But she wouldn’t have an awful day if she spent it with friends coming in to visit and rewatchOnly Murders in the BuildingandThe Good Placewith her for the next week.
I’m not going straight home tonight.
Instead, I’m going to do something else that I may or may not regret later.
11
Goldie
Despite what might appearto be ulterior motives, guilt is my main guide to a condo building a few blocks from my apartment complex.
I wouldn’t sweet-talk my way in to any other private building in the city, but at this one, I smile half-airheadedly at an older gentleman and tell him my boyfriend gave me the code to come check on his dog, but I moved and can’t remember which numbers go with which codes to which buildings, so he lets me in.
Worked well the other night, too, when I took Fletcher leftovers after class was officially over.
Awkwardis my favorite way of describing the rest of that evening after I went back to class, and I’d prefer to forget every bit of it.
Tonight, though, I take myself to the top floor and knock distinctly at condo number 1800.
There’s only one other condo on this level. Fletcher definitelyhas at least a corner, if not most of the floor to himself. Views are probably amazing.
Unlike the US, European rugby players make sports car money. And that’s where Fletcher’s spent the past dozen or more years. But make no mistake—he didn’t buy his sports car.
He got it for free with his endorsement deal.
He doesn’t need an extra job to be able to afford swanky digs on the penthouse level of one of the most exclusive condo structures in Copper Valley’s warehouse district.
Much like Silas doesn’t need an extra job because he’s living off of the substantial trust fund our grandparents left us.
I could live off of my half too, but I’ve been fortunate enough that my passion pays the bills.
I like supporting myself.
Fletcher doesn’t answer.
I knock again.
Still no answer, though I hear Sweet Pea bark inside, and I hear a gruff, low voice answer her.
I don’t see any obvious cameras in the hallway, there’s not a doorbell or a doorbell camera, and I’m angling out of view of the peephole.
He’s there.
He doesn’t want to see me.
Or possibly anyone, but I’m intentionally hiding so he can’t see who I am if he wants to know who’s knocking.
I can tell my conscience I did my part in coming to check on him…orI can get creative.
See if I can get him to open the door because I’m charming and funny and want to check on someone who feels weirdly like a friend.
I knock one more time and, with my voice as low as I can make it, I call, “Fire marshal. Gas leak check.”
Sweet Pea barks with joy inside.
The only other door on this level is all the way down the hall, so I don’t think I’m disturbing them. But I still hope Sweet Pea isn’t the kind of dog neighbor that causes problems.
She’s too cute.
