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2
Indigo
Ilie back in my beanbag chair, trying not to spill the water I switched to twenty minutes ago when I realized I was getting way too tipsy on the two bottles of white wine Fran brought over with her.
Small plates of olives, tortilla chips, guacamole, nuts and now-cold slices of cauliflower-crust cashew-cheese and tomato pizza I made from scratch in one of my exceedingly rare Martha Stewart moments are scattered all over the glass tabletop in the living room which stands just next to the balcony overlooking Southwest Washington, one of the most affluent areas in the DC area.
In my defense, I did ask Tom and Carrie if Fran and Rami, who they don’t know that well, could spend a few nights here to keep me company, seeing as they’re both currently driving me nuts moaning about the crappy house with the intermittently leaking roof they’re sharing in the suburbs of DC, and I got the go-ahead from both of them, as long as they share their second guest bedroom, which they will.
I crunch on a tortilla chip as Cuban dance music blares a little too loudly, grinning at Frannie now dancing by herself in some salsa-freestyle combo, as she will usually do in any social situation we go to, her fiery red hair flailing wildly.
Meanwhile, Rami, AKA Martina Ramirez, my ride-or-die friend of almost five years, whines about all the ways she wants to murder her asshole of a boss, the owner of the painting company she works at.
She used to be a marine before an honorable discharge due to health issues, but the killer instincts drilled into her during her four years with them don’t seem to have left her, and barely a day goes by when she doesn’t fantasize about murdering someone in a way that usually leaves me in fits of hysterics.
“I swear to God,” she groans. “If he asks me to wash his brushes one more fucking time, I’m gonna be dumping fifteen gallons of paint stripper all over his sweaty little pinhead.”
“Stop,” I laugh, nabbing another tortilla chip off the table.
And just like that, we all turn into stone statues at the sound of a bold knock on the door.
Fran, who I think has drunk the most out of all of us, covers her mouth, sitting her naughty ass back down onto the floor opposite me, trying not to snicker.
“Fuck,” I groan, lowering my tone. “What time is it?”
“Past eleven,” replies Rami, glancing at her watch.
“Shiittt.” I jump to my feet, half-wobbling over in the process. “Where’s the remote?” I scan the table, floor and beanbag, not spotting it, and instead stagger over to the sound system, pressing furiously on the volume button to lower it.
I head towards the door.
“Fifty dollars says it’s the asshole,” shouts Rami so loudly that I’m sure whoever’s on the other side must be able to hear it.
I stop in my tracks, pivoting as my heart begins to do a drunken salsa in my chest. “You think?”
My mouth goes inexplicably dry—both at the thought of him, and because the memories of my ex knocking relentlessly on my door all those months ago, forcing me to threaten to call the police day in and day out still flood me to this day whenever someone knocks unexpectedly.
“I’d bet money on it,” she replies. “Torment him some more for me, will you?”
“Damn right I will,” I respond, promptly pulling on my figurative sassy pants and marching to the door in some feeble attempt to convince myself I’m not inexplicably jangling with nerves.
I grab my wooly gray cardigan from a hook on the wall and shove it on my body, messily wrapping it around me as I approach the peephole.
In a flash, the vision of Micah, my ex, startles me, slicing through my body until I blink, the image dissolving, replaced by an altogether different apparition: the stupid-hot and presumably very wealthy jerk from before.
I clear my throat, glancing all the way across the open-plan apartment to see both Fran and Rami now propped up on the same beanbag facing this direction, eyes wide as I prepare to open the door.
Here we go…
“Yes?” I say, plastering on my most innocent smile.
“It sounds like you’ve just turned the music down.”
“We have. We’ll keep it down.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to have to call security on you your first week here.”
My mouth snaps open, my outrage helping me to block out the asshole’s tall, dense frame, especially now that he’s wearing a black T-shirt that exposes the ridiculously thick and lean muscles on his arm, as well as charcoal-gray sweatpants which I’m making a medal-worthy attempt not to glance down at.
