She strides toward the pathway that leads between buildings and surprisingly gorgeous green space. At home, only the wealthy can afford gardens so lush, but based on the condition of these buildings, I doubt management pays that much for landscaping. It’s just so wet here that rhododendrons, ferns, and ivy pretty much grow themselves.
Like the precipitation, Angel continues to sprinkle me with information. “Welcome to Seattle, Claire. I love it here. Of course, I arrived this summer, before the rainy season.”
“Huh.” I slide my gaze from side to side, judging our neighbors by their ashtrays and unwelcome mats. Thankfully, I don’t have to interact with them. Nine roommates are enough to worry about.
Perhaps I’m being overly cautious regarding my new digs. Everyone I’ve met has been kind, and it could be that constant sogginess is simply hard on buildings and makes them appear old and dingy before their time.
Angel stops at a grated metal staircase and pushes her suitcase handle down in order to lift it by the handle. I follow suit, expecting to make two trips. My big suitcase is going to be a struggle on its own.
“Here.” She reaches for my carry-on, then proceeds ahead of me. With a bag in each hand, she’s not free to point out our surroundings, so she juts her dainty chin in reference to the locations on my private tour. “The pool closed last month, so you missed that. But there’s a basketball court in the back corner, if you play.”
I lug my suitcase up each step with a thunk. I think of myself as physically conditioned, but I don’t normally carry heavy items up the stairs. And I don’t play sports either. “Nah.” Though maybe Wyatt will want to shoot hoops when he visits.
“Me neither.” Angel passes the second level.
I pause to readjust my grip for the benefit of my aching knuckles. If our crash pad were on the second story, I could be calling Wyatt by now to tell him about the basketball court.
Angel disappears out of sight around the landing, but she continues her spiel. “Unfortunately, they had to padlock the workout room to keep the homeless from squatting, so I just lift weights at hotel gyms.”
Wait a minute. The gym is padlocked to keep out squatters? I knew it. This neighborhood is sketchy.
I take a deep breath, intending to calm my nerves, but end up sucking in enough skunky scent that I’m now worried about getting high from the neighbor’s secondhand marijuana smoke. Hopefully, it won’t affect any random drug tests done by Premier Air.
With that thought in mind, the workout room becomes a lesser concern. “It’s okay. I’m more into Pilates. Not that I’ve been exercising much lately.”
Angel’s face peeks around the bend in the staircase. “Because you already have a boyfriend?”
I arch my eyebrows at her assumption and make a couple of my own. First, she thinks the only reason to work out is to get a man. Second, if that’s her motivation and she’s still lifting weights at hotels, she must be single.
I haul my suitcase around the corner. “Pilates never had anything to do with dating.”
“They why don’t you exercise anymore?” She moves on to the third story.
I think back to my old life. The old me never would have imagined myself here. “It was part of my ballet training. I danced professionally.” Evidently I now climb stairs while lugging suitcases for exercise.
“That’s incredible.” Angel stops at the top, sets down our carry-ons, and extends their handles. “You’re not still dancing?”
I grimace, and not from the marijuana smoke. “I developed trigger toe.”
Angel’s brown eyes fill with concern, making me want to trust her. “What’s that?”
A dancer’s worst nightmare. “My big toe locks up when dancingen pointe.”
She scrunches her cute little face in pain. “Like a foot cramp?”
“Kind of.” I don’t want to get into it.
“Ouch. I’m sorry.”
She’s compassionate in a nonchalant way. My dancer friends had all been horrified when I’d told them. They’d known it would be career ending. Life changing. Similar to bankruptcy or divorce.
It’s worse than getting moved from first class to coach. I’m not even a passenger anymore. I’m a server. I’ll be heating up mixed nuts for my old dance troupe as they soar to perform in roles I should have won.
At least I’ll get to go home to Wyatt. On my days off anyway.
Angel turns to the right, passing a red metal bistro table set and heading toward a matching door with a keypad above the knob. This is my life now. Thankfully, the entryway is a little classier than what I’ve seen in front of other units.
“You’ll have your own door code. Did Doug go over all the rules with you?”
