Page 20 of Never Your Valentine

I can’t help myself. I’m already designing one in my head.

Front of card: A cartoon of a birthday cake and a party hat on fire inside a trash can. Streamers and confetti litter the ground. In the corner, a half-deflated balloon says “Yay.”

Front caption: I was going to get you something special for your birthday, but then I remembered who you are….

Inside caption: And decided it was way too much effort.

I bat that thought away. Grant doesn’t deserve my attention. You know who does? People who appreciate me and what I can do.

I set my supplies on the kitchen table and get to work.

By the time I look up, it’s past seven, and I have a crook in my neck. I can’t sit like this a moment longer. My next order of business will be buying a proper office chair.

I massage the back of my neck while tilting my head up. The night is clear. Even with the streetlights, the stars are glowing in a way that makes them seem almost touchable. What are they like in true darkness? I grab my coat and my keys and head toward the lake.

It’s slow going, as I’m mindful of ice. I should get a dog-walker flashlight, or one of those hats with the built-in headlamp. For now, I keep my head down, watch my step, and make it to the beach without wiping out once.

I step off the boardwalk, lift my head and stare. And stare. And stare. The last time I saw this many stars, I was in a planetarium. My eyes can’t take them all in, and yet I keep trying, like my soul is a sponge that’s been parched for constellations.

My chest tightens with a kind of fullness, like it can’t decide if it’s thrilled or terrified. How can existence be so big, when I am so, so small? I want to memorize this night, the way the stars glitter over the dark lake, how the cold makes my body come alive in a way warmth never could.

I stay until my fingers are frozen popsicles and my cheeks are burning. Which means I stay about ten minutes. It’s enough. I’m rejuvenated. I’m alive. I’m inspired. I can’t wait to get back to work.

The minute I step into my apartment, it begins. A loud bassline thumps through the floor, followed by wailing guitar and shouted lyrics that seem to tear through my skull. My heart pounds with the drumbeat, matching its angry rhythm. A moment later, the sound of breaking glass is followed by male voices whooping and hollering.

It’s absurd. Who builds a rage room without noise-proofing? Another sound crashes through the music, a series of smacks like a bat hitting plastic, so loud that it feels like I’m getting hit. Does this building have any insulation at all?

There’s a second set of stairs that leads to the front of the building and ends in the maker space of The Break. I stomp down them and pound on the locked inner door in futile little whacks, with no hope of being heard above the noise.

To my shock, the door swings open and Grant’s standing there with a big pair of headphones around his neck. His flannel shirt is open to reveal a t-shirt with Bigfoot on it. “Can I help you?”

“Can you please turn it down?” I hit the word please extra hard, stomping my foot for emphasis.

Grant gives me a long, hard stare. “The music?”

“Is that what you call that noise? You’re shaking my floorboards.”

Grant’s face is blank. “And?”

“I’m trying to work.”

“And?” he says again. He wrinkles his brow, pretending like he doesn’t get it. It’s infuriating. “I’m working here too.”

“I’m your landlord,” I remind him, still shouting to be heard above the music. “Managing the building is part of my job. I’m going to have to set some reasonable quiet hours.”

Grant laughs in my face. “The fuck you will.”

“The fuck I won’t.”

“You live above a rage room.” He leans against the doorframe, folding his arms like a man who owns the universe. “What did you expect?”

Dammit. He’s right and he knows he’s right. I stare at him, picturing a life where every sunset is accompanied by a bass drop that rattles my bones. “Just a little?” I plead. “Can we go from…I don’t know…nuclear meltdown to mildly annoying?”

“I can ask.” He goes through the door, holding it open for me to follow.

Ask? Who’s he going to ask? Oh, no. Seriously?

We walk through the maker space toward the rage room in the back. At the entrance, he motions for me to stand behind him. “Watch out,” he warns. “We don’t know what’s going to come flying through that door.”