Page 18 of The False Flat

“I . . .”

Michelle laughed out loud now. “She’s the massage therapist I was telling you about.”

She had not told me about this massage therapist.

I had no words.

In an attempt to quell my anxiety, I’d tried yoga-light, acupuncture, hot stone therapy, anything that didn’t require me to talk about my family. None of it had worked. There were a few days I’d even seen a holistic specialist and had my chakras realigned or cleansed or opened, whatever those were supposed to be. I wasn’t entirely clear on what chakras even were. I probably had no business cleaning them or buffing them or . . . bottom line: I would stay away from Piper.

“And I need someone to manage my money. We’ll trade.” Piper smiled and walked away. “Let me know when you’re free. We can talk numbers while I get rid of the rocks in your trapezius.”

What the hell did that mean?

Please, please don’t let me get so desperate I have to pimp myself out to Piper just to sign another client.

I needed to figure out how to market, or maybe I needed to go back to Frothy Monkey and eavesdrop, or maybe I needed to go back to Minnesota, where I knew what I was doing.

I thought of Black Coat and Beige. Right now, they were pulling me through.

CHAPTER 8

TWELVE OUNCES OF . . . MMMM

Five solid beats, like a fist on loose panes of glass, hammered in my head. My eyelids fluttered as they fought to stay closed against the sun streaming through the blinds over my bedroom window, about as good as a colander at keeping the day out. It was Saturday morning, and Chad, who’d flown in the night before, sprawled, still asleep, on the floor mattress next to me. We’d had a brief discussion about our “relationship.” We both agreed to take it slow, and our commitment was loose. Throughout the week, I’d regretted my rash decision to send that “Let’s talk” text, but as soon as he’d walked into my new Nashville home and swept me up into his arms, I’d melted into the greeting. He was so sure, sure enough for the both of us. Then, we’d had the sex prescribed by the insane massage therapist I’d managed to avoid all week.

The rattling continued, and I threw back the covers and looked down at my faded Counting Crows T-shirt, the one I’d had for years. As soon as I’d seen the words, already flaking—I’m not ready for this sort of thing—at a thrift store, I’d bought it, my homage to the nights I’d lain in bed in my early teens, listening to “A Long December” on repeat, low, so my mother wouldn’t hear it as I cried myself to sleep.

With my robe belted around me, I went to the door and peeked out the window, pulling up one blind.

Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness. It was that guy from last weekend. My mind went blank. Greg, Deanna’s brother, the number four. No, not Greg, Grant. Grant and his damned mustache.

What is he doing here?

I danced and paced, trying to decide whether to pretend I wasn’t home or to open the door and find out why he was on my front porch standing next to Erin’s grandparents’ plant I’d let die.

“Penelope? Are you okay?” The voice came from the other side of the door. “I can see your outline, and it looks like you’re having some sort of fit; do you need help?”

My inhalation sharpened. “Just a minute.”

I gripped the belt of my robe and pulled the two sides as tight as I could until my abdomen ached, physically pulling myself together. Ever practical, my mother had taught me this trick: in an uncomfortable situation, give yourself something else to focus on: shoes that pinch, a bra latched too tight, an itchy garment, anything to distract you and keep you on your toes.

I touched my head, making sure my hair was smooth, only to realize I was still wearing my silk bonnet, a nighttime hair-wrapping method I used to keep it from frizzing. I ripped it off and threw it behind the TV. Then I ran my hands through my hair and over my eyebrows and swiped at the corners of my eyes and the edges of my mouth. At least I could count on my overnight makeup, which I’d kept on so Chad would be charmed by my oh-this-is-just-naturally-what-I-wake-up-like morning face.

With my shoulders squared and my chin up, I unlatched the drafty door and pulled it open as if I wasn’t surprised at all to see him standing there, the sun hitting his back and making him glow like a mustached Adonis.

And then I saw The Nose, who smiled and waved at me. She pointed at Grant, holding a cup up in her left hand, then gave me a thumbs-up, which instantly made my face glow.

“I’m well aware I’m too early. I’m hoping these help.” Grant held out a four-pack of muffins in a brown box with a window on the top of it and a covered paper to-go cup that matched the one The Nose had. “From Deanna.”

“She made them? For me?” I took the box and the drink, but my hand stung on contact. Guilt. Over the past eight days—from the night I’d attempted human friendship over dinner—Deanna had texted me four times and tried calling twice. I hadn’t returned any of the messages. I was too embarrassed; also, she’d been so complimentary that I’d wanted to leave on a good note. Why ruin things by renewed contact?

He nodded. “She also made me come here.”

I wished my hands weren’t full so I could belt my robe tighter. I barely knew these people. Why wouldn’t they fade into the background?

“Coffee?” I held up the cup. “And did you bring one to my neighbor?”

“Matcha. I didn’t know if you drank coffee. Everyone likes green tea. And yes. She was outside when I drove up. We got to talking, and I gave her the one I’d brought for me.”