“By the way,” I said, pointing to a ridiculously huge flower arrangement on the windowsill that was overtaking all others like a giant blossom-monster. “She sent that monstrosity.”
“Did she buy out a florist?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll send one of the extra special thank you notes I keep on hand especially for her,” she said.
“Make sure to include lots of x’s and o’s. Mother loves them.”
Addie snickered then winced. My mother thought anything other than a respectful and classy salutation was juvenile.
“Don’t break a rib on her account,” I said, and then dropped a gentle kiss on her cheek and went back to her house to scrounge something up for lunch.
I left the following Sunday after getting Addie home, filling her fridge with foods she could easily warm up, and promising to be back in a few weeks. After packing my one bag, giving Gomez a kiss on his head and shouting goodbye to Morticia, who couldn’t be bothered to see me off, I drove to the airport, dropped off my rental car, and went through the hassle that was getting to one’s gate.
Once parked in a seat with a scalding hot matcha latte, I opened my phone and scrolled all the things I’d missed or put off. Social media, emails, texts… And then, having saved the best for last, my favorite Brooklyn Tribune column, Around the Neighborhood.
It took me seconds of reading to realize something about the article felt familiar. Somehow, I already knew what – and who – this story was about.
And in a moment of absolute shock and horror, I bolted upright, dumping my latte on the carpet in front of me.
“Meet-Poop?!”
Chapter 5
Graham
“Well, hello Brontë! And you too, Graham.”
I looked up from my spot at the little bistro table in front of my favorite coffee shop, Morning Joe, and smiled at the owner, who had crouched down to give Brontë a scratch behind her ears.
“Mornin’, Joe,” I said, noting the older man’s clothing. “New sweater vest?”
“The missus surprised me last night with it,” he said, running a hand down the forest-green garment. He pulled a dog snack from his front pocket and held it out to Brontë. She didn’t even bother to sniff at it before lying her head down on her paw and closing her eyes. Joe looked up at me with a frown.
“Yeah,” I said. “She’s uh… we’re…” My voice caught and I shrugged. Joe sighed and gave me an understanding smile.
“Time can be a kick in the pants, can’t it?”
I usually laughed at the sayings that came out of the old man’s mouth. But time was a kick in the pants. A hard one. Right in the groin.
With some effort he stood again and took the seat on the other side of the table.
“Loved your article last week. Went right out that afternoon to check out the ice cream parlor.”
“What did you have?”
“Coffee and Oreo. Didn’t sleep all night.” He patted his softly rounded belly. “Caffeine and dairy together are apparently not my friends.”
I laughed.
“Perhaps stick with something lighter next time?” I said. “They have some nice sorbets.”
“Eh.” He waved a hand. “Sorbets are boring. Humans are meant to live a little. Even if that means spending the night on the throne. Anyways, that segues nicely into the rest of what I wanted to say. Your article in yesterday’s paper had me laughing so hard I had a coughing fit. Poor Nita thought I was finally gonna kick the bucket. But, as the kids say – worth it. The meet-poop, eh?” He grinned and glanced down at Brontë. “I mean, after reading how that lady ‘lost her shit’, I felt she deserved a little poo on her shoe. I’m just glad she didn’t yell at our girl here. If that had happened, I’d be out in that park with my pitchfork.”
The responses to the article had started coming in within hours of the paper landing on people’s porches and in their inboxes, nearly every one of them asking if I knew who the woman was, or if I could post a description so people could be on the lookout. I would never hand that information over though. No matter how heinous she’d been, she didn’t deserve the whole of Brooklyn hunting her down. And for some reason, I still couldn’t get those wide golden-brown eyes of hers out of my mind. The dark hair with hints of copper thrown into a messy bun on top of her head. Her tall, lithe figure covered by a baggy t-shirt and sweats that barely hid the curves beneath…
Fuck. I really needed to get laid.
