Riley and I were an unlikely pair, but we tolerated each other well. Living together was easy, and despite his fondness for wrinkled, coffee-stained clothes and cheap beer, I liked having him around.
He ran his palm over the curved stone surrounding the bay window, following it to the edge of the structure and down. He brushed away dust to reveal the mason’s original cornerstone.
It was the little things—the cornerstones, the ninety-year-old newspapers found in attics, the floorboards stamped with the lumberyard’s brand—that reminded me I was a tiny blip in time.
I always wondered about the people who came before me, the hands that built this home and all the others I worked to preserve. I hated thinking their artistry could be demolished and replaced with glass and steel and concrete.
Some things were worth saving.
“Shannon says you’re into Gigi,” he said.
“Shannon likes inventing things to talk about,” I murmured.
“What is your problem with her right now? You bitched about her all summer, and you’re only marginally better now.”
I continued studying my designs. I didn’t want to dump my stupid little feelings all over the fucking sidewalk. I’d done enough of that already.
“You spent the summer drunk,” I said. “I’m not sure how you had time to notice anything.”
“I spent the summer drunk because all you do is mope around with a goddamn raincloud over your head.” Riley grabbed the iPad from my hands. “You’ve been pissing and moaning about Shannon since Matt and Lauren’s wedding. Listen, I know everyone got into some crazy shit that night, but there’s no reason she’s not allowed to let her freak flag fly. Is your problem that she hooked up or—”
“Would you shut up? You’re being—”
“Hey, Sam! Sorry I’m late,” Magnolia called. She walked toward us in a dark pink dress and knee-high rubber boots, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders in long mahogany waves, and an enormous smile on her face. “Somehow there is more traffic getting into the city in the afternoon than there is getting out.”
She pulled me in for a tight hug and clapped her hand on my back. There was nothing half-assed about this woman; she couldn’t even give a weak handshake if she tried.
“Hi, I’m Magnolia Santillian.” She shifted the emerald bag on her shoulder and extended her hand toward Riley.
“Riley Walsh,” he said. “Can I call you Gigi?”
Her smile curled into a confused smirk. “What now?”
“Ignore him,” I said. “Let’s get inside.”
The interior was amazing, and I hadn’t stopped raving about it since my first visit in late September. The wide-plank hardwood needed attention, and most of the walls showed evidence of water damage, and where we should have found floor joists between the third and fourth floors, we found a hole stretching the length of the house. Aside from those issues, it was a perfectly undisturbed brownstone.
We walked through each room, presenting the plans, photographing, noting things I missed the first time around. We debated techniques for two hours, and reveled in the freedom of a near-limitless budget.
The demolition would be quick, and by my estimate, we could start late next week. We were only looking at pulling up some linoleum in the kitchen, treating some lead paint issues, blowing out the god-awful green tiling in the bathrooms, replacing drywall in most rooms, and reconstructing the joists.
It was late when we wrapped up at the Turlan property, and considering I managed fewer than two hours of sleep last night, I wasn’t interested in going back to the office today. I wanted the hottest shower in the universe, kale and kabocha squash soup, and a nice blend of anxiety meds and sleeping pills to drown it all out for the night.
Full belly, empty head.
My phone vibrated with a text, and I dug it out of my pocket immediately. When I saw it was a message from Shannon reminding me that I owed her designs for a charity auction—some stupid shit where I drew up plans for an outrageously elaborate and expensive home, and though people always bid on the auction, they never went through with building the damn house—I nearly smashed it on the sidewalk.
I hadn’t heard from Tiel in three days, and it was the longest I’d ever gone without talking to her. Sure, we’d only been hanging out for a little more than two months, but we had a rhythm. We were friends, or something like that, and we talked at least once a day. Add to that her complete bastardization of the English language via texts, and I heard from her on the hour.
Now that I was captain of my own douche ship, she didn’t want anything to do with me. I couldn’t blame her. I wasn’t what anyone would call decent, healthy, worthwhile. I didn’t care about people the same way Riley did, and I didn’t want to fix things for others the way Matt did. I stared at tits and asses, and I rejected a gorgeous, kindhearted woman without explanation, and the sidewalk panic attack was the cherry on top.
I didn’t deserve a nice girl.
We were inching through traffic when Riley turned to me and asked, “Where did you meet Gigi?”
That nickname was annoying but acknowledging that would only lead to its permanence. He was a stubborn brat like that. “At an event last year,” I said. “Some design magazine was sponsoring a spec house in Newburyport, I think, and she was there. We started talking about the sustainability features, and how they were completely wrong for the house. It looked cool in the magazine but it was ridiculous in practice.”
“And that’s when you decided she was going to have your babies?”
