Page 8 of The False Flat

This was my place. My new life. I dusted crumbs from my hands, gripped the handle, and shoved the door directly into Chad’s unexpectant legs. He jerked back.

“What are you doing here?” I barked. His expensive sweater and jeans, styled dark-blond hair, and perfectly proportioned face (he had to be of Scandinavian descent) didn’t belong in this old, quiet neighborhood.

“Shh. The whole neighborhood’s going to hear you.” He held his finger to my lips. “Can we please go inside and talk?”

I slammed the car door shut, dropped my bag, and crossed my arms over my chest. “It’s cute you think we have something to talk about.” I glanced toward my neighbor’s house, but The Nose wasn’t morbidly fascinated by the near-promise of drama like other people would be. One of her eyebrows rose and her mouth pursed, as if concerned more than interested.

Caring what people thought had been ingrained in me since birth. I didn’t want to care, but I did. I needed people to like me, to think I was capable, strong, and worthy of praise. Like Chad, I wanted to go inside so my neighbors wouldn’t suspect I had some sort of problem, which I most certainly did. Truth be told, I cared about appearances just as much as Chad did.

“I’m still your client,” he said, calmly, logically.

On some level, I’d known I’d have to either let him go as a client or program him back into my phone and establish a purely business relationship. Messy either way, which was why I’d been ignoring this little, gigantic problem.

“You came here to talk about your finances?” I kept my voice low.

“Maybe.”

I stared at him, trying to decide which Chad was in my driveway: Client Chad or Cheating Chad. My approach would be wildly different, depending on which one.

“Your mother, she told me to come.” The regret on his face was real. “I made a mistake. Please let me explain.”

Damn my Chad-adoring mother. She knew I didn’t want this man anywhere near me. But what should I expect from a woman who didn’t seem to think his wife was a problem? “A little obstacle,” she’d said. “People are complicated. In a lot of cases, there’s more than meets the eye. Chad isn’t a bad person.” But that was probably because she’d lived so many years with a cheating husband herself. She was used to it.

This was Cheating Chad. I calmly picked up my backpack and strode to the back of my house.

My house.

He grabbed my arm, but I yanked it away and kept moving forward.

He ran a hand through his a-little-longer-on-top hair, a gesture I used to love, tried not to love right now. “Pen, please.”

I missed him. Being alone, starting something new . . . it was scary. I wanted to fall against him, cling to his familiar, clean scent (a bar of soap in a briefcase). Instead of giving in, I let the anger build inside me now. I rode that anger like my bicycle, let it put distance between us.

“If you don’t want to talk about your money, then . . .” I looked back over at The Nose, who’d moved closer. Her arms were folded in front of her, and she was actively scowling. My stomach flipped. Was her disapproval because she didn’t want a daytime talk show scene in her quiet neighborhood? But then when she looked at me, her eyes softened, and she nodded. And I didn’t know how to feel. On one hand, she was inserting herself into my business, but on another, it was almost like she was on my side. I was probably reading too much into it. I aimed for Chad instead. “Just go.”

“I don’t care about the money.” His loafers tapped on the pavement behind me as he jogged to keep pace. “But I’m not leaving until we at least talk.”

Did I owe him words?

“You’re not—” I whirled around, pressed a finger into his chest, started to shout, remembered Mrs. Snoe, then pulled the front of his sweater toward my door.

“Five minutes,” I growled, shoving him into my small, untidy kitchen.

I flicked on the light switch, illuminating a domed pendant lamp with blue-and-yellow flowers painted on it, then slammed my leather satchel down where a table should’ve been—would’ve been if I cared enough.

We stood in the mostly empty space, me waiting for him to say what he’d traveled 889 miles to say.

Instead of talking, he walked around my kitchen much like the home inspector who’d turned his nose up and then recommended a bunch of repairs. “You’re living lean.”

My heart played a game in my chest: Do I want him here or not?

He slid his hands in the pockets of his designer jeans, jeans that hugged his butt like he’d had them tailored for the sole purpose of making his backside something people wanted to bite. “I guess I’m stalling.”

I reminded myself that his was a cheating backside. “Well, you’ve already wasted two of your minutes looking around. You have three left. I’d suggest you start talking before time’s up and you’re leaving with only a tour of my ‘lean’ kitchen.”

He wasn’t bothered by my threats, which fueled my anger. Good, I wanted to stay angry. Though I couldn’t decide who I was angrier at: him for coming here or me for letting him inside.

“Are you really happy here?” He attempted to shut a cabinet that defiantly popped back open. “This place isn’t your usual . . .”