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Mia’s hip shoots out to the side, head cocking. “What, afraid I’ll get prissy again?” She stops herself, closes her eyes. “Sorry. That was uncalled for. I must sound like a lunatic to you right now.”
“I’m used to it,” I answer, the corner of my lips twitching.
Mia huffs, like she wants to smile but won’t allow herself to do it. We watch each other in silence for a beat, until Mia nods toward the phone. “That was my ex-husband. He wants to meet Bailey.” She sweeps a cape over my shoulders and ties it behind me, her fingers cool against the nape of my neck as she does the snaps up one by one. Each touch sends a shiver coursing down my spine. I sip my coffee to hide my reaction.
“He hasn’t met his own daughter?” How could someone stay away from their own kid? How could a man choose to walk away and not look back? If I had a kid, I’d be there every single day. I would make sure that child had everything I had for the first eleven years of my life—and never felt as alone and abandoned as I did for the next thirty.
Mia lets out a bitter laugh. “No, he hasn’t met Bailey. Not once in the nine—almost ten—years she’s been alive. Why call me now? Maybe he knows that I’m clinging onto sanity with the edge of my fingertips.”
I gather these hints about Mia like a crow collecting shiny objects, treating them like the precious gems they are. It’s like a doorway has been shoved open a tiny sliver, and I get a glimpse at the woman inside.
In the mirror, Mia meets my eyes…and flicks up a gleaming straight razor. “Now that we’ve established my tenuous hold on my mental health… Clean shave, was it?”
I laugh. “Very scary.”
“Honey, you have no idea.” Even though I know it means nothing, having Mia call me a pet name sends warmth unfurling in my chest.
Ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.
She puts the razor down and starts lathering shaving cream on my cheeks and jaw. The brush moves in smooth circles over my skin, and her body presses into my side. I’m keenly, intensely aware of the shape of her breast against my upper arm, the warmth of her leg near mine.
Then she moves away, and I take a deep, silent breath. I watch her duck her head over her tools, her hands shaking. She closes them into fists for a moment, gathers herself, and picks up the razor once more.
When she brings the edge to my skin, her movements are steady, precise. Her armor is back on, the door to her inner self slammed shut.
Later,when I’ve paid and left through the back door into Mia’s apartment, I feel strung out and jittery. I can’t stop thinking about that phone call. Her ex, wanting to weasel his way back into her life. Has he finally realized the amazing woman he left behind? Why does that make me want to burn this place to the ground?
Oh, right. I know why. It’s because I’m fucking obsessed with her.
Pathetic.
I find the plumber in the bathroom, his head stuck under the sink. He’s knocked another hole in the wall beside the shower, and I poke my head in the wall to see the massive amount of water damage we’re dealing with.
“We’re going to have to rip this wall out,” I note.
“Yep,” Bill replies.
“I’ll get started, call you back when I’ve stripped the walls. Is there anything you can do in the meantime?”
“Not until we have it opened up.”
“Leave it with me.”
I head back out to the living room and pull out my phone. My grandparents’ old property manager had connections with a contractor in town, but who knows if they were legitimate or if they were ripping us off as well. I tap my phone against the side of my leg. I’d have to research contractors, call references, get a quote…that all takes time.
Icoulddo a lot of the work myself. It would be quicker, and Mia needs her home back. After what she told me she endured with the old manager, I’m not going to give her back her apartment in anything other than tip-top shape. Plus, the sooner she’s out of the condo, the sooner I can sell it and give my grandparents some financial breathing room.
Turning toward the kitchen, intending to start ripping down the wall myself, I stop short as something catches my eye in the living room. There’s a frame on the wall about the size of a piece of printer paper, with a cross-stitch of a cartoon foot. Below the foot, the words, “A severed foot is the ultimate stocking stuffer,” are written in cursive stitches.
My blood runs cold. I take a step toward the frame, heart pounding. I know that quote. It’s comedian Mitch Hedberg’s joke, and I saw it on a dating profile on the Blind Date app.
Not just any profile.
On NaturalBlondie’s profile.
My breaths come out staggered, sawing through my lungs.
She—
