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Chapter Two

Emma—Present Day

I can’t find the picture anywhere, and it is starting to piss me off. What did he do with it? The fucker probably threw it away just to spite me. I’m disgusted with myself for asking Michael to send me my things, but frankly, it was better than the alternative. The thought of him wrapping and packing all the mementos from my bedroom makes me want to wretch. Yet I know it was far better than going back to that house to get them myself. Far better than having to look at him and his greasy-ass hair.

On top of the last unopened box is a yellow sticky note. It is my tally of the postage amounts from all the boxes. I peel it off the box and put it on my desk. I am sending him a check tomorrow simply because the idea of owing him
anything
makes me crazy. I open the last box and frantically rummage through it. I am really starting to get annoyed, and I can feel myself losing it. So help me God, if he kept that picture...

In my mind I can see myself buying a bus ticket and breaking down his door to pry the picture from his hairy, disgusting hands. But there’s no need for such aggression after all, because suddenly I can feel a corner of the wooden frame deep down in the box. Even without seeing it, I know exactly what it is. I have touched that frame a million times. I pull it out of the box and wipe the dust from the glass with my palm. There we are. Two freckled redheads. Our arms are wrapped around each other’s neck, and we are smiling. We are gleaming. I know I am happy in the picture because it was before Michael. Before the mess. Before my dad was gone, and before Michael turned my brothers into assholes. It is just my mother and me, and for the millionth time, I can’t take my eyes off of us.

* * *

I sit down on the edge of my bed holding the frame with both hands. When my mind eventually settles, I begin to scan the room for somewhere to put it. This place is still so new to me. I have barely settled in, so fully unpacking the boxes from Michael doesn’t make any sense. Frankly, I could throw the whole lot of them into the incinerator. The picture is the only thing in them that matters. I haven’t lived in that house since I was eighteen—nothing else of any real consequence was even there anymore. Still, I am curious about examining the contents just to be sure. Next week maybe. For now I’m going to concentrate on getting the rest of my clothes unpacked. I prop the picture up on my already crowded nightstand. I tap a light kiss on to my fingertips and then transfer it to my mother’s image.

I unzip one of the suitcases and start moving a pile of T-shirts into a drawer. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My eyeliner is smeared, my hair is gathered into a sloppy bun behind my head, and my constellation of freckles is now backed with a pink flush, no doubt the result of my internal rant over the whereabouts of the picture. I sigh and then remember that it really doesn’t matter how I look because now I live alone. No more brothers, no more Michael, no more college roommates, no more need for someone to share the rent and utility bills. It seems I am a grown-up now. At long, long last. It is both refreshing and humbling.

As I shift another pile of T-shirts to the dresser drawer, I hear the door buzzer. Who the hell is that? Who even knows that I live here? Oh, God. I feel a slight and sudden panic. Michael is the only one who has my address. I had to give it to him so he could mail the boxes to me. But he wouldn’t dare come here, drive all this way, would he? I decide there is no way it is Michael because he is a smart enough man—he knows I will knock him in the balls if he shows up here. Fucker.

I walk down the hall, past the wreck of a kitchen, and into the living room where the door buzzer startles me again by sounding a second time.

“Hold your damn hat on,” I mutter as I press the intercom button. “Yes?” I ask into the small, gray box.

“Hi. Um, is this Emma Searfoss? Apartment seven?” asks a male voice.

“Yes, it is. What can I do for you?” I ask. A rush of thick, syrupy relief courses through my veins. I am beyond grateful that whoever it is, it’s decidedly
not
Michael.

“This is David. I’m here to fix your kitchen cupboards. The landlord was supposed to call you yesterday to let you know I was coming,” he says. Oh. I haven’t checked my cell phone since yesterday afternoon, so I have no idea if Carl called me or not. For a moment I hesitate, but then I figure the guy must be legit because part of the rental agreement included refurbishing the kitchen cupboards. Right now they are a complete wreck; the doors are either falling off or missing altogether, the paint is peeling, and most of the shelves are cracked and warped. I haven’t even attempted to unpack the kitchen boxes, expecting Carl to come and fix the cupboards as he promised. I’m pleased that he’s decided to do it sooner rather than later. Whoever David is, he’s got his work cut out for him.

“Oh, okay,” I say into the gray box. “Up the stairs. Second door on the left.”

“I know,” he says casually as I press the door release switch. I quickly grab my purse and toss it into the back bedroom, just in case David is some kind of criminal. I almost snatch the pepper spray out of it first, but then I decide that
that
would be one step too close to crazy.

There is a knock at the front door, and a second later, I open it. I immediately wonder why I didn’t grab the pepper spray when I had the chance.

David does not look like a cupboard fixer. Frankly, he looks a little psycho, and I wonder how stupid I am to let him waltz into my apartment without checking for a message from Carl first. But if I close the door on him now,
I’m
going to look like the psycho. A stupid cliché pops unwelcome into my head: “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” I stuff the words back into my brain, back into the mouth of every Sunday-school teacher I ever had.

The only visual indication that David is actually here for the reason he claims is the belt of tools slung low around his waist. There is a hammer swaying off his left hip and some screwdrivers tucked into little loops on the right. A tape measure sits next to the hammer, and what appears to be a pair of lineman’s pliers is sticking out of a small pocket to the side. There are some other tools there, too, but I don’t recognize them.

He catches my glance at the tool belt, and I realize that I must have some foolish look of relief on my face, because a second later he is wearing a small, lopsided grin. He looks quite pleased with himself, as a matter of fact, and I immediately think he must be a cocky bastard.

Aside from the tool belt, he is wearing a gray T-shirt, a pair of black skinny jeans and a pair of heavy black work boots. His dark, mussed-up hair is cut short, and it looks as if he forgot to shave—for the past several days. On each ear are two small silver hoops, and his arms are covered in tattoos. I can see the swirls of ink beneath his skin, but I can’t tell what the images are—I don’t want to look at them any longer than I already have. I don’t want him to think I am checking him out. Cocky bastards love being checked out, and I refuse to give him the pleasure.

I step aside and let him into the apartment. He looks around quickly and makes a beeline towards the kitchen. I think immediately that he must be familiar with the apartment’s layout because he doesn’t ask where to go, nor does he hesitate.

“Come on in,” I say sarcastically as he breezes past me.

“Thanks,” he says without turning around. I watch him walk around the corner to the kitchen and wonder whether I am supposed to follow him in there.

“Holy hell,” he says quietly. “What a mess.”

“Sorry,” I answer sheepishly from the living room. And, before I know it, I add, “My grandma got stoned here the other night and was desperate for some munchies. She gets a little out of hand sometimes.” The utter idiocy of my own words makes me want to evaporate. I don’t even have a grandma anymore.

In a split second he is out of the kitchen and standing in the hallway, his hand on the door frame. He looks right at me, completely stone-faced. Without a trace of mockery, he says, “I think I might like to meet your grandma someday.” He quickly turns away and slides back into the kitchen. I am silent. What the hell am I supposed to say to that?

* * *

Since I can’t come up with a sharp retort, I decide to say nothing. I am not going to encourage this asshole. I am going to shut him down. In fact, I do not say another word to him for the rest of the morning. Instead I go back to the bedroom and continue unpacking my suitcases. I can hear him banging around in the kitchen, and I briefly consider closing my bedroom door just in case he really is some sort of psycho.

But then I wonder what he will think if he sees that I closed the door. I don’t want to seem paranoid or judgmental...or weak. The fact that I am putting so much thought into whether or not I should close the freaking door bothers the hell out of me. I want to
not
be bothered by the fact that I am alone with a strange man in my apartment. And for some stupid reason, I want
him
to see that I am not bothered by the fact that I am alone with a strange man in my apartment. I want to beat myself silly over all my foolish waffling about the goddamned door. I finally decide to shut my brain down before it melts—the door stays open, and I keep unpacking.

As I empty out the last suitcase, I decide that I am hungry. It’s got to be close to lunchtime by now. I turn to my alarm clock to check the time, and as I do, I see his reflection in the dresser mirror. He is walking down the hallway, toward my bedroom. Good. Now he’ll see that I didn’t close my door. I am standing next to my bed, and I try to come up with something to do with my hands so that he doesn’t think I’m just standing in my bedroom doing nothing. My nightstand is right next to me, and I reach down to grab something in advance of him hitting the doorway. Before I know it, I am flipping open my little plastic compact of birth control pills and looking at their circular pattern. Oh, fuck me. What the hell, Emma?

“Hey,” he says when he gets to the end of the hallway. “Sorry to bother you, but I need to use your head.” I turn to look at him just as he comes into the door frame. He has lost the tool belt, and his thumbs are casually hooked into the back of his waistband. He looks quickly around the bedroom before his eyes settle on my hands. I snap the pack shut quickly, hoping he might not recognize what I am holding—but I’m pretty sure he is the kind of guy who knows precisely what a packet of birth control pills looks like. I am deciding if I would prefer to curl up in a ball and die or evaporate yet again, when my mind registers what he has said.

“Um, for what?” I ask sharply. Should I offer him a calculator or something instead?

“Um, to take a piss,” he says with far too much lilt in his voice.

I stand staring blankly at him, and I have the distinct feeling that I am missing something. What is going on here?

After another moment passes, he says “Well?” And then it hits me. Oh, sweet Jesus, Emma! He is asking to use your
head
, not your brain.

“Of course. It’s right there,” I say meekly as I point to the bathroom door. I can feel the embarrassment creeping up my neck, across my face and through my scalp. I am sure now that I am blushing, and I look away so that he can’t see my face.

“Thanks,” he says. He turns to go, and once his back is to me, he adds, “Oh, by the way, your grandma’s handiwork is going to take me several days to fix, so you may wanna relax a little.” He keeps walking down the hallway, and I no longer feel like evaporating. Instead I feel like bitch-slapping the conceited jackass.

“Fuck you.”

The words come out of my mouth with a great amount of attitude and far more self-assurance than I am actually feeling. “And your little dog, too,” I add just loud enough for him to hear.

He turns on his heels and faces me again. His eyes look energized. There is a trace of a smile on his lips, and I suspect he wants to laugh at me...but he doesn’t. Instead he just stands there and looks at me as if there is some sort of crazy current running through him. I begin to think he’s trying to rile me up on purpose. Testing me somehow. I see his game now, and I am perfectly prepared to play.

When the moment passes, he turns around again and steps into the bathroom. The door closes, and I walk out to the kitchen to see what he has been doing out there all morning, vowing to myself that I will not lose my composure again. I will play it cool.

When I turn the corner, my view confirms that he is indeed trying to fire me up. He has torn all the cabinets off the wall, ripped up the linoleum flooring, and removed all the countertops. He has destroyed far more than my imaginary baked grandma ever could. Now I’m on the fence regarding the man’s sanity, and I know why he said he was going to be here for several more days. Game on, David. Game on.

Chapter Three

He comes out of the bathroom as I am busily looking in the fridge for something to eat. I am relieved that he hasn’t taken the doors off any of the appliances—at least not yet anyway. I pull out some cheese, an apple and a container of yogurt, and I walk past him to set them on the small table in the living room. Then I go back in for a bottle of water and a knife. As I step across the now-exposed plywood, I can feel him watching me. It is a very small kitchen, and I am silently hoping that he doesn’t come in here until after I walk out. My “fuck you” hangs in the air between us, and I want to somehow take it back but only because he seemed to enjoy my hostility, not because I didn’t mean to say it.

I grab what I need and move quickly out of the kitchen. He is regarding me intently, and it pleases me. It’s because he is surprised that I haven’t said anything about the state of my kitchen. Frankly, I am, too. But I will no longer let my irritation become his diversion.

“I figured while I was cleaning up after your raging grandma, I might as well fix the rest of your kitchen, too,” he says, almost thoughtfully. “Carl is a really shitty landlord. He doesn’t fix anything he doesn’t have to, so I am taking some liberties on your behalf. Don’t worry. When he sees it, he’ll be pissed off at me, not you.”

I’m not sure what to say, but inside I am hoping that neither Carl nor David expects me to pay for the impromptu remodeling. The cabinet repair was part of the rental agreement, yes, but everything else wasn’t.

“Oh,” I say. “That’s cool. Thanks. But, just so you know, I’m not paying for all this.” I probably put too much emphasis on the word “not” because he raises his eyebrows and looks almost hurt.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he says. “Don’t worry. Carl will be the one paying. Trust me.” The way he says it makes me wonder exactly how he is going to make Carl pay for it, but frankly, I don’t really care. Just as long as I’m not the one opening my wallet.

“You want some lunch?” I ask.

Shit. It appears that my mouth is now speaking of its own accord. But at this moment I am stuck. I tell myself the intention of my offer was to take some of the sting away from my “fuck you” comment a few moments ago, but frankly, he doesn’t appear the least bit stung. He was clearly thrilled by the whole thing.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that my kitchen is a bit of a chaotic mess at the moment. Some ass decided to take a few liberties on my behalf, and so I can’t really cook anything, but I am happy to share what I’ve got,” I say calmly. “I guess I’ll have to thank the ass for leaving my refrigerator intact.”

His face does not change. “I’m sure the ass has good intentions,” he says, looking directly into my eyes, which I am trying to keep from rolling. “And, yes, lunch would be great.”

Excellent. Now I have to give the ass lunch. I get up from the table and head back into the kitchen. As I am getting out more food, he washes his hands at the sink. While he lathers the soap, I can’t help but look at his tattoos. His arms are covered in birds. Dozens of them are delicately woven together in flight. Their wings overlapping, their tails trailing and swirling together. I am astounded by their elegance. Each bird is a different size and shape, and every feather is exquisitely detailed. They are strikingly beautiful. I want to touch them. To see the colors up close. To ask him about the person who put them there. But I don’t, because I am speechless.

As I look at his arms, I almost feel guilty. As if I have seen something that was supposed to be private. Intimate even. I only see them for a few brief moments, but they tell me more about David than I suspect he wants me to know. Anyone can see his arms, of course, but I feel as if I have exposed him somehow. As if my looking at them might make him embarrassed. Vulnerable even. But I know thousands of people have probably seen his tattoos and didn’t think twice about it.

Maybe it’s me who feels embarrassed.

The two of us together in my very small, and very demolished, kitchen is suddenly awkward, and I want to get out. I have to pass him sideways to fit between his body and the wall, and I take care not to touch him as I go by. I put the rest of the food on the table and divvy it all up. He comes around the corner drying his hands with a paper towel.

“How long ago did you move in?” he asks. “I haven’t really seen you around, so it must have been pretty recently.” I want to make a smart-aleck comment about all the moving boxes sitting around, but I decide that I’d better not.

“I’ve only been here a few days,” I answer as we both sit down. “I start my new job on Monday.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks with what might be a hint of pride in his voice. “Good for you. What’s the job?”

“It’s for the FBI,” I say. “I’m going to be investigating a con man who swindles women into paying for remodeling projects they didn’t ask for.”

And there it is. His smile. It’s not big, and he doesn’t show his teeth, but still, it’s a smile. And I smile back.

“Wow. Now that sounds like an interesting case, Emma,” he says. “I bet he’s a good-looking bastard.”

“They say he’s a conceited son of a bitch, too,” I add.

“Don’t worry. You won’t be paying for a single penny of your new kitchen.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I play poker with Carl every Tuesday night, and I have already won you your new kitchen. You want a new bathroom, too? I can have that for you by Wednesday morning.”

“Ahhh. It appears that the con man is indeed a conceited son of a bitch,” I say. “But I’m glad he’s spending his winnings so smartly. I didn’t know philanthropic con men even existed. How unexpected.”

“Con men are notorious for the unexpected,” he says, and I feel a lump in my throat. The whole time we have been talking I have been watching the birds on his arms in my peripheral vision. I suddenly feel remorseful for taking what could have been a normal conversation and turning it into a series of jokes. He is still smiling, though, which tells me he likes it.

“Unexpected is nice,” I say. Nice? That’s the best I can do? The word seems wrong.

We sit there eating without saying another word. I am looking at my food and not at him. When I glance up a few minutes later, he is looking right at me, and he’s still smiling, even as he eats.

“What?” I ask.

“Are you going to tell me what your new job really is?”

“I’m going to work for a company that designs telecommunication systems for office buildings. I’m an electrical engineer.” He actually looks pleased, and it surprises the hell out of me. “Welcome to Geek-ville,” I add as I shrug my shoulders. Oh, God.

“Geek-ville?” he asks, half laughing. “I think that shit is awesome.” I must look shocked at his reply because he shrugs his shoulders, too.

“And how long have you worked for Carl?”

“Almost two years. He owns a couple of apartment buildings, and I do all the maintenance for them in exchange for my rent.” Oh. David lives here? In this building? “It’s a pretty good deal. I just do some odd side jobs to pay for food and stuff, and I usually end up kicking ass on poker night, so I’m good. I’m really a carpenter, but I’ll do whatever the hell he needs just so I don’t have to get some nine-to-five shit union job.”

“I’m not looking forward to nine to five myself, but I think it will treat me pretty well.”

“I’m sure it will,” he says as he gets up from the table. “I’m going to get a few more things done in here, and then I’ll get going.”

He goes back into the kitchen, and I follow behind him carrying our plates. As I drop them into the sink, he hooks his tool belt around his waist and nestles it down on to his hips. I glance at the birds again, knowing that his eyes are on the belt clip and not me. They are breathtaking.

“Do you live in this building?” Really, Emma? Do you really want to go there? I curse my curiosity and tell it to go fuck itself.

“Yes,” he says. “Right above you, but two floors up.” That explains how he knew which apartment was mine and exactly where the kitchen was. It doesn’t explain why he used the door buzzer.

“Oh. Then why did you use the door buzzer this morning?” I ask.

“Because intercom introductions are my thing.” He holds his arms out in front of him and adds, “If you saw me through the peephole in your door, would you open it?”

“Yes...but only because of the tool belt.” I mean it as a joke, but I’m not sure he’s going to take it that way.

He chuckles and says, “Works every time.”

I spend two more hours in my bedroom unpacking and hooking up my computer and television gear. I hear David’s cell phone ring. He walks out of the apartment and closes the door behind him, and I wonder if he’s coming back. A few minutes later I hear the door open again. He is talking with someone, but I can’t hear what they are saying.

I walk out into the living room, and he and an older man are carrying boxes into my apartment.

“Your new kitchen tiles just arrived,” he says. “Once we get them unloaded, I’m heading out.”

“Okay,” I say, watching the other man walk back out of my apartment, presumably to fetch another box. They each make another trip outside, and then David shakes the man’s hand and sends him off. I am trying to find something to do in the living room—I want to be out here when he leaves and not in my bedroom.

I decide to open a box of books and begin stacking them one by one on to my bookshelf. As I do, David goes back into the kitchen, and I hear him taking off his tool belt and putting it on the floor. He comes back out, walks to the door, and turns to look at me.

“Thanks for lunch, Emma. I’ll be back tomorrow. And I won’t use the door buzzer this time.” He is out the door before I can say goodbye.

* * *

What the hell has happened today? I am used to people getting me fired up. I am used to being angry. I am used to my temper. But I am not used to squelching it...and I am exhausted. Was all that crap flirting or mocking? I can’t figure out if I should be pissed off or flattered. Goddamn me. Goddamn him. He’s probably going to some bar tonight where he’ll brag to his friends about the smart-ass redhead he is working for and how much he enjoys watching her squirm. I decide to be pissed off instead of flattered...which doesn’t surprise me one damn bit.

I walk back to my room to check my email, and while I am there, I check my cell phone. There is no message from Carl.