“Come on, Nicole,” I grunt, eyeing another one of our neighbors stepping out of their apartment. I don’t know the guy in any capacity, but I do recognize the frustration on his face. He looks like the stereotype of a surfer, though he’s in a suit at ten o’clock.
But whatever. I don’t ask questions.
“Being a trust fund baby is seriously a problem,” he says to me, shaking his head as he heads in my direction. “She really needs a hard reality check. But … I think the world’s already giving her that.” He laughs.
And I kind of want to punch him in the face.
I let him pass by unharmed, though. I don’t need any more trouble.Just sleep. I need sleep.
So, I knock once more, a little more obnoxiously than before.Finally,the door lever jiggles…
But nothing else happens, other than a few strange clicking noises.
“Come on, Nicole,” I groan, running a hand down my face. “Don’t play games with me. This is getting weird.”
I hear a high-pitched whine, followed by a snuffling snort that is all too familiar.
Cocoa.
I stand in a fit of awe as the apartment door opens and the little terrier who temporarily ruined my shoes peers out at me. His littleeyes bug out with focus. He’s on his hind legs, clawing at the shiny lever handle.
“Your mom should make sure that thing gets locked.” I can’t help but chuckle. It quickly fades as a new song starts, though.
Yeah, this needs to stop.
“Nicole?” I call out, crossing my head over the threshold. “Nicole!”
No answer.But Cocoa seems excited, grabbing the bottom of my sweatpants with his teeth.
“Hey,” I tell him, shaking my head. “Don’t do that.” I do my best to pry him off, but he keeps tugging me deeper into her space. And as much as I should probably work a little harder to get him off me, I’m suddenly recalling all the stories I’ve heard of dogs going to get help when their owners are in peril.
And I don’t want to be the reason Nicole doesn’t get help.
So, I step into her entryway. And now, for the first time ever, Nicole’s apartment is visible to me in all its glory.
There’s really nothing all that special about it. For someone with a rich dad, I guess I expected everything to be designer or something. Instead, it just looks like a normal person’s apartment.
But as I step into the living room, my hands now covering my ears, I realize this apartment isanything but normal.
Nicole stands in the middle of a patchwork rug, her light blonde hair falling wildly from her ponytail, cheeks flushed, both arms wrapped around a yellow Swiffer like it’s a guitar. She’s absolutelylostin the moment.
She’s not just singing along. She’sperforming.
I freeze, teetering between the bamboo flooring and carpet. My brain short-circuits, unable to look away. She’s … not bad.
In fact, she’s actually killing it, hitting every word, belting the high notes like she’s auditioning for American Idol. Her eyes are closed, her face scrunched with effort, her entire body moving with the reckless abandon of someone who thinks no one is watching.
Which, until about three seconds ago, was most likely the case.
Cocoa, not content to be a spectator, launches himself onto the rug, skidding between Nicole’s legs and joining the performance with a series of excited spins. He barks sort of in time with the chorus, tail wagging so fast it’s a blur.
The sheer commitment is kind of mesmerizing.
Nicole transitions into a dramatic dip, one hand flung above her head, the other still clutching the Swiffer. The song reaches its climax. She nails it.
Then, in the split second of silence that follows, she opens her eyes…
And sees me.
