by Piper Lennox
“The family? Yeah, the mom. And, uh...a cousin. Also got to meet the eyes recipient, which was kind of cool, I guess.”
Walt gives me a look I can only describe as “sighing in silence.” He’s done it since we were kids. Like a fine wine, it only improves with age. Or my idiocy. “I meant ‘anyone’ as in, women. You know, romantic interests?”
“Oh. No.” Before he can catch my lie, I shrug, “The cousin was our age, and we hung out for a while, but nothing happened.”
“Of course.” This time, he does sigh out loud, setting the dish in the cabinet. “Lissa was asking about you again. We closed together, last night.”
“No thank you.” I set my luggage in the hall and follow him to the living room. “I can’t take another date listening to her prattle on about her kid.”
“You said you wanted to find ‘mom material.’ Who better than an actual mother?”
Now I give Walt one of my lifelong looks: wide-eyed and serious, my signal he should see exactly where I’m coming from. “Her mom is raising her kid for her. She trots him out for attention, posts all that shit about how hard single parenthood is, then spends every bit of her free time partying while the grandma takes care of him. That’s not the kind of mom London needs.”
“What about what you need?”
“Yeah, well, she also spent twenty minutes talking about manicures, and another twenty ranting about her ex. So she failed on both counts.” I fall back into our couch and dig a cluster of miniature Hatchimals out of the cushions. “Not that I don’t appreciate you meddling in my love life, but have you forgotten that you’re also single? Maybe focus on yourself, for a while.”
“Not that I don’t appreciate you meddling in mine, but I have a date tonight. Justin’s Crossfit instructor’s brother.”
“That’s quite the story to tell the grandkids,” I smirk, throwing one of the toys into the recliner just before he can sit. He digs it out from behind his back and pelts it back at me.
“You got a letter from Cassandra.” Walt says this softly, when our laughter fades. I see him run his tongue along his cheek while he gauges my reaction.
“I got a letter, or London got a letter?” It’s not uncommon at all for London to receive letters, magazine subscriptions, or giant care packages from her grandmother.
It is uncommon, however—downright rare, in fact—for Cassandra to contact me.
“You.” Walt gets up and passes me an envelope from the dining table. He might as well be handing me a bomb.
“You open it. Give me the highlights.”
He tears off one end, blows into the envelope, and pulls out the letter. It’s a single page. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.
I watch his face carefully while he reads. Walt and I know every expression the other has, so I relax when he doesn’t tighten his jaw or suck in a breath. His eyes glide from line to line as, slowly, he begins to nod.
“It’s not bad. No lecture. She just wants London to come visit in August, before school starts up again.”
I exhale. “How long?”
“Two weeks. She says to let her know as soon as possible so she can buy tickets to Universal.”
This is far better than Cassandra’s usual motives when contacting me, but I still feel my stomach crawl back against my spine at the thought of London spending half a month on the opposite coast.
My face must show this, because Walt folds up the letter and arches his eyebrow. “You gonna let her go?”
“I don’t know. I kind of have to, don’t I? Cass hasn’t seen her since Thanksgiving.” I let the cushions absorb me. “At least she asked, this time, instead of showing up with the plane tickets and everything at the last second.”
Walt snorts. “The New York City incident. I remember.”
While he cyber-stalks his date on his phone, I unpack. My clothes smell like the hotel and feel dryer-warm from the heat of the plane.
I shake out my collared shirt, the one I wore to the party.
“That’s right. I remember you.”
Her voice sifts through the folds of my brain like smoke. All night, I’d imagined the alternate universe where I did kiss her, where I pulled her down into my sheets and felt the chill bumps on her skin against my lips. That razor knick on her knee. The light scar tufting her bottom lip like a ring, thread-thin. The marks I couldn’t see, every crook and wound that had somehow made this woman into a tangle of mind-melting frustration, and irresistible honesty.
I saw her, during the flight. She was a row ahead, but across the plane; my sunglasses and hoodie hid me well, whenever she’d get up to stretch or glance around. I didn’t want to, but I pretended she’d been looking for me.
In the alternate universe, I would have waved to her, traded seats, and spent the flight enjoying conversation, even if she annoyed me more often than not.
But in this universe, I remembered London.
The hamper slams shut after I crumple up the shirt and pitch it inside. This is ridiculous—vacation brain, rearing its head again. I probably wouldn’t even be thinking about Colby right now if it weren’t for the fact I know she lives in Santa Barbara. It’s like wanting cake not because you’re craving sugar, but simply because you know it’s sitting on your kitchen counter.
My email, which I refused to check on the island, is a mess of design revision requests from clients: my least favorite kind of emails. There’s nothing worse than checking something off a list, filing it away in your mind as Finished...and someone coming along, opening the drawer, and shoving it back in your face, all over again.
After I’ve written everyone back and made revisions on eight of the eleven projects, my watch sounds—the alarm I hate and love most: London’s school bus will be pulling into the complex soon, and it’s time to take my meds.
I dig out my pill box from my carry-on and take the immunosuppressants one after the other, chugging the abandoned water bottle I left on my nightstand before the trip.
“Bus?” Walt asks when I emerge from my bedroom. He’s in the bathroom with the door open, humming along to The Chainsmokers while precision-trimming his beard.
“Bus,” I confirm. “Want to come with?” I cough as I pass by. “God, but leave the cologne cloud behind, I’m begging you.”
“And you wonder where London got her dramatics.” He waves me on. “Go ahead. I’ve still got to shower before Mark gets here. We’re going to the grand opening of his cousin’s restaurant, so lateness is not an option.”
“What’s he doing with you, then?”
“Ha-ha. Such wit. How are you still single.”
I give him the finger, which he misses completely as he shuts the door.
The other parents from our building are already chatting their way down the stairs; I wait until they’re several yards ahead in the parking lot before I step out and follow.
The hiss and pop of the school bus calms me. I know Walt was joking—again, he’s single, too—but it got to me. I don’t know why. It’s never bothered me before.
So I have standards. That’s a good thing.
And if I ever need proof, here it is: London flying down the steps and across the asphalt, the orb of keychains on her backpack thundering, her squeal of “Daddy!” making me forget everything else as I crouch down, open my arms, and feel her fill the space between.
Six
Colby
“Are you sure these people are legitimate? Did you at least Google them?”
I stifle my sigh and trap my cell between my ear and shoulder as the light turns to red just before I can inch out of the turn lane. I brake and eye the complex sign: Myrtle Grove, the fiftieth place I checked the night Katya and Ray took my very last straw and shattered it. “Yes, Mom. They’re real people, they’re my age—and they’re the only roommates I can find on short notice who seem normal.”
“Product reviewers,” she sneers, as if I didn’t even speak. She’s probably glaring at my email again. I spent hours drafting it, purposely wa
iting until the arrangement was final, so she couldn’t even try and persuade me to move home. Not that it helped, obviously. “What does that even mean?”
“They review products for a living. It’s exactly what it sounds like.”
“How does that make money?”
“Well...they do it on the internet, so their blogs and videos are monetized—”
“The internet?” she spits. Her mouth is full and I can hear the suction sound of chewing; she’s eating lemon Starbursts, her one and only vice for as long as I can remember. Her breath always smells like lemonade. As a kid, I loved unwrapping an entire sleeve at once and separating the colors: pink and red for myself, a mound of yellow ones for Mom, and a haphazard rejection pile of orange, which collected in a bowl until Dad would take them to the clinic and let the waiting room have at ’em.
“Don’t say it.” The light ahead turns. I set the phone to speaker and drop it into my cupholder, shouting over the rattle of the rented trailer behind me. “I know you’re going to tell me that it’s unsteady, what if they can’t pay rent and I get screwed, blah, blah—”
“If you know it already, that makes it even worse.”
My eyes linger on the Myrtle Grove sign again. It’s solid black with gold serif letters, and a fleur-di-lis underneath. Even the entrance of this place is miles above my last complex.
There are plenty of perks to this place, in fact. No sloppy roommates. No garbage spilling out of their bedroom and into the hall, if photos are to be believed. No busted toilets and ruined towels.
No memories. A blank slate. A balcony I can actually stand to use.
“Look them up,” I tell Mom, as I pull into a spot sideways with the trailer. “Clara and Georgia Hurley.”
Mom mutters the names to herself. I have no idea if she’s writing them down to actually research them before passing more judgment, or if she’s just grumbling in contempt, judgment uninterrupted.
I shouldn’t care. And I wouldn’t, if her opinion of my lifestyle wasn’t the one thing keeping her and dad supplementing my bills with monthly checks and weekly guilt. “’kay, well...I just pulled into the place, so....”
“Fine,” she sighs. “Call me when you get settled in a little. Love you.”
My annoyance fades. Not completely, but enough. “Love you, too.”
My new roommates are at a blogging convention until tonight, so I get my key from the front office and sign my paperwork. “Welcome home,” the woman smiles. It feels strange to smile back, agreeing, but I do it anyway.
I grab my purse and computer bag first before heading up. The stairs and hallways between the units are open, and I can see evidence of the lives inside: kids’ rainboots kicked off outside the doors, wet beach towels thrown over railings. More than a few dog leashes wrap around spindles. It’s kind of quaint, but also crazy that people would trust each other so much. Even for junk like rainboots and leashes.
The apartment smells like body spray. Huge, deep clouds of it, currant and vanilla. I open the door directly into the living room, where two faux-fur-covered stools, a pristine white desk, and stacks of beauty products sit, all surrounded by ring lights. Two chrome spotlights on stands block the television.
Other than that, the place is cute. You can definitely tell twenty-somethings live here. And not a single headset or broken toilet in sight.
I set my stuff in my room and look around. It matches the photos online exactly: plain white walls, beige carpet, shuttered closet. The window overlooks the parking lot. Across the Tarmac, another building of the complex stares back like a mirror image of this one.
As soon as I open the trailer, my hopeful and “fresh start” mood deflates. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to unload twenty giant boxes, God knows how many small ones, and an entire suite of bedroom furniture by myself. Much less get it upstairs. I should have asked Ray and Katya to come with me and help unload it. Then again, it’s not like they were enthusiastic about helping load the stuff into the trailer: they just wanted me out as quickly as I wanted to get out.
I unfold the ramp and go in, choking on the dusty heat of cardboard and metal, and heft the first box.
The bottom falls out. Literally: a flood of books clatters across the trailer floor.
“Whoa. You doing this by yourself?”
My heart jumps. I look at the guy walking into the trailer. About my age, with neon yellow Toms that look like they could glow in the dark. “Yeah. But I’m realizing I should hire some people.”
“Nah, save your money.” He crouches down and stacks the books I spilled. I kneel to help. “Between my roommate and me, we could get this stuff upstairs for you in no time.”
“Really?”
“Of course. This is nothing. But I am going to request a favor.”
“Um...okay.”
“Nothing sketch, I promise,” he laughs. His smile is easy but bright, as though we’re friends. “Just invite him in for a drink or something, when we’re all done?”
This wasn’t what I expected. Sex, electronics, weed: these were the bartering tender of my old complex. “I could make you guys dinner, if you want?”
“Not me—just my roommate.” The guy glances behind us and whispers, “See, he’s in a dating rut? So I’m trying to set him up without, like, setting him up.”
I laugh. “Okay. I’ll invite him in, after the trailer’s cleared out. Though I doubt it’ll do much good. I’m in a dating rut myself.”
“Perfect. Like attracts like.”
“Ah. Then let’s hope your roommate is also into latex and whips.”
The guy looks mildly horrified, but catches my smile quick. He bursts into laughter that rings around the trailer, engulfing us.
“I like you. We’re going to be friends, I can tell.”
I laugh with him, but don’t answer.
“Colby Harlowe,” he says. When I snap my head to him, he’s reading from the “This book belongs to” sticker in my high school copy of Jane Eyre. He snaps it shut with a flourish and extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, Colby Harlowe. Name’s Walt Belmont.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” We shake.
“All right,” he says, jumping to his feet and from the trailer in a loud, rattling bound. “You stay here, and I’ll go get my roommate.” Walt spins on his heel and mimes a zipper motion across his mouth. “And don’t tell him about our deal.”
I do it back. “You got it.”
Seven
Orion
“I thought we talked about you not volunteering me for stuff after the bake sale fiasco.” I point the spoon from London’s oatmeal bowl at Walt, who’s still holding the doorknob like I’ll trot right out at his command. “You promised you’d stop trying to fix me up without my permission. Promised.”
“This isn’t a fix-up. It’s an act of humanitarianism. Ry, the poor girl is out there all by herself, with an entire bedroom to move. Up the stairs.”
“Her fault. Should have hired movers.”
Walt narrows his eyes. I know a low blow is in the works.
And when he smirks, I know it’s ready to fire.
“Hey, London!” he calls toward the living room, eye contact with me never wavering. “New neighbor across the lot! Want to go meet her?”
I drop the spoon into the dishwater. “You sneaky bast—”
“Yes!” London barrels past Walt to the front door, flings it open, and disappears. “Let’s go!”
“London!” I bark. I can hear her giggle fading as she runs for the stairs. Walt doesn’t move. He knows, if he doesn’t go after her, I will.
“London Amelia Walker, get here now.” I push past Walt and peer out. London’s already at the bottom of the stairs.
“Let’s all go. At least say hi.” Walt tugs on my arm until, finally, I sigh and step past the threshold. “That’s it, be a good neighbor! Not so hard, is it?”
“London, stay right there at the bottom until we come down.” She does, but probably only because a crop
of ladybugs on the bottom step catches her eye.
The heat lines over the Tarmac make it hard to stay angry. Walt just wants to help me. Even if I hate the way he does it, I have to appreciate the thought. And the unrelenting effort.
“I’m back,” Walt calls into cupped hands as we near the trailer, “and I brought reinforcements!”
“Thank God! This dresser is not going anywhere with just me,” comes the reply. Something about the voice makes me panic and walk faster at the same time.
London’s inside in two seconds flat, with Walt close behind. I take my time and try to be subtle as I squint into the shadows at a bobbing head, bent over a box.
“What do you want us to grab first?” Walt asks the girl. “Bed? Dresser?”
“Definitely dresser,” she sighs, bringing up her head. “It’s that ugly antique one, against the wall. I’d half-hoped it would fall out during the ride, but c’est la vie.”
Her voice registers with me first, long before her hair settles down around her face, before her eyes turn and immediately, without hesitation, find mine in the mild darkness and clouds of dust motes.
“Colby,” Walt says, “this is—”
“Orion,” they both say at once. A wash of sadness is somewhere in her smile, but acceptance, just like the last time I saw her. Right as we said goodbye.
Walt looks between us. “You guys know each other?”
“Yeah,” I inhale. “Colby was, uh...the donor’s cousin.”
“And your veterinarian’s receptionist,” she prompts, like she’s teasing me I’d forgotten. She bends down to London’s eye-level. “Do you remember me?”
London nods. “You let me play Gem Tide on your phone. Daddy doesn’t let me play on his but my Uncle Walt does, and we got to Level Forty before the phone died—”
Walt gracefully slides his hand over London’s mouth, then tickles her when even the former won’t shut her up. “Don’t talk her ear off, kid.”