“That’s the most hurtful, if accurate, thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I love you, Benj. Go knock on his door. Text me the second you’re inside.”
As the call went dead, I looked at Princess Consuela.
She looked at me.
“Twenty percent,” I said.
She yawned, showing every one of her tiny needle teeth in a way that communicated absolute confidence that I would fail at this and not even look fabulous doing so.
I arrived at the door of 4B at 6:15 p.m. I’d wanted to go earlier, but instead, I’d spent the afternoon atBarbacks, where the group chat had exploded with reactions to the Newspaper Robe Man development, and where Finn had sat me down and said, very seriously, “Be respectful of his space. This man is doing you a huge favor.”
And then Jacks had said, “Also maybe put on real pants,” which was fair because I’d been considering showing up in the coral boxer briefs just to establish continuity.
When I knocked, I was wearing real pants.
In fact, I wore jeans, a T-shirt that did not contain rhinestones, and sneakers.
My hair was tamed into something approaching intentional, and I had removed all visible glitter, though I knew from experience thatinvisibleglitter was a permanent condition, and that trace amounts would be detectable on my person until I died and possibly after. My only fear was unintentionally shedding glitter all over Mr. Robe’s floor.
I was holding Princess Consuela’s carrier in my right hand. The carrier was vibrating slightly because she had been in it for most of the day and was composing yet another opera of discontent. My suitcase stood behind me. The garment bag was draped over my shoulder.
Twenty-percent Benji.
Calm, measured, and grateful. I took a deep breath, held it, then let it out as slowly as humanly possible.
Then I knocked.
Chapter 4
Peter
Iwas at the stove, halfway through simmering a cumin-lime chicken that I’d been cooking on autopilot since my residency days, when three sharp raps hit the door and Hiro scrambled to his feet so fast he nearly wiped out on the hardwood.
Potato, predictably, did not move.
General Tso’s ears rotated toward the sound like satellite dishes, but the rest of him remained statuesque on the refrigerator, committed to his policy of sovereign indifference.
Terri had called an hour ago. “Your match is Mr. Kwon in 4A. He’ll be reaching out today to coordinate move-in.”
4A.
I’d let that settle for a moment.
4A was the unit directly across the hall, the unit with the door that closed like a gunshot at 3 a.m., and the cat that sounded like it was being fed into awood chipper every day at noon.
“Is there anyone else?” I’d asked.
“Mr. Loupier, you were the only volunteer on the fourth floor. We’re grateful for your participation.”
So that had been that.
I wiped my hands on a dish towel, set the spatula on the counter, and went to the door. Hiro followed at my heels, his nails clicking unevenly, three legs working overtime to keep up with his own anxiety. I could already hear the muffled sound of something unhappy outside in the hallway, something feline and deeply offended by its circumstances.
I opened the door.
Benji was shorter than I remembered; or maybe he’d just seemed taller yesterday in the hallway, with all his energy creating the illusion of a larger person. Tonight, though, he was contained, or trying to be. There were no rhinestones, no visible glitter, though something about him suggested that glitter was less a choice than a condition, the kind of thing that followed him regardless of precautions, and his underwear was safely hidden beneath a layer of denim.
