For what, I have no idea. Nor do I want to ask.
Bradley is still surveying the courtyard like he lost a golf ball in the greenery. “Kind of shaggy back there. I’d fire your gardener. Get somebody to tear that shit out and put in a putting green. Maybe an outdoor shower. Big enough for two.”
Predictably, he adds a wink. The upside of skipping breakfast is that I’m not regurgitating my cornflakes. “They like the natural look,” I tell him. “Not too manicured.”
Unlike some people I could mention.
It’s also true that Claude chose plants more for aesthetics than ease of maintenance. He didn’t care about things like thorns and prickers and rash-causing sap if the flowers were showy or the leaves had a funky shape. After a while, it waseasier to let things grow wild rather than wear a hazmat suit while gardening. I learned at a young age not to venture into that part of the courtyard, because in Florida, dense plant life could easily harbor things like snakes.
That’s another reason my mom prefers the Midwestern climate. You have to water plants to make them grow, so it feels neat and controlled. Few things give her more satisfaction than having a weed-free yard. But I like the tropical jungle feel here, even if I don’t want to venture into the overgrown parts. It’s like going to the beach. You can admire the ocean without swimming into shark territory.
“Do they have a sound system?” Bradley wants to know. Speaking of sharks.
I shake my head, fairly certain he’s not talking about the boom box they use for Zumba.
He settles onto Felix’s chair, ignoring the bag clearly marking that spot as taken. “Miss Bernie made it sound like this place was a dirty hippie commune, but it’s really just a bunch of friends hanging out, huh?”
I’m so ready to be repulsed by whatever he says next, it takes a second to realize he’s complimenting Castle Claude. “Pretty much,” I grudgingly agree. That and murder—in the theatrical sense.
“I can’t believe somebody didn’t think of it before. Guys like me don’t want to live in our parents’ house, and we don’t want to be exiled to suburbia with a wife and kids”—he sticks his tongue out, fake gagging—“so a place like this is perfect. Hang with your friends, party whenever you want, hire somebody else to cook and clean. It’s like college.”
“I wouldn’t know.” It takes several long blinks for this to compute.
Instead of being put off, Bradley’s eyes light up. “High school girl. Damn.”
I’m debating whether to burrito myself in the towel when the door to the building swings open and Felix steps out, carrying a bowl in one hand. He stops short when he notices I’m not alone.
“What’s going on?” he asks, like he caught us holding cans of spray paint next to a dripping wall of graffiti.
“I was just telling Bradley here that I’m in high school.” My smile is pure acid.
“Is this your baby bro?” Bradley asks me, with a teasing singsong that is disturbing on many levels.
My not-brother and I exchange a horrified look. “Um, no,” I say.
“Ohhhhh.” Bradley drags the word out, like it’s full of speed bumps. “I get it.”
Somehow I doubt that. The overlap between “what Bradley thinks he knows” and “true facts” strikes me as pretty narrow.
“I’m chatting up this little honey now, man. Better luck next time,” he tells Felix, who opens his mouth like he’s going to argue before deciding it’s not worth engaging with a smug, sockless stranger whose pants are so fitted I can see a lump below his shin. Maybe he keeps his phone down there, since I doubt the suffocating cut of those chinos leaves room for functional pockets.
“I brought you some black beans and rice,” Felix says to me, raising the bowl he’s holding.
“Really?” That’s suspiciously nice. I hope he’s not holding a grudge over the poison incident.
“Nah, bro.” Bradley wags a finger at him. “That’s not going to cut it. You want to impress a girl, you have to take her out.”He turns to me with a chin lift. “Want to grab a bite? I know a sweet place on the water. Happy hour runs until five.”
“I feel like we need to circle back to the high school thing,” Felix says, tacking on a sarcastic “bro.”
Bradley gets a faraway look in his eyes. “I fucking loved high school.”
“High school?”Felix shudders. “You loved high school. That’s like Sociopath 101.”
“You know the best part?” Bradley muses, too lost in nostalgia to pay attention to background chatter. “There’s always a fresh supply. Out with the old, in with the new.”
“Please tell me you’re talking about number two pencils,” Felix says.
“Girls.” Bradley draws a diagram in the air with his stubby index finger. “It’s a renewable resource. Hot and fresh out of the kitchen, every fall. Best years of my life—until I got to college. That waslegit.”
