And Nina.
She looked petrified.
I can’t say that I blame her. Tyler is a big guy. A big guy with a mean scar on his forehead and into his hairline. And that blank stare of his can be more than a little intimidating.
Not to mention he walked in basically in his underwear. Wearing a sleeveless T-shirt.
Otherwise known as awife-beater.
Shit.
Yeah, I probably should have told my battered tennant that there’s a two-hundred-forty-pound, six-foot-two, brain damaged man who lives here too.
I’m sure it’s her dream come true.
ChapterFour
STELLA
I’ve just setthe timer on Mrs. Callahan’s dryer to process her root job when my phone rings. The number is local but unfamiliar.
I’m not supposed to be on my phone at the salon, but broken window panes and all that.
“Hello?”
“Please. Please tell me you still have a room for rent.” The caller’s use of the wordpleaseclashes with her demanding tone.
“Um…” I slip into the salon’s storeroom and out the back door. Tess’s Tresses sits smack dab in the middle of the strip mall next to Albertsons on Johnston Street. The back door opens onto acres of tree-dotted grass hemmed in by a private drive. A few of the other stylists like to come out here and smoke. I don’t smoke, but I like the view, even if it’s a hot day. “Who’s calling, please?”
“Oh, I don’t soundrightto you?” The emphasis on the wordright, I know, is supposed to conveywhite. And even though my defenses go up, I take a breath and tell myself the person calling me is probably having a really bad day.
I could hang up on her and block her number or I could give her a chance. Nanna used to tell me that if we don’t give people a few chances to do right by us, we’ll spend our lives alone.
“Hi,” I say firmly. “I’m Stella Mouton. What’s your name?”
The phone is silent for a moment. “I’m Livy Arnold.” I still hear wariness in her voice, but it’s not outright hostile. “I saw your property on Craigslist.”
“And you’re looking for a room?”
Again, a moment of silence. “A room, yes. But in a place where I’m welcome.” Livy Arnold says this with as much defiance as anyone could use and still pronounce the wordwelcome.
It’s hard to be sure, but she sounds like she’s a teenager. “You sound young.”
“You sound white,” she snaps.
I choke on a laugh. “I am white. Does that matter?”
She sighs an angry sigh over the phone. “I live with two white girls in Bonin Hall at UL. Are you gonna ask me if I stole it every time you misplace something?”
“No. I’m going to ask my four-year-old daughter Maisy who is known for helping herself to things that don’t belong to her,” I say matter-of-factly.
Silence again.
“Are you gonna tell me I smell like a Black person?” Her question is full of smothered rage, but it still makes me wince. That had to be awful.
“My best friend Pen is Black. She smells like patchouli,” I say because it’s true. “She lives with me too.”
This time, there’s no silent pause. “You live with a Black girl?”
