Page 88 of Keeping Score

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” The old man’s voice called from behind the closed door as the thuds of his footsteps drew closer.

I shifted on my feet, suddenly nervous.

The door opened, revealing Mr. Waterman in all his elderly glory, and I looked him up and down as I took in the sight of him up close.

“You’re taller than I imagined,” I said, staring at the cardigan-clad man.

“How the hell did you find my apartment?” he practically growled.

“I counted the levels of windows and did the math. It wasn’t hard. Can I come in?”

“Why would I let you in?” His eyes bugged out.

I smiled. I liked Mr. Waterman. Found him endearing in a way. He was the only person as grumpy as Liam, and it was a comfort to play off of his crankiness.

“Because I’m heartbroken and need advice from a wise, old man.”

“What makes you think I’m qualified to give a punk like you advice?” he scowled. “And what makes you think it’s okay to show up at my door?”

“You’ve been alive a long time. You pick stuff up over the years.” I peered into the apartment. “So, can I come in?”

“If I say no, are you going to leave me alone?”

“I don’t have anywhere to go, so probably not.”

He groaned, turning on his heel to wobble back into his apartment. The lack of door slamming in my face gave me enough encouragement to follow him inside.

Shutting the door behind me, I peeked around at his place. Simply decorated, sparse furniture, but pictures on every wall I looked.

The smell of cigarette smoke filled my nose, and I turned to see him lighting one up as he stared out the window. The same window he so often had looked down at me from.

“You’re going to kill yourself with that habit,” I told him, moving awkwardly around his apartment.

“Good,” he muttered.

Sarcastic old man, I shook my head.

“Now, tell me, now that you’re here in my house instead of on my steps—what do you propose we do?”

“Ugh, don’t say propose.” I groaned.

He narrowed his eyes in irritation.

“I don’t know,” I exclaimed helplessly when he kept looking at me expectantly, “should we trim bonsai trees or something?”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Lots, I guess,” I muttered, sliding down into an armchair across from him. “But that was a movie reference.”

“Tell me why you’re here,” he grumbled. “Or I’m sending you back out the door.”

“I proposed to my girlfriend,” I started with a sigh. “You know, the one that I’m usually on your steps waiting for?”

“And that leads you to me because—?”

“She said no,” I finished flatly, turning my attention out his window where the sight of her law office taunted me.

“Hm,” he muttered, putting the cigarette out.