Page 9 of The Chain House

Sam opened the door of his apartment planning on grabbing a beer from the fridge and taking it to his room to regroup while he drank it. It wasn’t a shock to find Carl on the end of the sofa facing their big screen TV—he’d been in the same spot when Sam left earlier, in a D&D T-shirt and ’90s basketball shorts that landed below his knees—but the young woman on the other end of the couch was unexpected, and about as jarring as seeing the Mallard Malone novels inside his father’s house. The girl stood immediately upon Sam’s entrance. She was tall, five nine, at least, Sam thought, with striking green eyes and curly strawberry blond hair gathered loosely in a braid that rested atop her bare left shoulder. Her skin was tan enough to make a strong contrast against the white spaghetti straps of her crop top. He caught himself staring at her long legs and black-painted toenails, and feared she had too; when their eyes met, neither of them looked away, but unlike her, he felt himself blushing like he always did in the company of an attractive female, someone he immediately tagged as out of his league.

Carl, without moving from his end of the sofa, said, “Sam, meet Jennifer. Jennifer, Sam.” And then he grabbed his laptop from the cushion beside him and started in on his work, which must have been what he was doing before Jennifer arrived.

Jennifer stepped closer, offered her slender hand; her fingernails were painted to match her toes, except each black nail had a distinct dot in the middle, all colored like the colors of the rainbow. He shook her extended hand and worried his palm was too sweaty.

“Jennifer Daley,” she said.

Sam said, “How long have you known Carl?”

She glanced over her shoulder toward his roommate. “Ten minutes.”

Carl, without looking up from his typing, said, “True.” And then, “She’s here to see you, bro.”

“I wanted to talk to you about your documentary on Sal Batise?” she said.

“Uhm … yeah,” Sam said hesitantly, not wanting anyone to know yet he was going to interview the man in less than twenty-four hours, and wasn’t close to being prepared.

“Carl here told me you’re actually interviewing him tomorrow?”

Sam flashed Carl a what-the-fuck look.

Carl shrugged, resumed typing. “Sorry, man. Just came out. I have no filter when it comes to attractive women. My brain goes to complete mush.”

“How flattering,” Jennifer said, seemingly amused, but without taking her eyes from Sam. She was waiting for an answer.

“Yeah … it’s true.” He couldn’t deny it now. “Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“That’s like … incredible,” she said. “So, you won that contest?”

“If that’s what you want to call it, yeah.”

“Do you mind if we talk?”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“She means without me, bro,” Carl said. “Maybe show her the balcony. It’s either that or your bedroom cuz I’m firmly planted on this couch for the day.”

Sam said, “He works remotely.”

“I work from this cushion, bro,” Carl said.

Sam looked to his right, where a sliding glass door that was perpetually off the slider was already half-open and crooked in the frame. A humid breeze filtered in. He gestured for her to follow him toward the tiny balcony beyond.

When Jennifer headed that way, Carl said, under his breath, to Sam, “Offer her a drink, dumb-fuck.”

Jennifer was already out on the balcony, hands on the rail, watching over the in-ground pool below.

Sam called out, “You want a drink or something?”

“Got beer?” she asked without turning around. “Amazing view out here.”

Sam couldn’t tell if she was being serious. He and Carl spent a lot of time out there, camped out in the two mesh lawn chairs that barely fit in the six-by-four–foot platform, with a cooler of iced beer wedged between them, but it was far from an amazing view. The pool was big, with plenty of chairs around it, and the water looked clean, but the pool lining, Carl liked to say, looked like it had leprosy. Sam grabbed two Landshark bottles from the fridge, popped the tops, and met Jennifer Daley out on the balcony. He handed her a beer. She clinked her bottle with his like they were friends, and the casual move helped calm his nerves.

He glanced over his shoulder toward the glass door behind him. “Door’s broken.”

“I see that.” She swallowed from the bottle and stared at him, like she was analyzing him from head to toe, not too unlike he’d visually done with her upon entering the apartment, but somehow her doing it didn’t seem improper. Maybe she thought he dressed like a dork, in his cargo shorts and threadbare Led Zeppelin T-shirt and flipflops, and then that made him wonder what he was going to wear tomorrow at the prison. He must have passed her quiet analysis, because she returned her focus back to the pool, where two college-age girls had just walked through the creaky metal gate to sunbathe. Jennifer said, “You saw the news today? About the governor’s wife?”

“Saw it on Instagram.”