Page 7

Harmony and my Uncle Larry were close. I put her in her early fifties, a few years older than my uncle. I had wondered if they’d ever been more than just friends before deciding that it’s best left as a mystery.

I hold out Mackenzie’s keys. “I was hoping I could ask you a favor.” I lean to the side so she can see the baggage behind me. “My new roommate is moving in today. I’m going to run out and grab some coffee, but if she gets back before I do, can I leave her keys with you so she isn’t stuck waiting in the hallway?”

Harmony nods. “Of course. That’s not a problem at all, but while you’re here—” She turns and heads toward the kitchen, disappearing from my view for a few seconds. When she returns, she has a plate of something in her hands.

“I know you haven’t felt like eating much lately,” she says. “But I baked my famous cookies fresh this morning.” She holds out a plate and winks. “It’s a special recipe. You’d be amazed how the rosemary enhances the flavor of the lime. I’m not sure what your new friend is into, but consider this my housewarming gift.”

I stare down at the light brown mounds flecked with specks of dark green. “You know what…I think Mackenzie might have mentioned a rosemary allergy.” I wince at the terrible lie. “It’s probably better if I don’t, just in case it’s aggravated by…um…air particles.” I take a step back. “It’s really too bad. These look…like they were a lot of work.”

I drop the keys on the bookshelf and retreat into the hall before she can protest.

Harmony loves to bake. However, her passion is not always matched by her skills. Her unusual flavor combinations have an equal probability of becoming my new favorite treat as they do of leaving an unpleasant aftertaste that lingers for days.

Harmony follows me onto the landing, the plate still in her hands. “Well, that’s just too bad. I’ll have to run them downstairs to Koko in a bit, then.” She pauses momentarily, holding her breath as if deciding upon her next words. “I’m happy to see you’ve taken on a roommate, Annalise. It would have made Larry so pleased to see.”

Her eyes fill. My stomach clenches.

Sometimes, it’s as if my body has forgotten about Larry’s death. Unlike my brain, it has returned to walking around as if nothing terrible happened.

But in this moment, it all comes rushing back.

“Yeah. Cool. Thanks for doing this.” I sprint down the steep steps as quickly as I dare, through the door, and onto the sidewalk. I don’t want to hold her grief right now. I don’t even want to hold my own.

I walk the three blocks to Nana’s Old Fashioned Doughnuts, a small, local chain that makes the best doughnuts I have ever eaten and a very strong Americano. I order, take a very long sip, and feel pretty much back to normal by the time I step out onto the sidewalk and begin my walk home.

I pass The Bagel Stop on my way. There is a very cute guy, with dark blond hair, eating at one of the metal cafe tables out front. He looks up as I approach and smiles. I actually smile back, which is a step up from my usual move of flushing red, breaking eye contact, and sweating.

My dating life has been more of a theoretical concept than anything else since Larry’s death. Other than the three months last winter with Lucca—who was more of a friends with benefits with mixed signals (his heart was all in and mine was barely functioning)—I just haven’t felt the desire to look at anyone twice, yet I find myself glancing over my shoulder, pleasantly surprised when those left-for-dead stomach butterflies stretch their fluttery wings as I catch him watching me back.

It’s shaping up to be a nice little Saturday.

That is, until I stop at the light to cross and something falls from the sky above and lands on my head with an audible splat.

My hands instinctively reach for my hair before I work out what has happened.

Crap.

Bird crap, to be exact.

I gaze up and spot the offending pigeon perched on the window ledge above me.

“You have got to be kidding me.” My fingers come away white and sticky.

The pigeon coos. It sounds a little like a laugh before it flies off toward another building.

When I was an undergrad, I had a professor who claimed getting shat on by a bird was a sign that good fortune was headed your way.

I, however, have never been a believer in luck. Sometimes things just happen. Birds shit. Healthy cells mutate. Bad drivers make poor left-hand turns.

After my mom died, there was a period where I thought the answer to these problems was to mitigate risk—take public transport and eat more leafy greens.

But if Larry’s diagnosis taught me anything, I’ve learned that it’s impossible to prepare for everything. Even if you carry around an umbrella everywhere, it won’t prevent you from stepping in dog shit.

By the time I walk back to my building I am very much in need of a shower, so I am relieved when I climb the stairs and find Mackenzie’s bags still stacked in the hallway, my note intact on top.

I shed my clothes on the way to my bedroom, throw them in my hamper, and wrap my naked body in a clean towel before exiting to the living room, off of which is the door to the apartment’s one and only bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, I emerge in a puff of mango-scented steam, the cooler air from the living room sending a rush of goose bumps up my arms.