I duck around the side of the building, behind one of the bushes, clutching the bags and doing my best to hold my robe together while my fingers tangle in the plastic loops of the takeout bags.
I look around, frantic, trying to find a way back inside.
But I freeze when the man—Miles—walks the beautiful blonde out to the front gate. They’re chatting happily, unaware that only yards away, there’s a semi-naked, green-faced woman with three bags of pork dumplings in the bushes.
The memory of the night in the fountain rushes back. I should be used to getting caught in compromising situations, but I’m not.
Sweat gathers along my brow and upper lip, and I feel a piece of the green mud mask crack and fall right off my face.
I’vegotto get back inside.
The bushes scratch my bare legs as I move toward the back door, the one in the laundry room that opens to the small garbagearea. I know the door is locked because I double-checked it before I left, but I try the handle anyway.
It doesn’t turn.
I step back and study the exterior of my apartment, wishing the window in the laundry room wasn’t so high or that I was the kind of person who knew how to scale the side of a brick building.
Unfortunately, it is and I’m not, which means I’m completely, wholly, and 100 percent stuck.
And the one person who might know how to get me out of this mess is in the apartment that’s the farthest away from mine across a fairly well-lit courtyard where a potentially handsome neighbor with questionable moral character stands.
I sneak back to my previous hiding spot and check the front gate again, just in time to see the young, perky woman wrap her arms around Miles and hug him. He pats her back in another surprisingly platonic gesture, and she walks away.
Two awkwardly benign send-offs. Weird.
One of the bags starts to spin and slip, and I grab haphazardly to get a better grip, throwing off my balance. My foot catches on something hard—a rock maybe—and I let out what can only be described as a yelp.
Because I’m the perpetual butt of a giant cosmic joke, this happens just as Miles is turning back. He freezes, eyes trained right on the spot where I’m standing, which I only now realize is right underneath an exterior light. A familiar sense of dread threads through me as I step out of the beam of light, hoping that the bushes conceal my hiding place in spite of it.
I go still, pressing my back into the brick wall of the building, and screw my eyes shut, praying that this guy has the eyesight of a T. rex, and if I stay still, he won’t be able to see me.
The traitorous belt on my flimsy robe slips.
Eyes still shut, I slowly raise the bags higher. Noodles and egg rolls are now all that stands between the world and my naughty bits.
I slowly count to five, then open my eyes.
I exhale a long, slow breath of relief, because all I see in front of me is an empty sidewalk. Maybe my luck in these situations is finally starting to turn.
Never mind that I still have no idea how I’m going to get back inside my apartment.
I listen for a few more seconds, and when I’m satisfied that Miles has gone inside, I step through the bushes, robe loose and bags clutched, out onto the walkway that runs parallel to the building. I stop short when I find myself standing right in front of my very casual, very amused, veryhandsomeneighbor.
I scream and drop all three bags, which snag on the belt and pull it all the way out of the loop. My robe does its best impression of those inflatable blow-up men outside a car dealership, just waving wherever it wants. I frantically clutch the thin fabric around my body as Miles takes a step back, looking away, his hands up in front of him, as if to let me know he comes in peace and isn’t trying to catch me in a compromising position.
I grimace, and another chunk of face mud cracks and drops to the ground with a comically softthump.
I tighten my belt, clear my throat, and try to act like I’m supposed to be there.
He smiles. “What are you doing in the bushes?”
“I... locked myself out,” I say, straightening up a little, trying to act nonchalant.
“Oh, youlivehere,” he says. “I didn’t recognize you with the—” He swirls his hand around his face, then points at mine, and in a weird move, he reaches down and grabs the cracked chunk of mask and tries to hand it back to me. “Does this go back on somewhere, or...?”
I stare, feeling like this whole scene is happening to someone else.
He tosses the chunk to the ground again. “Yeah, right, thatwas... I mean, it probably can’t stick back on...” He takes a step toward me. “Claire, right? I’m Miles. I live across the courtyard.” He sticks a hand out in my direction, but then decides against it when he realizes both of my hands are clinging to my decency.
