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He says, “Pretty early to be done for the day. It’s six thirty.”
“In Providence time, that’s midevening.”
In a way that makes me think he is trying to be careful, he says, “You know there’s a world outside Providence, don’t you?”
&nbs
p; He’s too close to a nerve there and I feel the twinge. “I don’t have to explain my routine to you, Complete Stranger.” I inhale deep and slide all the way under the water, exhaling bubble after bubble.
When I resurface I hear, “We’re neighbors. We share everything.”
I pick up a bar of soap from the ledge and regard it dolefully. Everything? “I really don’t remember that being part of the deal.”
“The deal?”
I’m confused. “Huh?”
“Did my dad say something like: If you can get my baby bear interested in the family business, I’ll give you a ten grand bonus?” Teddy does a good impression of his dad. I also think he’s worried about my answer.
“I wish he did say that.” I splash water on my knees to watch the suds slide. When he doesn’t react, I add, “I’m kidding. No bribes were taken.”
He agrees: “My sparkling company is more than enough compensation.”
“You know what would be nice compensation? The twenty dollars you owe me.”
“Oh. That. Yes.” There’s the sound of empty-tub-squeaking; he’s either getting comfier or extracting himself. “I will absolutely pay you back as soon as I find my wallet. My next scheduled Good Samaritan is taking their time on that.”
Must be nice to put your full faith in the universe. “Did you cancel your cards?”
“Ruthie, they canceled themselves long ago.” He groans something that sounds like urggg-I’m-a-mess. In his husky voice now, he adds, “Ever maxed a card out, Tidy Girl?”
What a ludicrous question. “I take all forms of payment. Bank transfer, PayPal, Venmo, Western Union. Gold bullion. Pennies.” When he doesn’t reply or laugh, I ask, “Your dad owns this place, but you don’t have twenty bucks?”
“Please stop bringing up what my dad has. He and I are two different people. He has his things. I have mine.”
(It really sounds like Teddy has no things.)
How weird that it’s the son of a rich guy who is making me appreciate all the luxuries I have. Soap and towels. “Why aren’t you working at your tattoo studio now? What happened?”
“Alistair told me I can’t go back until I buy my share in Fairchild, one hundred percent, in full. It was one of those all-or-nothing ultimatums. I’ve never seen him so mad before.” He falls silent.
I can feel his changed mood through the wall and my water has gone cold. What he said is true: We are the kind of neighbors who share everything now. “Are you still there?”
“Hmmm.”
I try to picture him now, lying in that dusty ancient tub. “I’ll make you some dinner. And I’ve got a spare toothbrush.”
“No, I’ve realized you’ve done more than enough for me. Good night, Tidy Girl.” What kind of person tattoos TAKE on their own hand, anyway? Apparently, someone who’s acutely aware that that’s what he does.
Every bath I’ve ever had, I’ve lain here listening to the lick of water on the edges of the tub and my own pulse. I’m back to where I’ve always been, just floating, completely alone.
Chapter Seven
I’m surprised to find Teddy slumped over the tiny table in our shared courtyard when I open my front door in the morning. “Good morning.”
“Morn,” is the slurred reply. He’s drawing in a sketchbook, but he flips it closed when I approach. He notices my mug. “Oh, my, fucking, God.”
“Would you like some coffee, Theodore Prescott?”
