Cat:Okay. Buttomorrow you will.
I let out a dramatic growl, then slammed my phone back onto the counter. Those kinds of phrases always set me off. They felt so limiting.
Abandoning the phone, I walked away and up the stairs. Mr. Beans shot after me like a furry bullet. He was making his Ferrari sounds, like a roaring, high-pitched F1 car. He rounded the corner in a flurry and toward my library and studio, knowing my destination. Bill also followed, but far more reserved, nails clicking on the steps.
In my studio, I grabbed the metal jug of paint thinner, eager to clean all my neglected brushes. With a hefty clunk, it landed on my workbench. I walked over to the windows overlooking my backyard and swung them open to let in some air. Grabbing a recycled sauce jar and some paper towels on my way back, I pulled on some gloves and a mask. With furious resolve, I set to scraping the half-dry oil paint from the bristles of my brushes.
What bothered me most was the feeling of being trapped and cornered. I felt the walls closing in—Nash, Betty, Dr. Cat and the growing fame of my art. I had to decide what to do. Running was always an option. I could afford it. But truthfully, I was tired of being alone.
After a reflective pause, I flipped on my stereo, increasing the volume of my upbeat anger mix to drown out the thoughts. I let my head bob to the sound, treating my paintbrushes like drumsticks and microphones.
Tomorrow. All this could wait until then, possibly even next week. I would worry about it when the time came, and that wasn’t today.
CHAPTER 11
Sybil
Every morning for the following two weeks, the chime on my doorbell camera woke me.
Bill would bark and yip, nails clambering up and down the stairs until he’d drag me out of bed. Nash had created a monster. It was irritating, but also admirable and, yeah, a little cute. I admired Nash’s resilience and dedication to Bill’s culinary happiness.
This morning, Bill didn’t bother waiting for the chime of the doorbell. He climbed out of bed unceremoniously early. Mr. Beans and I enjoyed a few blessed moments of silence, and it was nice, but I couldn’t fall back asleep.
Glancing at the clock, I picked up my phone and turned my doorbell camera on. My growing curiosity shamelessly wanted to sneak a live glimpse of Nash in the act.He’d been so patiently consistent, and I liked that.
Soon enough, a familiar tall, dark figure appeared across the street, making its way toward my stoop. He had a confident gait, natural and unbothered; it was infectious.
I heard Bill bark as he neared. Nash addressed Bill in return, giving him a whistle through the door. The sound of his whistle was luscious, even through the dullness of the tiny camera speaker. My toes curled, and I pulled my knees to my chest to quell the heated feeling that bled to the tips of my limbs.
“Good morning, buddy,” he crooned.
I could hear Bill both from inside and out; he was half crazed.
Nash placed the bag on the stoop in the corner as always, backing away down the steps. He slid his hands into his pockets and stood statuesque, listening to Bill’s speech. He was stalling. Usually, he’d ring the bell and walk away, but today was different.
Nash looked to the camera then, as though he could see me. “Good morning, neighbor.” His lip tilted.
I sucked in a sharp breath. Could he tell I was watching him? Did the camera have an indicator light?
Holy hell,it did.
Or did it? I made a note to double-check that later. My cheeks heated as embarrassment barreled through me.
Without another word, Nash turned and walked down the street. I gawked, helpless, staring far too long at the empty sidewalk and falling leaves.
I wanted him to come back. Why did I want him to come back? I could almost picture myself answering the door, andthat felt… strange.
Closing the camera app, I grabbed Mr. Beans and slid from bed before Bill could begin his treks up and down the stairs. It was excellent exercise for him—I had to admit—but I worried about the integrity of the wood against the exuberance of his scratchy nails.
Reaching the landing, I made a note to order more socks, noticing how much cooler it was. Fall was here to stay. My mind filled with all the fun sock patterns I might find. I could spend an entire day just shopping for socks. I opened the door and retrieved the bag.
In the kitchen, I grabbed a little dog bowl out of the cabinet, setting it down on the counter with Mr. Beans and opening the bag. As expected, there was a sticky note attached to the clear pastry container, but when I pulled it out, I slowed before setting it down.
Below the customary “For Bill” in fat Sharpie was a phone number and a question.
“How do you like your coffee?”
My breathing ceased.
