His door closed softly.
Then there was silence.
Through the wall, I could hear the muffled sound of him talking to Princess Consuela in his low,private voice. I couldn’t make out the words, but I could hear the cadence. I sat in my chair and let the presence of it fill the quiet the way music fills a room when you’re not trying to hear the melody.
I reached for the Post-it pad and wrote four words. Then I walked to the fridge, stuck the note in our usual spot, and went to bed.
Thank you for tonight.
— P
In the morning, his reply was already there:
Anytime. I mean that.
— B
There were no sparkle emojis.
For the first time, no sparkle emojis.
Chapter 13
Benji
Terri called on a Monday morning while I was bottle-feeding LaTavia, who was the calmest of the Destiny’s Child kittens and the only one who didn’t treat feeding time like a full-contact sport.
“Mr. Kwon, I’m calling with an update on your unit,” Terri said without preamble.
“Hit me, Terri.”
“The initial assessment indicated six to eight weeks for repairs. Unfortunately, during demolition, the contractors discovered additional water damage in the subfloor and the shared wall with 4C. The revised timeline is ten to twelve weeks.”
“Ten to twelve weeks.”
“I understand this is an inconvenience. The building will continue to cover Mr. Loupier’s rent abatement for the duration. If the current arrangement is no longer workable, we can explore alternative placements, though availability is limited.”
“No, the current arrangement is fine. Peter and I have worked out a good system.”
“Wonderful. I’ll update Mr. Loupier separately.”
“I can tell him.”
“Building management prefers to communicate directly with all affected tenants.”
“Right. Professional channels. Absolutely. You’re a pillar, Terri.”
“Have a good morning, Mr. Kwon.”
LaTavia burped with a force that seemed structurally impossible for an animal her size and fell asleep in my palm. I set her back in the bathroom with her sisters, counted all five heads (Beyoncé was suspiciously close to the window, which I’d reinforced with packing tape and a copy of Peter’s veterinary pharmacology textbook), and went to the kitchen to read the morning Post-its.
Your shampoo is migrating. Found it in my shower again. Please contain your products to your designated shelf. The bathroom is not a territory to be colonized.
— P
Gentle reader, this requires some context.
The bathroom situation had been a source of ongoing diplomatic tension since approximately daythree. Peter’s side of the bathroom was a masterclass in organization. There was a single bar of unscented soap, a bottle of the most joyless conditioner I’d ever encountered (the label said “fragrance-free” like that was a selling point and not a cry for help), a razor, and a toothbrush. Four items arranged at right angles on the shelf to the left of the showerhead, which he had claimed through the unspoken yet immutable law of First Occupancy.
