“Maybe I lied. Maybe itisjust to piss you off.”
I narrow my eyes and glare, wondering if he’s really a lawyer at all.
“By the way, nice illegal fire-escape garden you have out there.” He smiles like the demon spawn he is and pushes his vacuum through The Hole before dragging my sofa back against the wall behind him and letting the sheet fall into place. “Interesting no one’s reported it… Yet.”
“I hate you!” I call out, like a normal person would shout “good night!”
“Feeling’s mutual!”
I take a half step forward, staring at that curtain. I listen to the soft scrape of his vacuum as he drags it across the room, the steady whir as he starts on the floors in his bedroom. It’s a disturbingly long time before I finally walk away.
9
I dial into the first of today’s endless series of calls on the global campaign structure.
“If I can just interject for a moment—” Anthony says, two minutes into the call. “I do not recall agreeing to that first bullet.”
“It’s just a preliminary punching bag, Anthony. We proposed a kit model instead of having an execution team at the global level because it gets the campaigns into market quicker. We agreed—” I start.
“We clearly did not agree if I have questions.”
I mute myself and sigh gustily, closing my eyes and begging the heavens for patience. And then the memory of Jack smirking down at me after his Chewbacca crack flits through my mind.
Ishouldbe thinking about how to retaliate for what he did to my garden. Instead I’m imagining what he could be doing to myothergarden. My lady garden.
No, ew. It’s my deep need to be liked. Curiously, I’ve never felt that need with Jack, but clearly the overgrown path to not giving a shit needs a machete taking to it every now and then.
The rest of my global project calls go the way of the first: two steps forward, one somersault back. Rochelle assures me she’ll talk to Sam to sort out the disagreement on methodology Anthony broached today. I give her a weak smile and thank her.
“What’s going on with you?” she asks, leaning forward and folding her hands in front of her. “You look out of sorts.”
“I’m fine.” At Rochelle’s skeptical look, a sigh flops out of me. “It’s just that the stuff with Anthony is exhausting, and I’m having some issues with my neighbor.” I blush profusely. “Annoying and dumb one-upmanship. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll talk to Sam about Anthony. The neighbor… I don’t know what’s going on there, but sometimes the only way to win a game is to not play. If you need to talk, I’m here. Okay?”
I nod, eyes misting. I’m a sucker for a sympathetic ear. And she’s right. Retaliating for the garden is probably dumb.
Margie is filming somewhere downtown until late tonight, so I won’t be seeing her, but Avery is supposed to stop in and help with the wall. I jump in a rideshare after work, too exhausted to walk but too poor to take a taxi. I need my raise.
I regret my decision when my ride pulls up and the door to the black SUV opens. A high school–aged girl with long blond hair and white skin, wearing shorts that look more like denim underwear, hops out and allows me access to the very tight third row of seating. I sigh and wriggle my way in, praying the combo of AC-vent air fresheners and being wedged in the back doesn’t give me a yak attack. The teen pushes the seat back until it slams against my knees. I grab at my legs and let out an involuntary whimper.
“Did that hit you? Sorry…” the girl says.
“It’s okay.”
“I like your top. It’s cute,” she says with enough vocal fry to crisp a churro.
“Thanks,” I say warily.
Her friend, a brunette with shoulder-length hair and olive skin, tears her eyes from her phone to turn and take in my top. They whisper and giggle, and I shift my legs to the side of my squashed seat, wondering what exactly is wrong with my simple, blue, work-appropriate shirt.
In the front passenger seat, an older white woman in a neon-yellow tank keeps an eye on all of us from the mirror in the sun visor. Her thick-framed glasses match her top, and her veined hands are covered in silver rings. A young Black man in a suit leans against the window in the front row, paging through a newspaper on his iPad. He’s seated next to the brunette teen who is currently showing her phone to the blonde who let me in.
Thank God for technology and its ability to provide a social shield for the antisocial. I lean over with difficulty and reach for my tote, pulling out my own phone.
Text from Margie:
I was thinking about ideas for your garden retaliation. Maybe post in some fan forums that Jack’s phone number belongs to Lucas. The man will have no peace.
