over my brain when a noise wakes me up. A thump.

  My eyes open to the dark room.

  At least the lights are still off this time.

  There’s another thump from somewhere down the hall.

  I take a deep breath. It’s nothing. A neighbor.

  Wait.

  Something moved. A shadow. In my hall.

  My Supernatural night-light is on, casting swirls of light and shade over the hall to the bathroom.

  Somebody is there. I can just make out the outline of a person standing in the shadowed hall.

  I can’t move. What do I do? Race for my phone? But they might attack if they realize I’m awake. Would that scare them away or make it worse?

  The dark figure shifts again, moving closer, nearly stepping into a ray of soft light cast from Dean’s handsome face. The shadows against the wall shift and grow. But I can’t make out any features. It’s just a giant black blob.

  More shuffling sounds.

  I can’t handle it anymore.

  I scream.

  The shadow races down the hall and I scramble for the phone on the bedside table, my fingers shaking so badly I can’t even enter my code to unlock the screen.

  A bang at the front door startles a shriek from my throat. Someone is out there, yelling.

  “Bethany, are you okay?” the muffled voice says.

  I fly to the door, pressing my face to the peephole.

  Steven.

  I unlock the two deadbolts, chain, and knob lock and pull the door open, stepping out and then shutting the door behind me. I’m not in the apartment. I’m safe.

  “Someone’s in there,” I tell him, my voice shaking. “I can’t call.” I hold up my phone.

  That’s when I realize Steven isn’t alone.

  There’s a girl with him.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say, my voice shaking and unconvincing.

  Steven pulls his phone out of the pocket of his pajama pants. They have birds all over them. Flamingos.

  The woman with him is wearing bird pants, too, but hers are covered in crows.

  What the hell? The total randomness of this entire situation pierces my shock and I have the sudden urge to burst into laughter.

  “Let me call for you.” As weird as this whole thing is, Steven’s voice is calm and his presence is steadying as he talks to the 9-1-1 operator and tells them our location. He hands me the phone and I shakily try to explain what happened while Steven listens, his brows furrowed, a frown marring his normally happy, porn-stache face.

  The operator keeps me on the line while the cops are en route, asking me questions about what happened.

  In between everything, Steven introduces me to his bird friend. “Natalie Furmeyer,” he tells me. It sounds familiar. I think he mentioned they had a new cult member. She’s pretty, tall, and thin with long brown hair and a beaky nose, which is sort of ironic.

  The cops arrive, a man and woman. The guy looks younger than me with a military haircut. He’s only a few inches above my own five foot four. The woman is taller, maybe my age with a heart-shaped face and hair pulled back into a severe knot at the base of her neck.

  They both have nametags over their right breast.

  They search the apartment—it doesn’t take long—and return with nothing but questions.

  “It’s empty,” Officer K. Roberts says, his voice carefully neutral.

  I rush inside and scan the hall, where I saw the figure. Nothing. They have the hall closet standing open, lights all on. Empty.

  “Will you tell us everything that happened?” Officer J. Cutler asks, getting out her notepad and pen.

  I repeat the story.

  They don’t look impressed. Or concerned at all.

  So of course I make things so much better by spilling everything they don’t need or want to know. Out comes all the weird things that have been happening over the last couple of months, the strange sounds, and the light coming on and the window being open in the middle of the night.

  But the more I talk and try to explain, the less they believe me. I can tell by the look they exchange once they’re finished writing out my statement.

  “Ma’am, did you say you recently had some security tapes installed?” the younger guy asks.

  I’m so not old enough to be a ma’am.

  “Yes. It’s connected to an
app.” Oh. Yeah, duh. I pull out my phone and we huddle around the screen. I pull up the video.

  The only movement since I came up from the laundry earlier is when Steven and Natalie came over to bang on the door. We watch as I call the cops, and then the cops arrive.

  “But I swear . . .”

  Roberts is over by the window, his eyes scanning over the lock, which is engaged. “Are there any other ways to get inside this apartment?”

  “Not that I know of.” My face heats.

  “Have you had anything to drink tonight?” Cutler asks.

  “No,” I say quickly.

  They exchange another look and the guy shrugs. “There’s not much more we can do, ma’am.”

  I nod. This is so embarrassing. “Thank you for your time, Officers.”

  They head to the door.

  Steven puts a hand on my arm. “You can stay with—”

  “Bethany?”

  I spin at the sound of my name.

  Brent is standing in the doorway.

  Relief rolls over me. He’s here. He came. He must have seen the commotion on the app.

  He glances at the cops, then Steven and Natalie, and then back at me. With only a few long strides in my direction, he’s right in front of me.

  And because I haven’t embarrassed myself enough for one evening, I fling myself into his arms, sticking to him like gum on a shoe.

  “Is everything okay?” His hands rub my back, soothing me like I’m a cat and he’s . . . catnip.

  Really, it’s the only explanation. And he does smell amazing, like cinnamon and man with a hint of expensive cologne.

  “It’s fine.” I’m seriously burying myself in his chest. I could stay here forever. From far away, I hear the cops leaving, the static of their radios disappearing down the hall before I manage to pull myself away from Mr. Catnip.

  Steven is still standing there a bit awkwardly which is like his MO anyway, and Natalie is next to him, shifting from one foot to another, her eyes not meeting anyone else’s.

  I tell Brent what happened, and how the cops couldn’t find anything.

  “They thought I was crazy. Or on drugs.” I sigh and shake my head.

  “Let me take a quick look, too.” He squeezes my hand once, then gives Steven a quick nod before he takes a look around. He doesn’t go far. There’s not much to look at. The small hallway leads to the even smaller bathroom.

  The light clicks on down the hall.

  Steven clears his throat. “Call me if you need anything.”

  “Steven.” I give him a hug. I have to. Then Natalie, too. “Thank you both for staying with me and helping me tonight. I really appreciate it.”

  With a small smile and a wave, they leave.

  Then Brent’s back. “I couldn’t find anything. Pack a big bag. You’re with me for the foreseeable future.”

  I should argue, but there’s no way in hell I’m sleeping here tonight, so I follow directions with a nod, grateful to be leaving.

  But then, as Brent’s turning his fancy car onto East Fourteenth Street past tightly packed brick buildings and shops all dark and closed for the night, the doubts creep in. He can’t really want me to stay with him, despite all of our friend talk and everything he’s done and how nice he is. I mean, look at him. And look at me. I peer through the passenger window to the side mirror. My curly hair is utter chaos, poking in all sorts of directions. I have grey smudges under my eyes and pale, pasty skin. I look like a reincarnated dishrag.

  “Are you sure you’re okay with me staying with you?”

  He glances over at me and then back at the road. “Of course.”

  Is he just saying that? I bite my lip. “I’m just not sure it’s a good idea, long-term.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re . . .” I wave my hand at him.

  “What?” He’s frowning.

  I’m offending him. I have to tell him the truth. My nose wrinkles. “You’re too good-looking.”

  “You really think so?” A slow grin spreads across his face.

  “Don’t act like you don’t know it.”

  “Maybe I don’t.” He preens, batting his lashes at me and flicking fake hair over his shoulder. “Did you see that interesting building over there?” He points, stretching his arm in front of my face and flexing his bicep with exaggerated motions.

  I swat his sexy arm away.

  He laughs and pulls his muscles away from my face. “I promise I won’t walk around in only a towel to tempt you.”

  “Gee, thanks. You think you’re funny.”

  “I am funny. Why does it matter what I look like?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s just that I don’t want to cramp your style. You know, if you’re going to be having lady friends over, or whatever.” I hold my breath.

  His reaction is a surprised blink and lifting of his eyebrows. “Oh. Lady friends.”

  He’s silent for way too long. “See? It’s a bad idea, right?”

  “No, that’s not it. It’s just, with the season starting and Dad wanting me to spend time with his investors, plus the charity work . . . I’ve got too much to do. I haven’t had time lately for . . . lady friends.”

  Oh boy, this is awkward. He doesn’t have a new skank over every night? That can’t be true. He’s the hottest man in the damn world. And rich. And famous. Guys like him don’t have empty beds.

  “You told me, and I quote, ‘I get plenty of hanky-panky.’ ”

  “I do. Just not right now.” He glances over at me. “Unless you’re bringing this up because you’re trying to be polite and the truth is you don’t want me cramping your style because you want to have male . . . you know, companions, or whatever.”

  “Oh, no.” I laugh. “No, no, no. I’m off that train.” I bite my lip and say in a lower voice. “Except for Tuesday. That’s orgy night.”

  He chokes.

  “I’m kidding!”

  Then he’s laughing and coughing. “I just choked on my own spit.”

  I nod solemnly. “I have that effect on people.”

  Chapter Nine

  Girls like Zac Efron and true crime.

  –Karen Kilgariff

  My Favorite Murder episode 69

  Brent

  “I’m going to pretend I’m not offended you still haven’t called me to make sure I’m still alive after snowboarding again for the first time in nearly twenty years. I’ll save you the suspense. Yes, I’m still alive. No, I’m not calling you from beyond the grave.”

  The line hums in silence for a few seconds and then he speaks in a lower voice. “It was weird though. Being at the top of the mountain. Just before we went down, I was scared. Terrified out of my mind, actually. But then I got this feeling, like Mom was there, telling me it was going to be okay. I could even smell her, that sweet lemon scent she always wore.” He sighs. “You think I’ve lost it, right? Anyway. We’re heading to Pakistan tomorrow and I probably won’t be able to call or email again for a while. I hope you’re doing okay.”

  I am doing okay. But I still don’t call Marc back.

  A couple of days pass as I settle into my new, odd, sort-of companionable living situation. It’s kind of nice. And what I told Bethany in the car turns out to be true. We don’t see each other much.

  It’s a double-edged sword. Part of me wants to see her, but then another part of me is grateful for the reprieve. I’m happy to be helping her, but I can’t get too close to anyone right now. Especially someone as enticing as she is.

  She’s a considerate roomie. She always puts the toothpaste cap back on, changes the toilet paper roll, and sets up the coffee when she leaves before me.

  In exchange, I’ve been cooking extra during my meal prep and leaving her plates of food in the fridge to reheat when she gets home. It’s leftovers of what I eat, so mostly healthy, but she seems to enjoy it since it disappears promptly.

  Today I had the MRI and it
was terrible. Trapped inside a humming tube for two hours is not the best way to spend my time. And now I’m exhausted. I won’t get the results for another week and then I know Dr. Richards will pressure me to discuss options with a cardiovascular surgeon. I’m going to have to make a real choice. But every choice takes me to the same inevitable conclusion. Surgery. An end to everything I’ve worked for my entire life.

  To drag myself out of the funk, I order food I never allow myself to eat from my favorite Chinese takeout place. Eating and watching my favorite show will help. Maybe.

  Bethany usually works late during the week, so I have the place to myself, for now.

  I’m on the couch in my sweats, takeout all around me, when the door opens and heels tap in the entryway. There’s a noisy inhale and then she groans. “Something smells delicious. Did you cook . . . ?”

  I twist my head around from my position on the couch and find her standing at the threshold to the living room, mouth open, eyes on the TV.

  “Oh my God, are you watching Forensic Files?” She flicks her shoes off into the corner, her purse drops on a side table, and then she’s next to me on the couch, eyes still trained on the TV. “Oh, I’ve seen this one. The husband did it.”

  “Hey.” I nudge her with a knee. “Spoiler alert.”

  “Sorry. Can I have some of this?” She points at the plethora of half-full containers I’ve left on the coffee table. “Is that chow mein?” She picks up a carton and the fork I left on the table and digs in before I have a chance to nod in assent.

  I watch her, amused.

  “Have you seen the one where the senator hit the pedestrian? That one is my favorite. Fucking politicians.”

  “Your favorite . . . what, your favorite murder?”

  “For this show I guess. I have other ones. Yes, I know it’s weird, but I have a true-crime thing. I just love it.” She stops and grimaces at me. “Are you going to kick me out now? I promise I won’t murder you.”

  “Well, if you promise you won’t murder me, then I guess it’s okay. I get it. I have a murder thing, too.” I gesture at the TV. “Obviously.”